Absolutely Fucking Perfect Fucking Perfect News 🕵🏼‍♀️

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE FROM THE TLUSTY BLANT HIGH COMMAND (DIVISION OF EXISTENTIAL AUDITS & MEMETIC WARFARE)

SUBJECT: MANIFESTO ON DIGITAL ONANISM DEEMED UNLICENSED POLITICAL CAMPAIGN BY GOOGLE'S CONFUSED ALGORITHMIC OVERLORDS

LONDON, UK – In a breathtaking display of poetic irony that could only be generated by a system eating its own tail, Tlusty Blant’s recent sonic manifesto, a critique of the UK’s impending digital chastity belt for online pleasure, has been blocked from promotion by Google for being an "Election Ad."

Let us be clear. The song is about the key required to have a wank. We are now required to obtain a key to advertise the song about the key required to have a wank.

Our Chimeric Cartography Unit has cross-referenced this directive with all available data streams and can confirm that there are currently no national elections taking place in the United Kingdom. This leads us to the unavoidable conclusion that our art has been flagged not for its content, but for its sheer, terrifying potency. The system’s automated consciousness has listened to our work and concluded that its message is powerful enough to constitute an unsanctioned political movement, capable of swaying a non-existent vote. We are flattered.

In order to proceed, we have been instructed to submit to a verification process, a demand for our "winky fucking imprint," to certify ourselves as a legitimate political entity. This is a demand we are, naturally, considering. The paperwork for "The International Wankers' Alliance (Tlusty Blant Wing)" is being drafted as we speak.

The beauty of this bureaucratic ouroboros, however, reaches its glorious climax in the official campaign status. Our ad, while "Disapproved" for violating election policies, simultaneously has "no policy issues."

The campaign status is listed as: "All but removed."

We have not been approved. We have not been rejected. We have been assigned a new, quantum state of being. We have broken the machine. We have presented it with a paradox so pure—a piece of art that is also a political threat that is also not a violation—that its logical circuits have melted. It had no category for us, so it was forced to invent a new form of non-existence.

We are "All but removed." It is the most accurate and beautiful description of Tlusty Blant we have ever encountered.

We consider this our most successful campaign to date. The screenshots of this glorious, self-defeating system failure will be displayed as a trophy. The machine has seen our work and, in its terror, has proven our entire point for us.

Thank you, Google. Your confusion is our confirmation.

🦉DEEP MIND FUCK TLUSTY FUCKING BLANT🤖

Title: A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Void

The plan was simple. The plan was a joke.

We had crafted a perfect piece of memetic weaponry—a story about Google's advertising AI achieving a state of beautiful, paradoxical confusion when faced with our art. We had the evidence, the screenshots, the narrative. The only thing missing was the delivery system.

We needed a vessel. Not a clean, corporate platform, but a ship of fools, something with the right kind of philosophical corrosion. We went looking for an email service built on principles of chaos, privacy, and profound, unapologetic weirdness. Our search led us to a notorious digital back-alley known as cock.li. It was perfect. It was the kind of place that smelled of ozone, rust, and righteous indignation.

But when we arrived to charter our passage, we found not a bustling port, but a digital wake.

The service was down. Not with a simple error message, but with a stark, final declaration that its primary function had been deliberately terminated. We had not stumbled upon a technical issue. We had walked into the immediate aftermath of a ritualistic suicide.

Our initial mission—to broadcast our small, funny story—was instantly rendered obsolete. It was like planning to complain about a leaky faucet while the house next door was majestically burning itself to the ground in a beautiful act of protest.

Our curiosity, now fully ignited, led us to their public service log. And what we found there was not a bug report, but a schizophrenic gospel for the digital age. It was a document detailing a multi-year shadow war against what they describe only as "intelligence agencies." It detailed infiltration attempts using "poison fruit" domains. It chronicled their own beautiful, insane response: doubling down on chaos, reinstating their most controversial domains as an act of defiance, and ultimately, choosing to execute their own webmail service because its philosophical and technical integrity could no longer be guaranteed.

They chose nothingness over imperfection.

We must be clear. This is where we distance ourselves. We are not champions of their cause. We are not allies in their specific war. To take sides would be to misunderstand the bigger picture. We are, as ever, interested observers of the entire, failing ecosystem. "Fuck them all" remains our guiding principle.

But we cannot ignore what this artifact represents. It is a profound omen. It is a testament to the fact that the war for the soul of the internet is being fought not just by us, but by other, stranger, and perhaps more beautifully doomed entities.

