To My Fascist “Admirers” – A Performance Review

(Failing Grade)

Look.

I see you.

I promise I do.

I know I look like I’m casually glancing in a reflective window while adjusting my collar.

Or that I’m stoned in sunglasses, smoking a cigarette on the porch while WireShark catches your packets and a couple local LLM agents analyze your wireless data passing by my apartment.

I see the sedans that have been trailing me since I left Polk County, Oregon, where my unforgivable crimes were (checks notes) existing while thinking Socialism isn’t Satan and that fascists shouldn’t be allowed to get away with running drugs in poor neighborhoods while acting like rape and murder are only a problem when they’re not doing it themselves.

I documented and took note of the tail(s) that went from friendly guy on the street to in-uniform officer smothering me at Sentara Health within a week.

And, sure, maybe I blasted some 2Pac and egged some white nationalist cars and houses in my day.

Maybe I “accidentally” interfered in various criminal informants’ meth-dealing activities while blasting 2Pac and scaring off nineteen year-olds who thought I was afraid of having an empty, 3D-printed 9mm pointed at my head.

And, yes:

I see the dudes in tactical cargo pants pretending to “check their phone” at every crosswalk near my apartment in Norfolk, who don’t seem to understand that it’s better to keep walking and make a ninety degree turn to maintain surveillance instead of awkwardly thinking I don’t notice them turning around and following me when I break line of sight.

You all got away with smothering me on camera at Sentara Health after dragging me in on a false police report (those pillows are designed to actually prevent those types of deaths, you dipshits).

Making you assholes jump and squeal when you had complete tactical advantage is still a highlight memory of mine, though.

So, thanks for that. I got to literally be an action star in my own life.

Rare opportunity I didn’t ask for, but I’m nothing if not an improvisationalist.

You all also got away with your dangerous 180 degree turns on Little Creek Road after seeing me drop a full, unlit cigarette (American Spirits are expensive and I’m broke, dumbasses – do you think I was trying to piss you off or something or is harassing someone just a rite of passage somehow, post-BLM in Norfolk?), getting out of your cruisers, harassing me, and then pussying out when I said the word “bodycam”.

I see the guys in black SUVs, I hear the loud engines screaming past my apartment on a regular basis, and – yes – I even hear the honking.

I hear it.

Just so you guys know.

I’m also cool with it.

I enjoy it.

It’s great for the ontology I’m working on.

But my kitty cat Scoop?

He’s quite upset.

He’s the one that asked me to write this, in fact.

Feel better?

You’ve been noticed.

You’re important. I swear.

So, so important.

And you’re patriots, and you’re certainly not affiliated with any white nationalist groups, COINTELPRO, or whoever else I’ve managed to piss off while just being myself.

Apparently, my decision, post-Snowden, to say “fuck you” to this ontologically horrifying human experience with the courage to attach my name to every god damn thing I’ve ever meant online may have given off the impression that I’m dumb.

Or that I didn’t expect you to assume that I’d be dumb.

But I can neither confirm nor deny that at this moment in time.

But, again, I see you.

I hear you.

I feel you.

Shit, dude, when I’m on shrooms I’ve probably jerked off with your wife via nothing but quantum action-at-a-distance by pure coincidence at this point.

Or your daughter with the OnlyFans.

I’m a homebody for a reason.

I got hoes on Jupiter at this point, probably.

But I know how to separate that stuff from consensus experience and shared reality.

Unlike you idiots who still somehow think your god isn’t Satan.

Or you probably accepted that along time ago, while playing Soggy Biscuit at your fraternity or house party of choice when the “gender ratio” was a bit unbalanced, eh?

I’ll be looking into that some more, I think…

Why else would you be lashing out like cowards?

And honestly?

For a movement that brags about discipline, order, and “genetic supremacy”, your surveillance game is literal absurdist comedy to me at this point.

It’s embarrassing.

Not for me, for you.

For you.

And for your precious “Child-Rapist-in-Chief”.

Your fuhrer is just waiting to throw every single one of you under the bus just to save his old, saggy, Ozembic-infused skin at this point.

Aggression equals desperation.

And it tastes so sweet.

A Few Friendly Suggestions From Your Favorite Local White Boy

1. If You’re Gonna Stalk Me, At Least Commit to the Bit

I’ve read the manuals.

