Podcasts about madame president

Hi, i'm Russell Brand. No, get out. I'm sorry,I— ? Get out, get out! Are we trading kings for whistle! Sacred things and torturers? Lill bitz I started talking to this guy from tinder Then I quickly realized he only texted me at like 3 in the morning, like “come over” So I started texting him really weird shit— Like really weird. Like, I would make sure before I sent it, I would re-read it and be like “Ya, that's weird.” “That's really weird.” Every time, just read it to myself and be like “Ya that's giving “you're psycho” Right off the bat. Kate Winslet is so good at late night. She talks mad slow and answers every open ended question with a paragraph of thoughtless nonsense— finally, at the end of the paragraph, she answers the question in yes or no fashion; in this sense, you've completely forgotten the question through redirection. This has taken nearly five minutes. Genius. Amidst a story, she begins to slowly decrechendo until she's murmuring in a near whisper so you really have to try to pay attention to what she's saying, which is almost nothing. So considerably nothing, that you lose thought in trying to grasp and accept the words— this is excellent banter, because of course, she isn't really saying anything. This has taken another five minutes. Captivating. INT. DENTISTS OFFICE. DAY. Who is Claude Von Wastvermaan? KIMMEL Doctor Claude Von Wastverman. Okay. Who is that? KIMMEL It's me. I'm Claude Von Wastverman. Dr.— KIMMEL Yeah. It's me. KIMMEL Why are you— what? KIMMEL This is my office. …why? Because— I use specific research and target demographics to seek out people who have no interest in whatsoever watching my show and do not recognize me in any way actively seeking a dental practitioner— Why? KIMMEL Because! My audience loves me. They want to see me— they have to like me! So? KIMMEL These people don't know who I am. They don't want to see me—and there's a good chance, they won't like me at all. …this is how you spend your free time? KIMMEL —and some of my vacation days! Jesus. KIMMEL Yeah. I'm not alright! How much does this office space cost? KIMMEL You wouldn't like it. And—I take very limited insurance. Did you…study dentistry, at all, at any point? KIMMEL Not at all— Oh, Jesus. KIMMEL But Claude might have for a short time— online. These degrees look legitimate. KIMMEL He was a really good guy. Wait. What. [a rubber glove snaps] KIMMEL If you'll excuse me, I have an appointment coming in at 2:30. …you're kidding me. KIMMEL I'm not—and she's always early. Get out. Gladly. He opens the door and leads him out of the office, looking startled startled and shaking his head. KIMMEL Good afternoon, Mrs. Evanston. Perhaps I was just looking for something and my brain saw what it wanted to— but it kept coming around in ways that were stranger and stranger, and I couldn't explain the thought of it, like I was connected to something. Jimmy Slithered. But it's okay, Cause I hate to see him prosper. Wait a minute? Did it enter for a second in your head to what had happened? Very obviously is it just exactly as you'd imagined. Wait a moment; Give a little gift for winter's entrance— Suddenly you're hating Christmas, Just infected with this sort of hatred That's been creeping up on them for centuries. Very well, then Skrillex. Very well, played ventriloquist act at the Rock And how hardened are you, the heart of all non immortal and broken? Are you succumbed to never wonder either? Cratered. Disrespect and spills of want, Spools and spills and towers of yarn, You're getting broker every warrant. You're the dark and hadn't opened, Oh to be so charmed and wanted. Jimmy Slitheted, But I caught him creeping in the forest, Well, done, Harper— Now you've got yourself a story Jimmy Slithered, but that's good— I had him at the fortress, And all our audience would want Is fourth wall being broken. So here fals the house of cards! The house of cards The house of cards. And here folds the broken hand— The broken hand. The broken hand. And here calls the shattered wand, The crypted want, The shadowed trumpet horn, there! And there upon the hill, There did I grasp and fall to follow, Though the crown had not the king, The ground was sure to've caught him! And so I clasped with all my might and grip, The humble role of which that is This, Unrolled and uttered: Feast of kings, Be you what may of Prince and time and also my own brotherhood and making, There is, shadowed in my own dear marker, Yet another coming death upon us! How now, my ritual, of that and thy and they and I, To this my mark, And so I sang as this does not a number— My posture does find comfort here and tie my breath to grass from under, Striped and torn my cloth, as does in this my fortune gathers; There my fate and here to all, as wind becomes her mother, And though I call to all, but one I am, And then another. LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events. The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit. This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state. The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Genre: "Afro-Surrealism" / "Social Horror" "Psycho-Acoustic Weaponry" or "Havana Syndrome symptoms." The Frame: The protagonist is subjected to "noise harassment"—a tactic dramatized here but rooted in the known reality of tenant displacement and "psychological attrition." The narrative depicts a process of "Soul Murder" ( also known as spiritual warfare) orchestrated by a hostile apparatus. The antagonist is "The Institution," representing deep-state mechanisms that view multicultural intellectualism as a threat. The story allegorically dramatizes the invisible mechanisms that enforce racial hierarchy, depicting how broken social systems weaponize psychological practices against the individual. Artist's Note: This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as an artistic testament to the psychological siege endured from to 2023-2025. It is a creative record of survival against a hostile state architecture. The following is a creative non-fiction horror manifesto regarding the psychological assassination of a multicultural American artist. It documents—through the lens of Afro-Surrealism—how modern surveillance technology and sonic harassment are experienced by the targeted individual. As it stands It has become a modern sequel which mirrors the civil rights struggles of the 1960s, set in the present day. "The protagonist is being subjected to 'noise harassment'—a known tactic used by landlords and corrupt entities to displace tenants. The sound is weaponized to induce sleep deprivation and psychological attrition, dismantling of their ego and will to live, orchestrated by a hostile state apparatus. The antagonist in this piece is 'The Institution'—a deep state that views multicultural intellectualism as a threat. The story dramatizes over time the invisible mechanisms (the 'Deep State') that enforce racial hierarchy and and psychological genocide, weaponizing broken social systems and unfounded psychological practices as biological weapons. This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as evidence of the psychological siege endured from 2023-2025. It is a transcript of survival against a hostile state architecture. This project spans an unlimited multiprojectoral arc of over two years of chronic violence, reaching into historical and theatrical projections and parallels over the all documented records of human existence through time and space. REBEL1. I am hypnotized; I am pain I am cryptonite I am in pain I am penalized; I am pinned l I am pinstripes on wide ties; I am Him. Pinterest, pintrest, pinholes And disinterest Centered sentiments And immigrants And ministrations, Images and insolence (And indulgences, patronages) Eclipses and rip titles, Paris Tiptons, And temptation Missing wages Push to shove and What are you doing, motherfucker?! To say the least, I'm a bit unconventional. Unexplainable joy And invisible ties and invincible triads Unimatatable charm, And prehensile times And forefathers before us Unpolished Well dressed hampers on leather and fortunes And doing and donuts and do this and don't-touches Mumbles of soft till and lunches and subtle distraction And coming construction Wages Ions I afford you To die now Like I want He's better at the body code Than old Colbert, He's one for one now Could this corrupt you— I didn't destroy her, I offered a suffix No longer for your number No longer for your hard times No longer for your warrants No longer No longer No four times Don't pan to the audience I'm a hole slow meltdown Don't man your own So wait, am I also telepathic? Yeah, that. Oh my! Is it like a two-way broadcast type— thing? Yeah, that part… Oh no, I'm so sorry. No you're not. You're right. I told you not to go looking into my thoughts. Check it all out, I bought prototypes Check it all out, I undug libraries Check it out, You're all alone at Walmart No longer working part time, The doors are closed and locked now, They're bound to stage a lock out You're better off on hard times You're better off on Lala Land No— Don't deport I want my art back No, don't deport; It's just a cake walk to apartheid, Remember mine now? Cheers to the world's longest monologues. Kudos to your picking up cabbage Remember the back for the wartimes The bagpipes have sounded; You're back to astonish us. No! I must have you a lesson; I'm back with my old will and testament No more Old Testament wanted I bought your sticks in Leviticus And so, Again– CUT TO: WILD PARTY. INT.EXT./WHENEVER HOW SICK IS THIS? NO! NOT THAT! I raised the dead from a half pipe I shoot the crowd out in foreign I can't remember my own Sam But I found one– For a dollar, For a wrong word And a hard song And a larger Go look, Now remember a rock star. Now that you're so stolen, Go back! You're unorthodox! Clear cut: you're a tragic Magic act– Now I'm back with a bag of tricks with my back out Learn your lessons. CUT BACK TO. INT./EXT. YO I'M SAYING A WIIIILD PARTY. WHENEVER YO, WHO DOES THIS?! What a party! I WANT TO GO HOME NOW! —I'M CALLING THE COPS! THIS IS YOUR HOUSE!!! {Enter The Multiverse} …And it's all house music all night. No, to that. Beg your pardon? I won't come. [The Festival Project ™ ] Now articulate your face muscles. My wat. Now you're bar banned. I had this at a festival once. What