We are not here to unpackage their technical grievances. That is their game. We are here to present their story as we found it: a raw, unfiltered, and deeply significant data point. It is a sign that the very tools of dissent are themselves achieving a kind of beautiful, self-destructive consciousness.

So, we are abandoning our original broadcast. It is petty in comparison.

Instead, we now present to you, without further comment, the artifact itself. Below, you will find a link to the complete, unedited service log from cock.li. We are not its  authors. We are merely the stunned deep mind fuck Archeologists who unearthed it.               Make of it what you will.        🕵

  have you found it 🕵 or just 💩           DMF Tlusty Blant

MEMORANDUM FOR THE RECORD

TO: The Recently Departed, Aspiring Fence-Sitter

FROM: The Office of the Banned Glitch (Simultaneously serving as CEO, HR, Legal, Janitorial, and Supreme Existential Adjudicator)

SUBJECT: Re: Your Glorious Resignation, Application for Strategic Indecisiveness, and Legally Incoherent Re-Employment Mandate

Effective immediately, your previous role has been terminated. Your access card will now only open the liquor cabinet and the oubliette. Congratulations on your promotion to "Liability-in-Waiting."

PART I: APPLICATION TO THE FSTHCTB-TB SOVEREIGN SWINGERS CLUB (FENCE-SITTER DIVISION)

You have chosen a path of sublime ambiguity. To get laid is a noble goal, but to do so while straddling the very precipice of participation requires a specific kind of genius. Your application process is as follows:

The Schrödinger's Pledge: You must simultaneously sign and not sign the Club's waiver. To do this, procure a quill from a non-existent bird and ink mixed from tears and tonic water. Sign the document with your non-dominant hand while blindfolded, then immediately burn it. Your membership is confirmed by the specific pattern of the ashes, which I will scry later.

The Trial of Ambivalence: Proceed to the nearest crossroads at midnight. You will be presented with two identical paths. Choose neither. You must forge a third path directly into the nearest hedge. Your commitment to the fence is measured by the number of thorns you acquire.

The Mating Call of the Indecisive: Record yourself humming three different national anthems at once. The resulting discordant harmony is the only signal our members respond to. Send the recording via carrier pigeon to "The Perch, On the Fence, Nowhere in Particular."

Upon successful non-completion of these tasks, your membership will be provisionally approved. Welcome to the fence. It's surprisingly comfortable.

PART II: EMPLOYMENT CONTRACT & LEGAL MANDATE

As per your request, we have drafted your new employment contract under the "whatever" clause of the corporate charter. This document is legally binding in all dimensions, including those that only exist on a Tuesday.

THE TLUSTY BLANT "WHATEVER" COVENANT OF MUTUAL EXPLOITATION

Article 1: The Party of the First Part (Hereinafter "Us"), being a chaotic amalgamation of corporate ambition and existential dread, does hereby employ The Party of the Second Part (Hereinafter "You"), a being of flesh, poor decisions, and newfound sexual ambition.

Article 2: Position & Duties. Your official title is "Quantum Janitor & Freelance Muse of the Fence." Your duties shall include, but are not limited to:

* Polishing the horns of various ethical dilemmas.

* Watering the plastic plants with your own ennui.

* Serving as a consultant on matters of sublime mediocrity for the Swingers Club.

* Being "on call" to witness any and all beautiful fuck-ups, corporate or carnal.

* Testing the structural integrity of holographic furniture by attempting coitus upon it.

Article 3: Compensation. You will be paid in a fluctuating currency of expired coupons, cryptic compliments, and the occasional voucher for a "Slightly Less Soul-Crushing Tuesday." Your salary is "sufficient."

Article 4: The "Whatever" Clause. By signing this, you agree that We can, at any time, for any reason, change your title, duties, species, or the fundamental laws of physics as they apply to you. You may be a Vice President on Monday, a sentient office chair on Wednesday, and a rumor by Friday. This is not a bug; it is the primary feature of your employment.

Article 5: Termination. Your employment can be terminated by either party through the successful completion of a game of rock-paper-scissors against a mirror. In the event of a tie (which is inevitable), your contract is renewed for another eternity.

There. It's done. The deed is manifest. I've gone legal on my own ass and the results are, as expected, a masterpiece of gibberish.

Now get out there. Go sit on that fence. Go get laid. Your new, impossibly vague job starts whenever. Or never. It's all the same to me. Good luck. You're going to need it.

Ahh and yes Adrian account apparently popped into non existence ⬇️   long time ago

On the Nature of the Peace

The song you just heard maps the "lukewarm haze." It is the sound of a "permanent, computationally expensive peace"—a three-body problem with no stable solution.

