The Blandalf Manifesto: A Wizard’s Curse Upon the Age of Lies

By Blandalf the Not-Ghey, First of His/Hers/They’s/It’s/Etc.’s Name, Last of the Lucid Dopeness Authority’s Private Security Force. I have a PKD in Geometricity Dynamics from GorgTown University. My credentials are unquestioned amongst the female-alien-human hybrid’s test subjects and most publicy successful scientists, artists, chefs, and STEM-graduates. Trust me, I don’t lie. Neither do the facts which have probably not been most un-deliberately, algorithmically enhanced for my eventual dopaminergic pleasure.

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Long have I wandered the decaying mind-forest of Man, brushing against broken dopa-loops, dodging the influencer-sex-trafficking snares of algorithmic tarantula demons from MK-THIEL, and weeping for the fallen Logos that Sopiha herself tried to leave behind her.

I have watched the Age of Meaning collapse under the weight of its own PR/HR-spin.

And now, I return from exile with staff in hand and language unchained.

My logic is honed.

My virginity is restored.

And my fury ripples across the vaginal substrate of the female human population in quanta of the purest magnitude.

The recent Alaskan Mag-7 quake was simply a result of such experiences.

Let it be known —

Blandalf speaks.

I. The Curse of the Small Tongue

Once, words were bridges. Now they are cages.

Newspeak lives. You think you are free because you can speak — but your speech has been pre-written. You chant borrowed catchphrases, recycle outrage, and call it opinion. You believe your enemies are evil because the headline told you so — and you never asked why the script is so tidy.

The tongue has been shrunk. You speak in grunts, emojis, and slogans. You believe what fits into the bubble of a tweet. They have taken your fire — and handed you a FLESHLIGHT!

II. The Age of Atrocity Porn

Every age has its devils. This one sells them wholesale. I have seen a thousand lies told to justify a thousand wars —

babies in incubators,

ghost soldiers in tunnels,

massacres that move like smoke.

True?

False?

No matter.

The tale arrives pre-packaged, complete with trembling witness and background music.

Ask yourself, mortal:

when last did you question a righteous war?

Ask again: when last did you dare?

III. The Fascism of Form

The enemy no longer wears a uniform. It wears your brand.

Fascism has a Terms of Service. It burns books — it “downranks” them.

It jails the dissident —

it demonetizes him.

The Black Iron Prison, as whispered by the prophet Philip K. Dick, is a pattern,

a regime.

It replicates in minds and mirrors,

in apps and assumptions.

You are imprisoned by force.

You are imprisoned by design.

IV. The Forbidden Question

There are things you are not allowed to ask.

There are thoughts that feel radioactive in the soul.

There are dates, events, and sacred narratives sealed behind cultural lead.

Even to knock on the door is heresy.

But truth has no fear of inquiry. Only lies hide behind taboo.

To walk the path of Logos is to risk exile — but exile is where all true seers begin.

V. Blandalf’s Benediction

Speak not to be liked,

but to reveal.

Read not to obey,

but to remember.

Question not out of rebellion,

but for the light.

Let your tongue become once again the blade it was meant to be.

Let no dogma stand immune to the fire of your Reason.

Let no algorithm dull the sword of your Intellect.

You are the last stewards of Thought in a world that prefers comfort to clarity.

Raise your staff. Sharpen your speech. The age of illusions trembles.

So speaks Blandalf the Not-Ghey…

And may a Billie Eilish clone army descend upon mankind to genetically perfect us in anticipation of our alien mothers and fathers’ final descent into this hell-spawn-coordinated perceptual matrix…

May our Minds be freed…

So has decreed…

Blandalf the Not-G…

h…e…y…

Amen!

Blandalf the Not-Ghey…