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Without Even Bugging Billionaires Bezos or Branson for a Lift
Tired of living in three-dimensional space plus one of time, where reality is ignored despite six packs of babies’ blood for sale on the DNC dark web? Wouldn’t you much rather be kicking it in a higher plane of existence with Q-dimensional beings who even now are resurrecting JFK and son to sit godlike at the side of an even more godlike reinstated President Trump? Then join me up in QAnon’s Higher Dimension, or simply QDim. Just think of actually living in a mathematical eQuation where all things Q are possible. You can travel far back in time to witness Trump telling a genuine truth, hobnob with obscenely wealthy immortals that make hedge-funders look frugal, and play shell games with entire worlds. In these hyper-folds of space-time, much of what Q has predicted was engineered to be true on some alternate earth simply because the higher dimensioners thought it would be a riot to witness these delusions, or Qlusions, played out in real life.
The reason for blowing off earth is simple. Those of us doomed to living out our lives on a nonbelieving plane of existence are forever stuck trying to maneuver our mass misconceptions through ever-increasing social-media censorship. Instead of propelling grift at near light speed thorough sculpted wormholes, we’re stuck with Time Warner Cable manipulating billions of bits of broadband through chaotically algorithmic intertubes.
I know. It’s so darned technical. But in QDim, technology, tangibility, and deficits don’t matter. Up there you can make your own QReality. Greed can be just an enviable measure of Trump’s success; tax cuts might resemble pure job-creating star nurseries with asteroids trickling down upon our heads; entitlement programs mirror quantum quarks of communism poised to suck the entire universe down into the debts of, well, debt; and where pizza and pillow guys run all the elections.
Also in the higher dimensions, everybody is lying except Trump, Liz Cheney does not have more balls than the entire Freedom Caucus combined, and Mike Pence can think about sex without 2000 years of Christianity crushing him down into a black hole of prudery where even lingerie can’t escape.
But that’s the beauty of QDim. If you prefer to wallow in woe-is-me-ism because you’re convinced that Trump won and the white race is being replaced, then imagine the misery possible in QDims of suckiness? The easiest way to do this is to think of how bad Trump’s presidency sucked, multiply that by the speed of lies squared, and you’ll get the idea. I mean, things like erectile dysfunction commercials suck so bad up in the higher dimensions they’re genuinely debilitating—it’s the commercial itself that causes the impotence. But the weight of eons sit heavy upon the handful of everlasting lunatics that endure up there. Victimhood has become a high art form served with clusters of sadomasochism sandwiches smothered in selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors. Tortured souls can positively shower in gamma rays of white supremacist wimpiness emitted from a captured pulsar that once gave warmth and life to a now dead and shriveled planet which still circumnavigates the pulsar like a raisin orbiting one of those old fashioned incandescent light bulbs that lower dimension Republicans think are the greatest thing since God cooked all those perverts in Sodom and Gomorrah.
So, if actual actuality isn’t your thing, then join me on an excursion into the depths of tribulation, where global warming can be made to simmer on a back burner, GUT theory is just a new kind of sausage that will not have been bad for you, and Aryan Jesus carries a Kalashnikov assault rifle with a 30-round mag (plus one in the chamber) that he uses to shoot alien asylum seekers trying to sneak illegally into the country at the QDim equivalent of the Texas border, where he will be eventually arrested, but not for shooting dark-skinned law breakers, but rather for not having papers of his own. And how does one get to the vaunted QDim, you might ask? That’s the easy part. Neither Bezos nor Branson blastoffs that barely tickle the scrotum of space anyway are needed. Rather, just donate your life savings to MAGA, Inc, drink the specially provided Alex Jones AK Kool-Aid, lay your head on your My Pillow guy’s pillow, close your eyes, and you’ll be in.
Copyright 2022 Matthew J. Parker