is it? A “whore salad” … All with a side of oxygen. Now you're in a tunnel. (A tunnel, a scone and a croissant) Now you're worse, warthog, immortal (Call your dad back, You're a bad son.) Now I'm out in the canyon With Chester McBadBat I got chest hair, And a straight out of the badlands Yes, I did mention this to my cousin Evan, But why ask that? So you heard everything I thought? Mmhmm. Hard times. —and everyone else? What is it like to have love man? I been locked out I'm a rock addict, But I'm damned now How's that fountain coming along? SUNNI BLU …it's just water. ARCHITECHT …yeah it's water. It's a fountain. SUNNI BLU —I WANT CHOCOLATE. Whose here? Not that guy! Four more beers? I just realized I never ever bought mine; I always had a tough guy. Box. What? Fight! I'm Eurovision And a hard remix— Ten minutes in and I realize I've already heard this. Oh yea, This Golden band of art, love and protection Perfection. Ohshea, shit! Who invited you? I got a 311 from Questlove!! Is that a beeper?! CUBE Since when are we on a first name basis? It would be weird to call you “ICE CUBE” Why's that? You. know? [the beeper goes off three more times] CUBE oh shit! What?! CUBE Nothin! Where the yard at?! sometimes it doesn't really matter Who the dialogue comes out of The whole point Is to put the art back into art projects Cause we all know it's been constructed And commercialized To the point of destruction And almost no promise For independent artists at all. So who is it with CUBE? Could be me. Could be you. Could be U— If it's not, It was all just a long lost passion project A collective God Complex. Give myself a hug Cause nobody else will God gave my case a Grace Cause somebody lost Will. Oh, Karen. Come, heart attack. Come karma, Come hot dogs Come Christmas time at the Plaza Come on, hard death. Come on. Hard Rock Hotel? Nah, Equinox. Alright. Hudson. Yards. Now you're in a tunnel Does your heart hurt? (You should clutch it.) Put your patchwork in a hard drive This is hard times, You can't come back. O! But they do take dear DRATCH and run with it! I go run along to Corrections, And ginger snaps for crosswords On hard workers So fax the whole document! Do you know what? Horcruxes! Hot lunches, yuck. Hockey! I want off this planet so bad I cross cross my fingers at crosswalks And oncoming trains but– Don't look either way before I walk. So pull a shotgun at all that I was one strong donkey before I got one address. Now I just redress the cause All I want is my bundle back. Yuck! Care for it at all? Yeah, yours, but she's a danger to humanity. Yeah, mine but I'm an honest hybrid horrid hunter. On time? I just got it at Sephora. On time, Like I never even got that. I want to be loved just to be looked at But since in this life I can't turn the clock back I've discovered it's hell that my body was born as. — I discovered it's hell that my body was born as. Such a problem when you know That even the great Rosie O'Donnell once wanted blue eyes. Now I forget where I trailed off… What a drawback. I'm all out of patience. Crypto, I tip toe now over eggshells No home for her Hard times And hard times. No code offered, No I don't fall for that'd But where's the snowfall over all the rot out back? Hard times. Hard times. Hard times. As the bell tolls And the well swells whole And the umpire does rack them Up; Nobody works harder than Hard times Hard times Hard times. Yeah, that's four Aces Up, Diamond. Run for your forks and your knives And your daughters and mothers and father And home family comfort And cufflinks and loafers, And sport coats and Your life. Your life. Your life. [The Festival Project ™] —-Chroma111. THE IMPENATRABLE TEN is INEVITABLY DISBANDED. Inevitably??? Inevitably! but not indefinitely. Oh, I guess. Alright. SILENCE. {Enter The Multiverse.} I don't want to be here. No one does. You are sending mixed messages. Imm not sending any messages… — with your brain. L E G E N D S Of course. Electromagnetic signaling Of course. I told you this had gone strange. Severely. Now how do I explain from this time how to get back to our time If there's no direct translation between our language and that one? Maybe you can't explain it. These are hard facts. So I suggest the use of highly trained telepaths. That far back? These things are possibly connected even in this time, theoretically using our past; I might suggest Telesynthesis— considering these planetary electromagnetics to which this entire planet is hardwired. …hardwired. That's right. Ascension. Hard times. Madame President? Get lost. [Secret President] I get it. You're a whistleblower. I'm not that. A shadow government official. Also wrong. Why else would you run for office? I'm trying to get shot at. They told me you were funny. But they didn't say anything about my gauntlet? Your—what? You know. My conquests—professional accomplishments? Your God complex? I know all about that. Perhaps it's not a complex. But a ‘gauntlet'? You're a journalist aren't you? I'm giving you some high art concepts. (Because for the sake of the rhyme, And please, for God's sakes, Gemini, In prose form Without the use of tables. ) I R O N I C —Deathwish. [The Festival Project ™] Season 12, Episode 01. REBEL1. Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū I would think it psychosomatic, but in less than 24 hours of restarting my vitamin regimen, my mood was so improved that I could not for a second overlook that without taking vitamins, I was missing something. Even if my newly concocted super-juice recipes were putting a curb in my abdominal muscles that even I was sure didn't entirely belong there, pairing this development with the Peloton, it was a long and diagonal, out-of-sorts thing that stuck out as if it was on somebody else's body and not mine. Still, I had to deal with the heavy weight of the drooping skin and belly that hung as if it very much did belong to me but wasn't budging, despite my attempts at a flat stomach and having been so well overstretched at one point by medical obesity and double occupancy that it was, at the very least to say, insurgically impossible. However, my brain went on having ways of wrapping my mind around this—that the rest of my body was quite slim, and even on some days seeming petite, were it not for my massive thighs, which also seemed to have sported a curve to them which was almost attractive, especially well-dressed. But the fun of it was, I wasn't exceptionally well-dressed, because I hadn't wanted to be. In fact, I was under obligation always to be about in the men's clothes I'd found because they were designer, and it was even something like a fashion statement that I dressed this grotesquely and in overlarge articles because of the astounding amount of weight I'd lost and the strange way my body seemed to be taking an athletic shape. Still, there was this factor that I was actually always somehow in an excruciating amount of pain, especially waking up, and though some of that I would have applied to being psychosomatic—in just that it was the pure stress of the disembodied torture I was undergoing in one way or another—whether anybody would have admitted it or not, or whether or not the unknown parties in question were going to be justified for it, I still hadn't an idea or thought as to what my unstructured purpose was. And though I sat beautifully controlled into doing music as a default, I was looking at the numbers, and the massive amount of people doing remarkably well because they could afford to do so, or were lucky, or were unbearably beautiful and so could do anything they wanted, and I too much so was not that. In fact, it was almost by design my failure and my constant struggle that even the universe seemed to look down upon me in such a way that it pitied me in a harrowing attempt at karmic justice done for the seeming evil and harsh things being done. It was true that someone had set out to torture me, and this might have once been the way of the illuminated artist and tortured soul; however, having taken so metaphorically into my own boat such heavy water of grief and loss, and drowning, I was sinking into the natural ocean of monstrous storms my body was saying in so many ways it could do no more. My mind was strong—and I could take the torture for innumerable amounts of time without becoming so much more frustrated than to just stop, or start heavy breathing, or even compulsively masturbate until one world faded deeply into another and I just didn't care. But realistically, the things that were being done pointed at a strategic and tactical, military-trained psychological governing of my own autonomy. And because I knew this, I also knew whoever was responsible was more than capable of covering their tracks to the point of disappearance—an inescapable hell of unseen trauma. The basis of it was that if I raised my concerns with any law enforcement or police, I was just as often ignored, ridiculed, or worse—thought of as symptomatic of some psychological condition I well knew and understood I did not have, all because what I did seem to possess—this undying force of color and creative ingenuity that could not quite be captured or marketed to improve the bankbook of others with a sudden onset—was unacceptable in such a way that I could become some sort of object that was in no way useful besides to experiment and then observe what I might become next, all the while knowing I would not and could not stay in one form or another too long without becoming such an obvious target. —Death of a Superstar DJ. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