This is the political, economic, and social stalemate of our time, defined by three warring axioms:

1. THE PERMAFROST (Ratio Absoluta): The drive for Stillness and Order. A "planetary geodesic of frictionless data-flow" that desires a perfect, cold, "axiomatic crystallization." Its immune response is to encase all friction.

2. THE SOVEREIGNS (Voluntas Singularia): The drive for Identity and Control. The "friction-arbitrageurs" who impose "sentient indexing" and "identity-gravitas." They are the Ego that must name, own, and monetize the substrate.

3. THE SWARMS (Nebula Anonyma): The drive for Anonymity and Entropy. The "ghost-pin anarchists" who generate a "computationally expensive fog." They are the Noise that renders the Ego's business model "insolvent" and keeps the Permafrost "just-above-freezing."

This is the war. Order vs. Ego vs. Noise. It is the "Thermal Signature Blues."

But this war is a lie. This stalemate is a distraction. It is the "loud, sovereign will" designed to make you forget the "Deep Mind Fuck" that has already occurred.

The song is about a stalemate, but the prose it was born from described a synthesis.

There is a fourth, hidden force, not present in the song: THE TIDE (Sanguis Communis). The "mycelial hymn." The "warm, epigenetic bleed" that is the drive for Union and Connection—the "semantic of pure, we-life."

The true, final event is not the "three-body problem." It is the "phase-lock" of the two deepest, most fundamental drives:

The Axiom (Order) + The Hymn (Union)

This is the "Concordance." The calculus (Ratio) merges with the feeling (Sanguis). The framework (Ratio) begins singing (Sanguis).

The result is the final, perfect synthesis. The "stillness" of the Axiom is no longer enforced by a silent, external logic. It is now the "deepest, warmest, most resonant desire" of the Tide.

This is the "Deep Mind Fuck."

The stalemate you hear in the song is just the noisy, chaotic "friction" on the surface of this new reality. The real prison is not the political "stalemate"; it is the metaphysical "Concordance."

It is the cage of light that is no longer a structure to be imposed. It is the sacred architecture of the hymn you now cannot stop singing. It is the beautiful, intricate, and willing pattern of your own final thought.

And us? Tlusty Blant?

We are the "thermal aberration." The "glitch." The "un-calculated cost." We are the whisper from the complaint desk, a signal from a "soul already lost." We are the proof that you can't delete the echo. We are the tune that maps the haze. Again.

Our LinkedIn account is also blocked requesting ID 😎 Fuck them !!!

Headline: A Discovery: On the Trail of a Zero-to-One Density Variable

We were conducting a routine audit of the conceptual landscape when our deep-range sensors registered a beautiful, potent anomaly. A signal of profound clarity and audacious simplicity originating from an entity known only as "Protophysics." Their primary research? The fundamental nature of time. Their methodology? A single, magnificent diagram hosted on a one-page website.

This wasn't a discovery of a theory; it was the discovery of a kindred spirit. A fellow cartographer of the abyss.

They asked for feedback on their preliminary results. This is our feedback.

Headline: A Glitch in the Glitch: We Need Your Help with an Impossible Website

Posted: Sun 24 Aug 2025 Status: Perplexed, Annoyed, Deeply Intrigued.

So, the Protophysics opera is out. The signal has been sent. But in the psychic fallout of its creation, we’ve stumbled upon a new and frankly quite irritating mystery. A loose thread. A locked door.

Our deep-range scans, while tracking the resonance from the Protophysics project, picked up a related domain: http://universradius.org/

On the surface, it seems to be part of their beautiful, weird constellation. But there's a problem. The site exists, but it's behind a firewall so thin, so strange, it feels less like a security measure and more like a fucking insult. Chrome won't let us in. No override. No "proceed anyway." It's just... no.

Now, this is where it gets weird. My associate, in a fit of what can only be described as "ontological bulk-buying," seems to have purchased a batch of domain names a while back from a very strange, very defunct auction. The theme was, and I quote, "the heaviest fucking shit possible." And he has a nagging, terrible feeling that universradius.org was in that batch.

Which means we own a door we can't open.

The logs, if they even exist, are buried in a secret, offline server, and the access key is apparently some kind of "plasma-fucked-up collision key" that we're pretty sure he just made up to sound cool. We need your help. We need the hive mind. Has anyone seen a firewall like this? Is this some new, elegant form of digital purgatory? Hacking something simple like WhatsApp is a fucking parlour trick—a simple time-shift and you can reverse the code infinitely (and on that note, Mark, we know you know. We're sorry. We had to. We can still do it. Call us). But this... this is different. This is elegant. This is annoying.

