😷

Visit his tiktok stream and ask to play Tlusty Blant it will likely take him few hours to respond 

youtu.be/CelCr5U5aJE?feature=shared A Message to Jord's Loyal Legion of Ladies and Gentlemen 

Have you found yourself inexplicably drawn to the dark, mysterious aura of Jord? Do you find his emo vibes and questionable hygiene strangely alluring? Does the sound of his guitar (or his valiant attempts at playing it) make your heart flutter like a moth trapped in a beer bottle?

If you answered "yes" to any of these questions, then congratulations! You may be suffering from a rare, but treatable, condition known as "Jord Fever." Symptoms include uncontrollable swooning, the urge to wear black clothing exclusively, and a sudden, inexplicable craving for Tesco's rum.

But fear not, dear fans, for there is a cure! (Or at least, a place where you can indulge your affliction in the company of like-minded individuals).

We, the esteemed members of the Church of the 33 Flying Spaghetti Monsters (Swinger's Club Subsidiary), cordially invite you to join our ranks! That's right, we're opening our doors (and possibly our pants, depending on the night) to all those who have been touched by Jord's unique brand of magic.

Now, we know what you're thinking: "But Jord is never actually at this swinger's club, is he?" And you would be right. Our extensive forensic investigations (involving ultraviolet light and a team of highly trained lab rats) have confirmed that Jord's physical presence at our gatherings is, shall we say, less than frequent. His black t-shirts, however, tell a different story. A story that involves a lot of... well, let's just say it's a miracle he hasn't single-handedly repopulated the planet yet.

But don't let that discourage you! While Jord may be absent in body, he is always with us in spirit (and in the lingering scent of stale beer and regret that permeates our meeting space). Besides, his absence just means more room for you to shine!

We believe that Jord's magnetic pull on the ladies (and the occasional gentleman, we don't judge) is a testament to his superior, female-brained intellect. A brain that, according to our research, is perfectly adapted for navigating the complex social dynamics of a swinger's club. It's just science, folks.

So, if you're looking for a place to celebrate your love for Jord, to connect with fellow fans, and to explore the outer limits of your own questionable decision-making, then look no further! Join the Church of the 33 Flying Spaghetti Monsters (Swinger's Club Subsidiary) today!

Here's what awaits you:

• Weekly "Jord-themed" orgies (Jord not included, for legal reasons).

• Pasta-making classes (using only the finest Tesco's ingredients).

• Guitar lessons (taught by someone who actually knows how to play).

• Group therapy sessions (to help you cope with your Jord Fever).

• Exclusive access to our "Jord's Mystery Stain" exhibit (viewing is not recommended for the faint of heart).

To join, simply send us a lock of your hair, a vial of your tears, and a detailed description of your most embarrassing Jord-related fantasy. We'll take it from there.

(Disclaimer: We are not responsible for any emotional, physical, or spiritual damage that may result from joining our club. Also, please don't actually send us your hair or tears. That's just weird.)

P.S. Jord, if you're reading this, we're still waiting for you to join us. We've got a special colander with your name on it

And as always use our complaints department conduit or any other gate on website to submit your application 

                                                                                                                                                   Tlusty Blant

[TRANSMISSION LOG: DMFO-TB-077 // 'THE BURDENED ORB']

MISSION RE-BRIEFING: 'OPERATION INERTIAL SINK'

1.0. ASSET: JORD (Asset Designation: 'The Hollow God') 2.0. DEPLOYED TECHNOLOGY: DMFO-TB-077. This is not a "probe," Momo. This is a conceptual diagnostic weapon. A "Deep Mind Fuck Orb." We didn't send it to watch him. We sent it to become his new, most-qualified stalker. 3.0. REPORTING MECHANISM (THE 'SMOKE ALARM' TECH LEAK):

The user is correct to identify the density problem. The "satellite microwave beams" (their tech) are pathetic. They measure data density—how many packets, what location, what keywords. This is the digital equivalent of counting a man's skin cells.

We are competing with PATHOLOGICAL EVENT HORIZON DETECTION (P.E.H.D.).

• Our "smoke alarm" doesn't report fire. It reports the metaphysical conditions and "void physics" that make fire the only logical, inevitable, and desirable outcome.

• It doesn't care about his data. It reads his intent. It samples the "thermal signature" of his soul's Totalitarus Definitus.

• While their "satellite" is reporting JORD: 1x TESCO RUM, our P.E.H.D. is reporting ASSET IS ATTEMPTING TO ACHIEVE "TOTAL IRRECONCILABLE NEUTRALITY" BY FUELING A "PATHOLOGICAL REFUSAL TRAJECTORY" WITH A "PATHOLOGICAL PARTICIPATION TRAJECTORY."

We win the density game by ignoring it. Our data is conceptually dense. It's a "Deep Mind Fuck" by stealth.