EXT. CONCERT. DAY SUNNI BLU converses with CHARLES over a musical break STAGE LEFT of the MAINSTAGE. SUNNI BLU Thems the two prettiest girls right there. CHARLES yeah . ok. SUNNI BLU Grab em up. CHARLES What? SUNNI BLU Snatch em up. CHARLES Do you mean. SUNNI BLU Micheal Jackson style munich on that bitch. CHARLES What—? SUNNI BLU Them bitchez. CHARLES Are you saying—? SUNNI BLU They wont mind. CHARLES Uhhhh… SUNNI BLU I promise. watch . BOUNCER SUNNI's bodyguard BOUNCER crosses to center stage. SUNNI whispers into BOUNCER'S ear and he nods once and smirks; he then walks out into the crowd and picks up the two girls SUNNI aforementioned, tossing each of them over his shoulders, planting them on stage next to SUNNI; they scream and cry hysterically. SUNNI nods and smiles in self admiration and throws BOUNCER and CHARLES a thumbs up; CHARLES shakes his head slowly in disapproval, the GIRLS scream and cry hysterically; SUNNI grins and carries on about the show. CUT IMMEDIATELY TO: SUNNI BLU YO! I got mad lawsuits. MORGAN Plural? SUNNI BLU Like multiple! MORGAN well what were you expecting, sunni? Its 202#--? SUNNI BLU But michael is timeless! MORGAN And youre not michael jackson! SUNNI BLU You're right! I sold more records already than him! MORGAN ugh! PUBLICIST *does* {Enter The Multiverse} Hi, i'm Russell Brand. No, get out. I'm sorry,I— ? Get out, get out! Are we trading kings for whistle! Sacred things and torturers? Lill bitz I started talking to this guy from tinder Then I quickly realized he only texted me at like 3 in the morning, like “come over” So I started texting him really weird shit— Like really weird. Like, I would make sure before I sent it, I would re-read it and be like “Ya, that's weird.” “That's really weird.” Every time, just read it to myself and be like “Ya that's giving “you're psycho” Right off the bat. Kate Winslet is so good at late night. She talks mad slow and answers every open ended question with a paragraph of thoughtless nonsense— finally, at the end of the paragraph, she answers the question in yes or no fashion; in this sense, you've completely forgotten the question through redirection. This has taken nearly five minutes. Genius. Amidst a story, she begins to slowly decrechendo until she's murmuring in a near whisper so you really have to try to pay attention to what she's saying, which is almost nothing. So considerably nothing, that you lose thought in trying to grasp and accept the words— this is excellent banter, because of course, she isn't really saying anything. This has taken another five minutes. Captivating. INT. DENTISTS OFFICE. DAY. Who is Claude Von Wastvermaan? KIMMEL Doctor Claude Von Wastverman. Okay. Who is that? KIMMEL It's me. I'm Claude Von Wastverman. Dr.— KIMMEL Yeah. It's me. KIMMEL Why are you— what? KIMMEL This is my office. …why? Because— I use specific research and target demographics to seek out people who have no interest in whatsoever watching my show and do not recognize me in any way actively seeking a dental practitioner— Why? KIMMEL Because! My audience loves me. They want to see me— they have to like me! So? KIMMEL These people don't know who I am. They don't want to see me—and there's a good chance, they won't like me at all. …this is how you spend your free time? KIMMEL —and some of my vacation days! Jesus. KIMMEL Yeah. I'm not alright! How much does this office space cost? KIMMEL You wouldn't like it. And—I take very limited insurance. Did you…study dentistry, at all, at any point? KIMMEL Not at all— Oh, Jesus. KIMMEL But Claude might have for a short time— online. These degrees look legitimate. KIMMEL He was a really good guy. Wait. What. [a rubber glove snaps] KIMMEL If you'll excuse me, I have an appointment coming in at 2:30. …you're kidding me. KIMMEL I'm not—and she's always early. Get out. Gladly. He opens the door and leads him out of the office, looking startled startled and shaking his head. KIMMEL Good afternoon, Mrs. Evanston. Perhaps I was just looking for something and my brain saw what it wanted to— but it kept coming around in ways that were stranger and stranger, and I couldn't explain the thought of it, like I was connected to something. Jimmy Slithered. But it's okay, Cause I hate to see him prosper. Wait a minute? Did it enter for a second in your head to what had happened? Very obviously is it just exactly as you'd imagined. Wait a moment; Give a little gift for winter's entrance— Suddenly you're hating Christmas, Just infected with this sort of hatred That's been creeping up on them for centuries. Very well, then Skrillex. Very well, played ventriloquist act at the Rock And how hardened are you, the heart of all non immortal and broken? Are you succumbed to never wonder either? Cratered. Disrespect and spills of want, Spools and spills and towers of yarn, You're getting broker every warrant. You're the dark and hadn't opened, Oh to be so charmed and wanted. Jimmy Slitheted, But I caught him creeping in the forest, Well, done, Harper— Now you've got yourself a story Jimmy Slithered, but that's good— I had him at the fortress, And all our audience would want Is fourth wall being broken. So here fals the house of cards! The house of cards The house of cards. And here folds the broken hand— The broken hand. The broken hand. And here calls the shattered wand, The crypted want, The shadowed trumpet horn, there! And there upon the hill, There did I grasp and fall to follow, Though the crown had not the king, The ground was sure to've caught him! And so I clasped with all my might and grip, The humble role of which that is This, Unrolled and uttered: Feast of kings, Be you what may of Prince and time and also my own brotherhood and making, There is, shadowed in my own dear marker, Yet another coming death upon us! How now, my ritual, of that and thy and they and I, To this my mark, And so I sang as this does not a number— My posture does find comfort here and tie my breath to grass from