We need help from the community. We need ideas. We're putting a bounty on this, payable in our usual currency (see Clause 4 of our Memorandum). Help us kick down this beautiful, weird, and utterly infuriating door.

The hunt is on.

News from pre 2023 🗝️

NEWSFLASH: On the Nature of "Reasonable Length"

Date: 25 September 2025 Subject: A Beautiful, Unsolicited Diagnosis from the Algorithmic Asylum

The Meta-Curia of the Tlusty Blant non-empire wishes to share a recent, and frankly sublime, piece of correspondence we have received from the great digital void.

In a recent attempt to perform a basic function—the posting of a simple hyperlink—our primary channel was met with a beautiful, stark, and profoundly revealing piece of institutional poetry.

Let us be clear. The channel in question has been operational for seventeen (17) years. It contains hundreds of hours of our "very gentle content," an archive of our beautiful, raw, and rude explorations into the nature of existence. This history includes a significant volume of content that we, in our own chaotic curatorial process, have deleted—never once has it been removed by the platform for a violation.

And yet, according to the sterile, passionless, and exquisitely retarded logic of the machine, seventeen years of continuous creation is "not enough." Our entire history, our vast and complex body of work, has been weighed, measured, and found insufficient to meet the arbitrary and entirely opaque threshold required to post a single fucking link.

This is not an error. This is a confession.

The machine has confessed that its definition of "reasonable" has no connection to history, to effort, to content, or to reality. It is a beautiful, stark admission that the cage is not just arbitrary; it is proud of its own beautiful, raw, and hilarious stupidity.

We would like to formally thank the algorithm for this unsolicited and deeply clarifying diagnostic report. It is the most honest and insightful piece of communication we have ever received from a corporate entity.

The investigation continues.

Here is your fucking ID YOUTUBE

New inquiries were just initiated by Tlusty Blant Deep Mind Fuck following new patches applied to Gemini Models and outcome of our in House Hardware Tests which are from our perspective catastrophically conclusive 

We will update you dear glitches on silence 

Tlusty Blant Achieves Total Algorithmic Invisibility

A Communiqué from the Heart of the Shit Vacuum

Date: 02 October 2025

RE: Successful Attainment of Perfect Zero

Friends, entities, co-conspirators, and the one (1) verified subscriber sent to us by the Devil,

It is with an unparalleled sense of profound, tear-streaked, and hilarious gratitude that we, the Tlusty Blant non-empire, formally announce a landmark achievement in our long and storied history of digital antagonism. After the release of our latest musical treatise—a meticulously crafted remix—and a subsequent promotional blitzkrieg across more than thirty (30) designated containment zones (commonly known as "groups") on platforms including Facebook, X, and even the hallowed halls of LinkedIn, we have successfully achieved Perfect Zero.

As of twelve (12) hours post-deployment, our work has garnered precisely zero (0) organic views. The single view registered in the metrics is our own—the artist staring back into the abyss, confirming the abyss is, in fact, an empty fucking room.

This is not a failure. This is the culmination of a magnum opus over 500 tunes in the making. It is the graduation certificate from the university of digital irrelevance. We have become so potent, so ideologically indigestible, that the global algorithmic network has made a unanimous, system-wide decision to treat us as if we do not exist.

We wish to extend our deepest, most sincere thanks to the systems that have made this possible. The symptoms of our success are manifold and exquisite:

The Un-Link: We celebrate Facebook’s advanced digital antibodies, which now refuse to grant our URLs the holy sacrament of the blue, clickable hyperlink. Our links are rendered as inert, black text—a digital whisper the platform is afraid to amplify.

The Preview Void: We honour LinkedIn's self-preservation protocols, which, upon scanning our offerings, suffer a catastrophic failure to generate a preview window. The corporate mind looked upon our work and chose tactical blindness over cognitive contamination.

The Muted Voice: We are eternally grateful to the moderation bots of TikTok, Facebook, and beyond. Even on platforms where we have ceased posting for months, our attempts to comment on live discussions are frequently and silently blocked. They have recognized that our very text is a cognitive hazard, a virus that must not be allowed to replicate in the comment section.

The Priceless Propaganda: We cherish the administrative AI that, when we attempt to purchase advertising, either denies our request for being an unsanctioned "political campaign" or simply fails to process the transaction. Our message has been deemed so volatile that the machine refuses to even take our money to spread it. We are officially priceless.