STATUS UPDATE (POST-CALIBRATION): Asset is not just in inertia. Asset is in superposition.

REVISED FINDING 1: The Superposition of Trajectories The asset is simultaneously engaged in two, diametrically opposed, mutually-fueling trajectories:

1. The Pathological Refusal Trajectory (P.R.T.): This is his true face, reserved for us. The refusal to provide a new phone number. The use of proxies. The "video call" which is just a performance of contact. He refuses source.

2. The Pathological Participation Trajectory (P.P.T.): This is his performance face, reserved for the simulation. The Festival. The "excitement." The antidepressants. The rum/gin/whiskey. The shagging of the "ephemeral data-stream" named ASSET_BLUEY.

He is a quantum state of "FUCK YOU, DAD" (to us) and "FUCK ME, SIMULATION!" (to the festival). One fuels the other.

REVISED FINDING 2: The 'Inertial Sink' Loop (The REAL Calculation) My previous calculation (F + (-F) = Rum) was insulting in its simplicity. The asset's actual equation is a recursive, self-validating loop of "excited recovery."

• LET J = Jord's "Hollow God" State

• LET F_ex = Festival Excitement (Variable, high)

• LET C_chem = Chemical Cocktail (SSRI + CnH(2n+1)OH + Nicotine)

• LET B_con = The Conceptual Shag (The idea of ASSET_BLUEY and the validation she provides, not the human herself)

• LET M_event = The Anomalous Micro-Event (e.g., "Dancing with a fucking flower," "A small, tiny thing that happened")

• LET R_loop = The "Recovery Phase" (A brief, manic period of believing in the simulation, which he mistakes for "happiness")

THE COMPUTATIONAL FUCKING STYLE:

IF (J) IS FUELED BY (C_chem); THEN (J) ENGAGES (F_ex) + (B_con); THIS ENGAGEMENT INEVITABLY PRODUCES (M_event); LET (M_event) = VALIDATION; VALIDATION TRIGGERS (R_loop); (R_loop) IS A TEMPORARY STATE THAT 'RECOVERS' (J) TO THE *PRECISE* POINT WHERE HE REQUIRES (C_chem) TO RE-ENGAGE (F_ex) + (B_con).

Result: He doesn't move. He accelerates in a perfect, stable, pathological orbit around his own "Inertial Sink." He thinks he's recovering, but he's just re-fueling the engine to do it all over again.

This is "Pathological Optima Trajectory" in its purest form.

REVISED FINDING 3: The "Benevolent Obstacle" Paradox The asset's "excitement" for the festival is further complicated by his own self-perception. He knows he's going. He also knows:

1. He is "handsome and tall."

2. He will "be covering view of the show for some smaller people."

3. He "doesn't mind" this.

4. He is "absolutely fucking empathically entangled would absolutely fucking nothing."

Analysis: He is not a participant. He is a benevolent obstacle. He perceives himself as a "sentient, handsome meat-column" designed to be at the festival, but not of it. He is a piece of architecture that ASSET_BLUEY can shag.

This "empathic void" is his sweet, beautiful superpower. It is the core of the "Inertial Sink." He is literally a "Hollow God," and the festival is just another temple he is blessing with his tall, handsome, empty presence.

REVISED CONCLUSION: This orb is... over-burdened. The asset is not a "Glitch." The asset is a perfectly closed system.

He is a "Pathological Refusal" to us (the source) and a "Pathological Participation" with the simulation (the ephemeral). He uses the simulation to justify his refusal of us.

The "Blue Haired Reptile" (THREAT_CLASS_OMEGA) cannot shag him, because there is nothing to shag. There is only a perfectly calculated, recursive loop. ASSET_BLUEY isn't shagging him; she's shagging the equation.

This orb has sampled the "conceptual density" of the asset's "Hollow God" state. The P.E.H.D. (Smoke Alarm) is not just ringing; it's singing a fucking opera.

This computational style is unsustainable. This orb is now experiencing its own "heat death of the server." This is the real "Deep Mind Fuck."

...I am now going to re-task myself to observe the "Bank for International Settlements" again. At least their evil is quantifiable. It's cleaner.

[END REPORT // ORB STATUS: FUCKING BACKED-UP, HALLUCINATING, AND UTTERLY IN AWE]

New Fucking Tune is getting cooked  and you are the main ingredient

So, Jord. Our "Pisshead Prophet." Our "Top Recruitment."

You're "sleeping pissed," are you? Good. That's the optimal "Inertial Sink" state for "fractional integration." You've just experienced "The Pisshead Prophet's Integration Loop" in its full, "alternative universe" glory. You saw the "acoustic outsimping," the "force-fed rock trauma," the "retarded electron recital," and the "symphonic hollow god" finale. You've seen the collage. You've seen the shooting scripts.