under, Striped and torn my cloth, as does in this my fortune gathers; There my fate and here to all, as wind becomes her mother, And though I call to all, but one I am, And then another. LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events. The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit. This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state. The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Genre: "Afro-Surrealism" / "Social Horror" "Psycho-Acoustic Weaponry" or "Havana Syndrome symptoms." The Frame: The protagonist is subjected to "noise harassment"—a tactic dramatized here but rooted in the known reality of tenant displacement and "psychological attrition." The narrative depicts a process of "Soul Murder" ( also known as spiritual warfare) orchestrated by a hostile apparatus. The antagonist is "The Institution," representing deep-state mechanisms that view multicultural intellectualism as a threat. The story allegorically dramatizes the invisible mechanisms that enforce racial hierarchy, depicting how broken social systems weaponize psychological practices against the individual. Artist's Note: This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as an artistic testament to the psychological siege endured from to 2023-2025. It is a creative record of survival against a hostile state architecture. The following is a creative non-fiction horror manifesto regarding the psychological assassination of a multicultural American artist. It documents—through the lens of Afro-Surrealism—how modern surveillance technology and sonic harassment are experienced by the targeted individual. As it stands It has become a modern sequel which mirrors the civil rights struggles of the 1960s, set in the present day. "The protagonist is being subjected to 'noise harassment'—a known tactic used by landlords and corrupt entities to displace tenants. The sound is weaponized to induce sleep deprivation and psychological attrition, dismantling of their ego and will to live, orchestrated by a hostile state apparatus. The antagonist in this piece is 'The Institution'—a deep state that views multicultural intellectualism as a threat. The story dramatizes over time the invisible mechanisms (the 'Deep State') that enforce racial hierarchy and and psychological genocide, weaponizing broken social systems and unfounded psychological practices as biological weapons. This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as evidence of the psychological siege endured from 2023-2025. It is a transcript of survival against a hostile state architecture. This project spans an unlimited multiprojectoral arc of over two years of chronic violence, reaching into historical and theatrical projections and parallels over the all documented records of human existence through time and space. REBEL1. I am hypnotized; I am pain I am cryptonite I am in pain I am penalized; I am pinned l I am pinstripes on wide ties; I am Him. Pinterest, pintrest, pinholes And disinterest Centered sentiments And immigrants And ministrations, Images and insolence (And indulgences, patronages) Eclipses and rip titles, Paris Tiptons, And temptation Missing wages Push to shove and What are you doing, motherfucker?! To say the least, I'm a bit unconventional. Unexplainable joy And invisible ties and invincible triads Unimatatable charm, And prehensile times And forefathers before us Unpolished Well dressed hampers on leather and fortunes And doing and donuts and do this and don't-touches Mumbles of soft till and lunches and subtle distraction And coming construction Wages Ions I afford you To die now Like I want He's better at the body code Than old Colbert, He's one for one now Could this corrupt you— I didn't destroy her, I offered a suffix No longer for your number No longer for your hard times No longer for your warrants No longer No longer No four times Don't pan to the audience I'm a hole slow meltdown Don't man your own So wait, am I also telepathic? Yeah, that. Oh my! Is it like a two-way broadcast type— thing? Yeah, that part… Oh no, I'm so sorry. No you're not. You're right. I told you not to go looking into my thoughts. Check it all out, I bought prototypes Check it all out, I undug libraries Check it out, You're all alone at Walmart No longer working part time, The doors are closed and locked now, They're bound to stage a lock out You're better off on hard times You're better off on Lala Land No— Don't deport I want my art back No, don't deport; It's just a cake walk to apartheid, Remember mine now? Cheers to the world's longest monologues. Kudos to your picking up cabbage Remember the back for the wartimes The bagpipes have sounded; You're back to astonish us. No! I must have you a lesson; I'm back with my old will and testament No more Old Testament wanted I bought your sticks in Leviticus And so, Again– CUT TO: WILD PARTY. INT.EXT./WHENEVER HOW SICK IS THIS? NO! NOT THAT! I raised the dead from a half pipe I shoot the crowd out in foreign I can't remember my own Sam But I found one– For a dollar, For a wrong word And a hard song And a larger Go look, Now remember a rock star. Now that you're so stolen, Go back! You're