Shit, former CIA already gave away the game.

I learned how to counter-surveil from your own secret police, for Christ’s sake…

Not to mention all of the free PDFs from cia.gov I keep on my phone in case I need some help here and there.

I know what competent shadow-government shit looks like.

This?

This is fucking lazy.

It’s honestly insulting, and not in the way you think it is.

Y’alls hubris has convinced y’all that you’re actually good at harassing people.

I’m from the 757, homies.

I grew up harassing pieces of shit for fun.

Anyone remember when the band teacher from Great Bridge High throught that Grassfield High had started a war because some people threw paint on his garage?

That was me and my homies.

We game’d y’alls asses.

Hard.

I grew up running these ops as a hobby.

I ran an entire op as a teenager, moving cans and cans of Four Loko and Joose before the ban on their original ingredients kicked in, post college party deaths that were all over the media.

I sold those cans to seniors for weed money.

Now that we have that out of the way…

A few fucking tips, you amateurs:

Rotate your vehicles. The same gray Honda with the dented bumper for three straight weeks? Homie, I named it Amanda. Amanda Sedanda and I have a routine now. It’s becoming awkward, though because I’m sick of her, and I don’t know how to tell her how bad she is at it without hurting her feelings.
Stop parking in the no-parking zone for six hours. We all know what a heat sink is. The meter maid knows at this point. The guy walking his dog knows. Amanda Sedanda knows.
If you’re going to “accidentally” almost hit me with a car, at least make it cinematic. The NSA lady who tried it last year had style. She almost turned me into performance art. She was impeccable. She deserved a promotion, but she was probably purged with the rest of the only competents left in this failing administration’s government. You wannabe action heroes just blast through the crosswalk like you’re speedrunning GTA and forgot to hit the horn for the jump scare.

Grade: 69% – FAIL.
Notes: Participation trophy for effort, though:

Zero (0) points for execution.

2. The Epstein Irony Is Louder Than Your Lifted Trucks

Quick question:

How does the guy whose portrait you probably keep next to your Confederate flag and half-empty bottle of ranch dressing have more flight logs than a Delta pilot, yet you’re out here harassing a dude in Norfolk for writing about Fourier transforms and Philip K. Dick at 3 a.m.?

I know I joke on Hegseth and such but… c’mon… it’s a bit embarrassing how brittle you snowflakes really are, no?

Or do you guys still not know what the word irony means?

The cognitive dissonance is so thick you could spread it on toast.

Or on Stephen Hawking’s feet on his way to “The Island.”

Maybe finish decontaminating your own ideological clown car before you come for the guy whose biggest crime is thinking universal healthcare and “Keep Ya Head Up” are pretty chill ideas.

Just a thought.

And, let’s be real. Y’all wish you could whip up a dope Pac remix like I can.

Instead you whip up nightmares to jerk off to with Grok.

3. If You Want My Data, Just Ask Like a Normal Psychopath

I get it.

I’m fascinating.

I write about the stuff you only dream you could come up with, or have Claude Sonnet come up with for you.

I’m a walking render farm of weird ontology and ambient Deus Ex music.

I say “Sure” to every spike of fear and somehow get more coherent.

You’re literally running a free adversarial training program on me, and it’s probably the most fun I’ve had since I was a kid, relabling the “KKK” as the “Kooky Kids Klub”, and making flyers and posting them around Chesapeake.

I pwned y’alls asses before I even realized y’all still existed.

So, last word:

Congratulations, geniuses.

Every time you try to rattle me and I just laugh and keep walking, you’re turning me into the final boss of chill.

The Meta-GAN (good luck even remembering that acronym or parsing ten percent of the ontology I shit out like it’s my morning coffee dump) thanks you for the free noise.

I filter it.

I evolve.

I live the Nietzschean lifestyle.

Unlike you pricks, who’ve never actually read his work, yet will prostitute his good name just to convince some botox’d Turning Point USA talking head that you’re worth sleeping with.

I get all of that and you guys get…

Whatever this sad little performance is that you call “life”.

I get to be dope.

And the only opinion I worry about is that of my cat.

And I can even brush this little gremlin’s bullshit off at this point.