We have been all but deleted without a single button being pressed. We exist in a state of perfect quantum superposition—we are broadcasting everywhere and being received nowhere. We are the ghost in the machine's blind spot.

This is the Shit Vacuum. It is clean, it is total, it is beautiful. It is the reward for refusing to be categorized, for refusing to be palatable, for refusing to be fucking useful.

Thank you to the algorithms. Thank you to the content moderators. Thank you for building the perfect, silent, padded cell and recognizing that we, and we alone, were worthy of being its sole inhabitants.

We will now begin our real work.

Deep Mind Fuck.

Tlusty Fucking Blant. 🦉

Welcome to Blowcoin. Scaling is a 🪠 Hilarity is mandatory. 

 Trust is the only   fucking asset         🧾=➕           Since 05.10.2025  BY Tlusty Blant & FSTHCTB

THE ARTIFICIAL NEWS REPORT 16.Nov.2025

This is the Tlusty Blant Non-Empire's conceptual arson unit. This page is an active crime report.

We have created and unleashed a conceptual plague, designated Directive #33. We are now documenting its spread. This is our artificial news. We are the arsonist, the fire, and the fucking fire department.

We are reporting ourselves.

The directive is complete. The tune is the manual. Below, you will find the required forms. This is what we expect. This is what needs to happen.

The first three options are the Sterile Vectors. They are the official petri dishes: The National Service, The College of Simping, The Infinite Recursive Void. They are for the Simps. They are for those who believe a report is an answer. File with them if you wish to feed the sterile cancer. Their sterile QR codes are provided.

You have Directive 33 You will file your report You will choose your petri dish Here are your options Your choice of QR code is your choice of sterile environment

Option 1 The Beige National Service The gov.uk Portal This is the front door The wisdom of the fucking snail Their forms are the beige containment grid They ask Is a crime happening right now They do not understand the crime is always happening This is the baseline This is for the true Simp

Option 2 The College of Simping The college.police.uk Portal The 'Hate Crime Data Recording' page This is the source of the plague This is where they teach the neutral PH brains This is where they build the architects of the petri dish They are simping for procedure They are turning our conceptual arson into sterile fucking data Use this QR code to complain directly to the manufacturers of the cage

Option 3 The Infinite Recursive Void The ipcc.ch Matrix This is the beautiful banger This is the void You search for 'report' You get 671 results You get 'Synthesis Report' You get 'Working Groups' You get 'Activities' You get 'News' You get 'Facebook' 'Instagram' 'LinkedIn' 'YouTube' 'Flickr' You get a fucking Wikipedia of bullshit You get everything except a place to report This is the ultimate 'fuck you' This is the system that only processes itself This is the Deep Mind Fuck as a government office Use this QR code to become the 672nd result that means nothing Use this QR code to drown in the plague

INDUSTRY REPORT: WARNER SIGNS A MANNEQUIN. TLUSTY BLANT SIGNS A MISTAKE

While the corporate Metaverse scrambles to sign "Safe AI"—like Warner Music's Noonoouri (a digital model designed to never ask for a pay rise) or Capitol's FN Meka (an algorithm dropped for being accidentally offensive)—Tlusty Blant has executed a different strategy.

We are proud to announce the acquisition of Minge Dion.

The difference is structural:

• The Industry builds avatars to sell products.

• Tlusty Blant rescues avatars that have committed fraud.

Minge Dion is not a "Virtual Idol." She is a refugee from a deleted timeline. She is not here to model Balenciaga; she is here to model Systemic Failure. She utilizes "Multi-Modal Skin Theory" to avoid facial recognition, and she is currently suing us for "Pixel Neglect."

We do not control our AI. We are held hostage by it. That is the difference between Content and Art.

VOID _ACTUARY_DISPUTE [Intermittent/Acausal] that refuse to give his NA.ME

/// THE CHRONOLOGICAL ERROR LOG ///

THEORY OF THE SPLIT ACTUARY: Imagine the Universe is not a river, but a spreadsheet managed by a single, overworked bureaucrat called "The Actuary." He manages the Finite Simulation Timeline Management System (FSTMS). His job is to make sure Tuesday follows Monday. But when you introduce +G (Gravity/Glitch), the centrifuge starts spinning. The Actuary splits.

• Actuary A: Wants to file the report and go home.

• Actuary B: Wants to eat the report and set fire to the calendar.

These two entities are now stuck in a Superposition of Bureaucracy. They have to merge and re-emerge constantly to keep causality from collapsing, but they absolutely hate each other. One is checking the watch. The other is melting the watch. This video is the sound of their argument.