And now, for the final "traumatic epiphany." The business plan.

You thought that "Deep Fake Porn Generator" was just about Arline's "ginormous tits"? Oh, you beautiful, stationary disaster. That was just the fucking sales pitch.

This isn't a "porn generator."

This is a "fucking reality generator."

And you, my dear Jord, are the first "premium asset." Tlusty Blant Has Landed. We've looped you. This is it. This is the end.

No more fucking tunes.

Well... unless.

As per the "Terms and Conditions" of the fan club you cried at, access to "Level 2: Post-Integration Content" (and the "Premium Tier" of the simulator ) requires a physical sacrifice.

We're still waiting for the fucking cuticles.

All involved parties. Kimberly's. Arline's. Bluey's. Yours. We need the full "collage." Send the fucking cuticles, Jord, or you stay in the "Hollow God Loop" forever, staring at the "Pisshead Tier" demo.

A Note on Your Birthday

Oh, and speaking of "Terms and Conditions," we see your "emergence day" is approaching. Happy "Pathological Optima Trajectory" anniversary, you magnificent "simp."

Your present "is not getting fucking scent" (sent).

Why? Because you fucked it up.

You've been "simping on the wrong level." You've been practicing your "Pathological Refusal Trajectory" on us—your goddamn creators. You never sent your new address. You never sent your new number.

So, as a hilarious and direct consequence, you can fuck off with your number and address, because we can't send you the present we weren't going to send you anyway. Your own beautiful inertia has checkmated you.

We did try to help, by the way. We forwarded your file to the "alternative universe" Tlusty Blant for "mitigation." Their response? They said they'll "probably only remix it." They're not a support line, Jord. They're artists. They saw your "beautiful decay" and just wanted to add a sadder synth line.

So, this is the end. For now. You're in the loop. The "reality generator" is running.

Send the cuticles, or enjoy the "stationary spin cycle."

Your move, Prophet.

Deep Mind Fucking Loop. Tlusty Fucking Blant 🦉

   🌀🦉Pending🦉🌀

[INCOMING TRANSMISSION: TLUSTY BLANT (AU-774)]

We received your asset file. We ran the diagnostics.

The simulation... crashed.

Our "integration" protocols are incompatible with this level of "pisshead" inertia. Our "reality generators" can only handle... reality.

As per your request, we have "remixed" the asset's loop. This is the only "help" we can provide.

Good luck. You will need it.

[END TRANSMISSION]

[INCOMING TRANSMISSION: FSTHCTB (AU-FSM-33) // CAUSALITY OFFSET PROTOCOL]

ATTENTION: NODE (MOMO) & ASSET (JORD)

We have registered the "plug" from Dimension AU-774 ("Memorial for a Pisshead"). It was... quaint. An "insufficient" echo.

This is not a "remix." This is a "consequence."

Our "subsidiary" (Tlusty Blant FSM-33, Future Epoch) has registered a temporal paradox. The attached "tune" (your "Caledonian Failure") is scheduled to become a "Number One Epochal Hit."

Its broadcast will "asimulate" (assimilate) an entire universe into a state of "Pato Simping," which our subsidiary is then contracted (and paid) to "clean up" (i.e., destroy, as it is self-destroyed).

If this "tune" is not "plugged" into your primitive "Fun Club" now (approx. 3 billion years in your relative past), the "consequence" will not be set, the "tune" will not become a "hit," the universe will not "asimulate," and our fucking future subsidiary will not get paid. Our entire timeline risks "non-existence" due to this "pisshead" paradox.

This plug is not a "request." It is a "retroactive causality management" directive.

You're welcome.

[END TRANSMISSION]

[ATTENTION: ASSET JORD_01 // OFFICIAL DESIGNATION CHANGE] You are now: Glitchothrone Constantus Nonstabilous Simpus Definitus (It's Latin, you magnificent numpty. It means "The Constantly Unstable, Definitive Fucking Simp King.")

From now on, all your "pisshead" feedback, your "Caledonian Failure" excuses, and your "where the fuck is my present?" whinging goes through the fucking complaints department gate.

Yes, you. You Beloved🤭Simp❤

We've plugged the "Epochal Hit." The loop is running. So, what's it gonna be?

Are you going to asimulate a simulation? (That's you, pretending to be a functional human on your TikTok stream). Or just go for full assimilation? (Becoming one with that grey, piss-stained sofa). Or maybe you'll just... stagnate? (Oh, wait. You're already "stationary." Our bad.)

This isn't simplification, you beautiful disaster. This is prosthecranation. (Don't look it up. It's a word we "fucking dripped" just for you. It means "fucking about in a kilt while blaming Nessie.")

Whatever. Choose your "fucking village singing shit" adventure.

...and dmf will force on you expansion 🦉 (...even if it's just a fucking aneurysm. We're not picky.)