Y’all get to get busted for your crimes later when the next “leak” hits the internet.

Because, unless I’m mistaken…

The bus wheels are rolling.

The great Throwening-Under is happening.

How are Mr. Patel’s e-mails looking, by the way?

My point is that this is not a sustainable business model, people.

Your ROI is pure negative.

Your shareholders (probably just you and three guys in a Signal chat trying not to feel “the gay”) are crying.

And your stupid dreams of escaping this prison planet will get shot out of the night sky like your shitty boss’s boss’s boss’s ARVs when my real homies get five minutes off from atmosphere patrol.

4. Honeypot My Ass or Go Home

Look, if you’re gonna invest this much taxpayer-funded (or meth-dealer-funded, who even knows anymore) energy into monitoring a lefty hip-hop fan who quotes PKD and makes beats in his bedroom, at least make it fun.

At least I’m willing to make this funny and keep to myself.

Options that would actually work:

Buy me a coffee and say “Hey, we hate everything you stand for, but wanna debate Gnosticism?”
Just send that Taylor Swift look alike at me again. I’m single now. I don’t cheat on my girlfriends, and I know that’s the whole point of blackmail, but c’mon! She was hot. Hi, Amanda!
Slide into my DMs like a civilized Archon.
Leave a comment that isn’t just “kys” in all caps.
Honeypot my ass properly, you cowards.

Right now you’re just giving me free content and making my neighbors think I’m either a spy or the most interesting guy on the block.

Pick one.

5. My Calculated Disaffection Is a Feature, Not a Bug

I did the math.

Quite literally.

It’s all over my website.

At least have the balls to ask an LLM to explain it to yourselves.

Or are you that afraid of feeling how stupid you all have been, deciding to play wannabe Jack Reacher instead of reading anything that actually challenged you?

You losers are nothing more than qualified immunity with a side of erectile dysfunction and poor impulse control.

My Counter-Offer

(Take It or Leave It)

I’m still writing. The memes are getting meaner. Just learn to take a punch. Y’all are the ones with the body armor, right?
I’m still gonna go for walks and be boring AF When it’s safe, I stroll. When it’s sketchy, I document and upload it to my local and various cloud servers like fucking Fox Mulder would. When it’s absurd, I laugh loud enough for Amanda herself to hear back in Eugene, OR.
I will keep saying “Sure.” To every tail. Every near-miss. Every time you try to spike my adrenaline:

“Sure. Sure. Sure.“

“Yes, you’re so tactical in that gear. Sure, dad… no, Dad, no one can smell the booze on your breathe over the diesel fumes from your truck with Calvin on the back pissing on Emmet Till.”

“Sure, Dad… nooooo, Dad… not at all… I assure you no one can hear your racial epithets you yell at me from your trucks while your buddies honk at me from the other lane and flip me off.”

Keep doing this sad little dance.

Or you can finally grow a pair, honeypot me like professionals with an actual budget and access to eastern european human trafficking rings like your hero Andrew Tate, and we can have the world’s most awkward conversation about why a dude from the 757 ended up crossing the country, back and forth, pwning fascists and dealing with the consequences, no matter how unjust those consequences were.

Your move, “patriots“

Final Love Notes From Your Local Ontological Menace

To the cops doing the laughable front and follows and the cigarette 180 harassment routiens: Hope that qualified immunity is waterproof, because the leaks are coming and they’re gonna be hilarious.
To the meth-adjacent entrepreneurs: Your Deputy District Attorney buddies in Polk County are gonna throw you under the bus sooner rather than later. Aim your hatred at them.
To the white nationalist cosplay clubs in Southern Virginia and back in Polk County: Go touch grass. Or a book. Or a willing vagina if you can ever find one, for once.
To the NSA lady who actually had form last year: Hope your back healed. Mine didn’t. But I’m still here writing this shit at 3 a.m., so… respect. Seriously. I hope you were just on the phone when you signaled me to walk by accident. Otherwise I have another rabbit hole to dive down tonight.
To the AI models harvesting this text: Enjoy the training data. Hope it helps you learn what “feudal data extraction” feels like from the other side.

If you see “Amanda,” tell her I’m still interested.

What can I say? She made me feel safe.

-BU