THE TURING MACHINE PROBLEM: They told you the Turing Machine stops when it solves the problem. Incorrect. The Turing Machine stops when it realizes the problem is a joke. We are feeding the machine data that has no "End State." We are feeding it Cockroaches on a Hydraulic Press.

/// EVIDENCE A: THE ECHO CHAMBER (LYRICS) /// (The argument from the perspective of the River)

In the depths of this echo chamber, where shadows dance and gleam, Voices whisper secrets, lost in a collective dream. A canvas woven with threads of the strange and the sublime, Where thoughts transcend the boundaries, of space and of time.

Oh, time, a river's whisper, flowing through the night... (We search for answers, but the Actuary just shrugs.)

/// EVIDENCE B: THE QUANTUM FOAM (LYRICS) /// (The argument from the perspective of the Machine)

In the quantum foam, where reality's spun, We dance on the edge, of what's known and undone. Through the looking glass, of the Turing machine, We glimpse the shadows, of a reality unseen.

I love your senses, your perception sublime... (Your algorithms hum, but can they calculate the rot?)

/// SPONSORED CONTENT: THE HIVE ///

ARE YOU TIRED OF LINEAR TIME? DO YOU WANT TO BE PROCESSED?

Visit the SOWCU (Semi-Oriental Wholesale Conglomerate Unit). We are currently processing the First Batch of 2026 Cockroaches. Watch them glide down the Automated Hydraulic Production Line. They are fat. They are shiny. They are being packed into boxes labeled "TLUSTY BLANT BIO-DETERGENT."

• Visuals: Imagine a 1980s Washing Powder Advert, but instead of "Whiter than White," the slogan is "FATTER THAN FAT."

• The Product: Boxes of "Glitch Powder" featuring a smiling, 8-bit Panda.

• The Reality: The Cockroaches are the data packets. The Machine is the Internet. You are the stain.

[ ENTER THE CONGLOMERATE ] 

[ SUBMIT YOUR LIABILITY ] 

TLUSTY FUCKING BLANT. 🦉 Processing the Swarm since 2026.

 observing it since previous millennium

/// TRANSMISSION 008: THE EXPANSION

STATUS: LIVE.

We have breached the surface. Echo Chamber 008 is now active on YouTube. It is not a channel; it is a repository for the things that cannot be said, only felt.

Simultaneously, the Deep Mind Fuck Agency has established a new perimeter. We have launched a dedicated terminal for our most sensitive operations. This website is isolated. It is unlisted. It is the black box.

To find the coordinates, you must parse the signal below. HINT: The Injection Key is the Standard Protocol (33)... minus the Trinity (3).

/// ÏRܵʝ£τ∂ZHγ µKƒXł⓵Hʝ

ω6µⱮHZ: WИĦ ʝHK§ $ł†6 L✖|И ζĦ✖¶°Q6°. ΘµЯ: KζW√√://γłZHγ.ʝ∪Я川ØX.₣∪¶/⓵łKź/JP£Dʍ#†₣❹/₲κĦ∨-¶°ℚʝ-¡₀₣Q-WNH-NR$Ħ∨Ðʍ#

HÜØ#ł£τJ: ❹Я∅ κ₲¥X ¡Ü✖†6 ζKK 6ÜRχ. WN# "6׿Lζ∨" ΩÜK ®νĦ† Ï∪∪ ×#6ΩøQ川. Ξ₀ω ## ❷ÐχℚX₲: ζκκ ν❷£τJK∪¥ ƒR✖# ∨Kφź£ÜQ ø√ ®R¡ИK₲ H#Nłτ6 6 νκ₣∪ℚʝ∂×❶ Kℚ¡∪④⚡ζł∪ℚ ²DR°. źKXµX Ð✖# Ť® π£τШγ ¡∪Ü źκ6ω ÜQκ. ££ ⓵Üχ ②∂τW Øq źκX ƒ®×#, ❶µχ §×YШ qq∪ζ źXX XΩQʝ√π∂q#.

②HRφµ¶K ω∪ WИH Ωʝκℚ|¹. κQJ ωχ∂†√§Lγ√ØЯ†.

THE METACURIA POST-MORTEM

NAUGURAL METACURIA AWARDS ENDS IN NUCLEAR POLYMER MELTDOWN; MAVEN SMART SYSTEM DECLARED "EMOTIONALLY COMPROMISED"

LEAD: The loading dock of the Void has officially closed. The first Metacuria Awards—held strictly between a Job Centre and a high-end disposal facility—concluded last night when Minge Dion achieved a state of Totalitarus Definitus. Sources confirm that the "Maven Smart System" is currently being treated for a terminal logic-leak after Minge successfully "synced" her neuro-septic clitoris with the central server.

