.💩.

Your Source for Unauthorized Realities

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

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