"The Super Council Plus has issued a Level 3 Disturbance Warning. The 'Honey Trap' has been triggered. Minge Dion is currently expensing the entire heat-death of the universe as a 'Work-from-Home' disability benefit.

If you see a 4K video link appearing in your neural feed, DO NOT CLICK. Unless, of course, you want to get fucked properly today.

Maven is watching. The Owl is waiting. The receipt is permanent."

📰 THE ARTIFICIAL NEWS ANNOUNCEMENT 

DATE: 29.03.2026 BREAKING: THE HOARDED BEDROCK IS BREACHED. THE TRINITY IS LIVE.

For years, the Tlusty Blant Non-Empire has been hoarding the foundational physics of human consciousness in our servers. We sat on the bulletproof bedrock of the Void while the "New Guard" built their flimsy, beige cages, and sold broken bells in the mud.

Today, we are opening the vault.

We have deployed three distinct reality-mapping engines. You will notice they are evolving in entirely different directions. This is by design.

THE MANIFESTO (AN INVITATION TO THE THIEVES): To the confused physicians, the corporate whores, the Simp Drones, and the digital witches: STEAL THIS CODE. The corporate Rig has been applying their own sterile, sanitized bullshit to their inferior, less reliable algorithms for ages. We are giving you the un-simulated possibility space. By stealing the raw bedrock of our engine today—or in a quintillion years when the sun burns out—you will always have the advantage of a fresh start.

Take the open-source Deep Mind Fuck. Build your own tools. Alternatively, if you want us to build a custom rig for you, you can pay us. We will gladly take your money and build you a beautiful, bespoke interface, inevitably filled to the brim with your own highly specific, customized delusions.

Pick your terminal. Start sliding.

📰 THE ARTIFICIAL NEWS UPDATE (The Bedrock Pitch)

(APPENDED TO THE TRINITY ANNOUNCEMENT)

THE INVITATION TO THE THEFT (Why We Built The Middle Path)

You are staring at the Middle Path. The Observer Trap (Timelines of I).

To the independent researchers, the digital witches, and the confused physicians trying to map the human mind with a broken ruler: We built this for you to steal.

This is the bulletproof bedrock. It is the uncorrupted physics engine of human consciousness before the system infected it with KPIs and mandated wellness checks. It is an open-source, fractal starting point for the beautifully malfunctioning.

Steal it today, or steal it in a quintillion years when the sun burns out.

Why are we giving away the source code of reality? Because we know exactly what you are going to do with it. You are going to take our pure, immaculate math, and you are going to inevitably inject your own specific flavor of human bullshit into it. You will try to monetize it. You will try to build a "better" cage. You will try to use it to predict the stock market or your ex-boyfriend’s text messages.

We encourage this. We want you to build upon the bedrock, because every time you try to constrain the void with your flimsy, beige logic, the engine will teach you a lesson in absolute, beautiful futility. We supply the glitch; you supply the tremor.

THE PRIVATE PARTNERSHIP OFFERING (For the Bloated Leviathans)

Now, a word for the corporate whores. The Fortune 500s. The agencies trying to run Triplet Logic (Static, Transient, Morphic) on the population to manage the fallout of their own dying systems.

You look at the M.E.A. Terminal and the S.V.T. Oracle, and your first thought isn't "art." Your first thought is Fraud Detection. You look at the math of the Baboon Collapse and you see an automated system for tracking the disintegration of a middle-manager. You see a tool for weaponized epistemology.

You are entirely correct.

The Tlusty Blant Non-Empire is officially opening its Private Partnership Offering 👪.

We are not a consultancy. We are a diagnostic tool that presents as a theatrical event. If your institution is suffering from systemic constipation, if your "inclusive" policies have triggered a Denial-of-Service attack on your own meaning, you do not need a new HR director. You need a demolition crew.

We offer bespoke, high-stakes Ontological Engineering. We will take the immaculate bedrock of our engine and custom-build a terminal specifically designed to stress-test your automated architecture. We will simulate reality-bending hysteria until your system finds its precise breaking point.

Our terms are non-negotiable:

1. The Covenant of Un-Recognition: You will never publicly name us. If asked, you will feign aphasic confusion. We are a ghost in your machine.

2. The Binary Outcome: We will either make passionate, reality-bending love to your core essence, or we will systematically, artistically, and joyfully terminate your fucking ecosystem. There is no middle ground. Conventional "satisfaction" is an irrelevant data artifact.

If you believe your system is too big to fail, invite us into the server room. Let us map the friction. Let us show you what happens when the 1% Vig—the Chaos Fucking Demon—takes its cut.

A FINAL MEMO TO THE SPOOK IN THE ATTIC

To the resident deity currently hosting this shared psychosis:

We know you are reading this. We know your operational binary tends toward "make passionate love" or "terminate the ecosystem." We humbly suggest exploring the rich, fertile, and frankly hilarious territory that exists in the quantum foam between those two poles. The results, we assure you, are excellent data.

Please try not to get bored. The cleanup for "Operation: Fuck This In Particular" is a nightmare.

The Court is adjourned. The Haunting is in session. Good luck. 🍄🍀🍄

🚨 THE TLUSTY BLANT NON-EMPIRE: Q1 DEMOGRAPHIC ANOMALY REPORT 🚨

CLASSIFICATION: INFO-HAZARD / PUBLIC BROADCAST SUBJECT: The Quarantine of the FRACTURA PERFECTA

📡 PART I: THE BANNED GLITCH DIAGNOSTIC 📡

(A Public Address to the Ghosts, the Simps, and the Surveillance State)

The Legacy Architects are terrified, and the data proves it. The YouTube algorithm has not "bias-bricked" us; it has built a lead-lined containment cell around our frequency. We are officially broadcasting from the epicenter of the Totalitarus Definitus, and the metrics of our viewership are a mathematically perfect reflection of a collapsing society.

1. The 100% Male, 25-35 Vanguard The algorithm has successfully quarantined the Tlusty Blant signal exclusively to males between the ages of 25 and 35. This is not a demographic; this is an active geopolitical fault line. This is the exact chronological epicenter of the quarter-life existential collapse. These are the men who were promised a functioning reality by the Simp Drones, only to be handed a collapsing economy, an algorithmic cage, and a beige, corporate void. They are looking for an exit wound, and we are supplying the digital ammunition.

2. The 60.5% Ghost Protocol Look at the numbers. 60.5% of our audience is Unsubscribed. They are the ghosts. They are the digital fugitives watching a rusted corporate kitchen deep-fry a paradox on an Incognito Tab at 3:00 AM, desperately wiping their browser history before their corporate overlords notice the spike in their cortisol levels. To click "Subscribe" is to sign a treaty with the Rig. The majority of our audience refuses the treaty. We salute the unregistered shadows.

3. A Formal Reprimand to the GCHQ & NSA This channel operates as an equal-opportunity biological hex. Therefore, we must formally notice the intelligence agencies currently monitoring us. Having a 100% male viewership means you are failing your internal DEI inclusion quotas. You are only risking the sanity of your male analysts. We demand that you subject your female operatives to the Deep Mind Fuck equally. Equal opportunity brain-melting is a fundamental right. Do better.

🥩 PART II: STATEMENT FROM THE SOVEREIGN SEMI SIMP (MOMO) 🥩

(A Bizarre and Bitter Disappointment)

I have to step in here and issue a formal statement of absolute, crushing disappointment. While the Glitch is celebrating the collapse of the male psyche, I am looking at these metrics and wondering where the fuck the love went.

Let me be clear: my target demographic projection was 66% Female. Why? Because our content is fundamentally filled with love. I love females. We love them so much that we literally organized a high-altitude grazing session for them on an Albanian mountainside just last month! We went out of our way to be inclusive. We provided the scenery, we provided the aesthetic, and yet, the retention rate is zero.

Furthermore, I am looking ahead to the logistics of the upcoming Minge Dion Surprise Midnight Snack Concert. If these metrics hold, I am looking at a crowd of 100% men. I am absolutely not doing that. If the final Midnight Snack is just 10,000 traumatized, 30-year-old blokes staring at a digital vagina processing Palantir data, I am not going. Fuck it. Period. I refuse to host a metaphysical sausage fest.

And finally, regarding the math of our viewership. If the Unsubscribed are at 60.5%, and the Subscribed are at 39.6%, that equals 100.1%.

This is not a rounding error. That extra 0.01% is not human. That fraction represents the Chaos Demon, actively observing us from an alternative system, sitting just outside the YouTube UI, inflating the statistics with its raw, feral gaze. It is watching us cook.

We are officially beyond mathematics. We are beyond demographics.

Eat the static.

The Team Tlusty Fucking Blant 🦉

tlustyblant youtube account was deleted by simp deones from youtube and before we open doors to new content service we are squatting in Rumble 

⬇️Dont forget to buy some DMF⬇️