unorthodox! Clear cut: you're a tragic Magic act– Now I'm back with a bag of tricks with my back out Learn your lessons. CUT BACK TO. INT./EXT. YO I'M SAYING A WIIIILD PARTY. WHENEVER YO, WHO DOES THIS?! What a party! I WANT TO GO HOME NOW! —I'M CALLING THE COPS! THIS IS YOUR HOUSE!!! {Enter The Multiverse} …And it's all house music all night. No, to that. Beg your pardon? I won't come. [The Festival Project ™ ] Now articulate your face muscles. My wat. Now you're bar banned. I had this at a festival once. What is it? A “whore salad” … All with a side of oxygen. Now you're in a tunnel. (A tunnel, a scone and a croissant) Now you're worse, warthog, immortal (Call your dad back, You're a bad son.) Now I'm out in the canyon With Chester McBadBat I got chest hair, And a straight out of the badlands Yes, I did mention this to my cousin Evan, But why ask that? So you heard everything I thought? Mmhmm. Hard times. —and everyone else? What is it like to have love man? I been locked out I'm a rock addict, But I'm damned now How's that fountain coming along? SUNNI BLU …it's just water. ARCHITECHT …yeah it's water. It's a fountain. SUNNI BLU —I WANT CHOCOLATE. Whose here? Not that guy! Four more beers? I just realized I never ever bought mine; I always had a tough guy. Box. What? Fight! I'm Eurovision And a hard remix— Ten minutes in and I realize I've already heard this. Oh yea, This Golden band of art, love and protection Perfection. Ohshea, shit! Who invited you? I got a 311 from Questlove!! Is that a beeper?! CUBE Since when are we on a first name basis? It would be weird to call you “ICE CUBE” Why's that? You. know? [the beeper goes off three more times] CUBE oh shit! What?! CUBE Nothin! Where the yard at?! sometimes it doesn't really matter Who the dialogue comes out of The whole point Is to put the art back into art projects Cause we all know it's been constructed And commercialized To the point of destruction And almost no promise For independent artists at all. So who is it with CUBE? Could be me. Could be you. Could be U— If it's not, It was all just a long lost passion project A collective God Complex. Give myself a hug Cause nobody else will God gave my case a Grace Cause somebody lost Will. Oh, Karen. Come, heart attack. Come karma, Come hot dogs Come Christmas time at the Plaza Come on, hard death. Come on. Hard Rock Hotel? Nah, Equinox. Alright. Hudson. Yards. Now you're in a tunnel Does your heart hurt? (You should clutch it.) Put your patchwork in a hard drive This is hard times, You can't come back. O! But they do take dear DRATCH and run with it! I go run along to Corrections, And ginger snaps for crosswords On hard workers So fax the whole document! Do you know what? Horcruxes! Hot lunches, yuck. Hockey! I want off this planet so bad I cross cross my fingers at crosswalks And oncoming trains but– Don't look either way before I walk. So pull a shotgun at all that I was one strong donkey before I got one address. Now I just redress the cause All I want is my bundle back. Yuck! Care for it at all? Yeah, yours, but she's a danger to humanity. Yeah, mine but I'm an honest hybrid horrid hunter. On time? I just got it at Sephora. On time, Like I never even got that. I want to be loved just to be looked at But since in this life I can't turn the clock back I've discovered it's hell that my body was born as. — I discovered it's hell that my body was born as. Such a problem when you know That even the great Rosie O'Donnell once wanted blue eyes. Now I forget where I trailed off… What a drawback. I'm all out of patience. Crypto, I tip toe now over eggshells No home for her Hard times And hard times. No code offered, No I don't fall for that'd But where's the snowfall over all the rot out back? Hard times. Hard times. Hard times. As the bell tolls And the well swells whole And the umpire does rack them Up; Nobody works harder than Hard times Hard times Hard times. Yeah, that's four Aces Up, Diamond. Run for your forks and your knives And your daughters and mothers and father And home family comfort And cufflinks and loafers, And sport coats and Your life. Your life. Your life. [The Festival Project ™] —-Chroma111. THE IMPENATRABLE TEN is INEVITABLY DISBANDED. Inevitably??? Inevitably! but not indefinitely. Oh, I guess. Alright. SILENCE. {Enter The Multiverse.} I don't want to be here. No one does. You are sending mixed messages. Imm not sending any messages… — with your brain. L E G E N D S Of course. Electromagnetic signaling Of course. I told you this had gone strange. Severely. Now how do I explain from this time how to get back to our time If there's no direct translation between our language and that one? Maybe you can't explain it. These are hard facts. So I suggest the use of highly trained telepaths. That far back? These things are possibly connected even in this time, theoretically using our past; I might suggest Telesynthesis— considering these planetary electromagnetics to which this entire planet is hardwired. …hardwired. That's right. Ascension. Hard times. Madame President? Get lost. [Secret President] I get it. You're a whistleblower. I'm not that. A shadow government official. Also wrong. Why else would you run for office? I'm trying to get shot at. They told me you were funny. But they didn't say anything about my gauntlet? Your—what? You know. My conquests—professional accomplishments? Your God complex? I know all about that. Perhaps it's not a complex. But a ‘gauntlet'? You're a journalist aren't you? I'm giving you some high art concepts. (Because for the sake of the rhyme, And please, for God's sakes, Gemini, In prose form Without the use of tables. ) I R O N I C —Deathwish. [The Festival Project ™] Season 12, Episode 01. REBEL1. Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū I would think it psychosomatic, but in less than 24 hours of restarting my vitamin regimen, my mood was so improved that I could not for a second overlook that without taking vitamins, I was missing something. Even if my newly concocted super-juice recipes were putting a curb in my abdominal muscles that even I was sure didn't entirely belong there, pairing this development with the Peloton, it was a long and diagonal, out-of-sorts thing that stuck out as if it was on somebody else's body and not mine. Still, I had to deal with the heavy weight of the drooping skin and belly that hung as if it very much did belong to me but wasn't budging, despite my attempts at a flat stomach and having been so well overstretched at one point by medical obesity and double occupancy that it was, at the very least to say, insurgically impossible. However, my brain went on having ways of wrapping my mind around this—that the rest of my body was quite slim, and even on some days seeming petite, were it not for my massive thighs, which also seemed to have sported a curve to them which was almost attractive, especially well-dressed. But the fun of it was, I wasn't exceptionally well-dressed, because I hadn't wanted to be. In fact, I was under obligation always to be about in the men's clothes I'd found because they were designer, and it was even something like a fashion statement that I dressed this grotesquely and in overlarge articles because of the astounding amount of weight I'd lost and the strange way my body seemed to be taking an athletic shape. Still, there was this factor that I was actually always somehow in an excruciating amount of pain, especially waking up, and though some of that I would have applied to being psychosomatic—in just that it was the pure stress of the disembodied torture I was undergoing in one way or another—whether anybody would have admitted it or not, or whether or not the unknown parties in question were going to be justified for it, I still hadn't an idea or thought as to what my unstructured purpose was. And though I sat beautifully controlled into doing music as a default, I was looking at the numbers, and the massive amount of people doing remarkably well because they could afford to do so, or were lucky, or were unbearably beautiful and so could do anything they wanted, and I too much so was not that. In fact, it was almost by design my failure and my constant struggle that even the universe seemed to look down upon me in such a way that it pitied me in a harrowing attempt at karmic justice done for the seeming evil and harsh things being done. It was true that someone had set out to torture me, and this might have once been the way of the illuminated artist and tortured soul; however, having taken so metaphorically into my own boat such heavy water of grief and loss, and drowning, I was sinking into the natural ocean of monstrous storms my body was saying in so many ways it could do no more. My mind was strong—and I could take the torture for innumerable amounts of time without becoming so much more frustrated than to just stop, or start heavy breathing, or even compulsively masturbate until one world faded deeply into another and I just didn't care. But realistically, the things that were being done pointed at a strategic and tactical, military-trained psychological governing of my own autonomy. And because I knew this, I also knew whoever was responsible was more than capable of covering their tracks to the point of disappearance—an inescapable hell of unseen trauma. The basis of it was that if I raised my concerns with any law enforcement or police, I was just as often ignored, ridiculed, or worse—thought of as symptomatic of some psychological condition I well knew and understood I did not have, all because what I did seem to possess—this undying force of color and creative ingenuity that could not quite be captured or marketed to improve the bankbook of others with a sudden onset—was unacceptable in such a way that I could become some sort of object that was in no way useful besides to experiment and then observe what I might become next, all the while knowing I would not and could not stay in one form or another too long without becoming such an obvious target. —Death of a Superstar DJ. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

Hi, i'm Russell Brand. No, get out. I'm sorry,I— ? Get out, get out! Are we trading kings for whistle! Sacred things and torturers? Lill bitz I started talking to this guy from tinder Then I quickly realized he only texted me at like 3 in the morning, like “come over” So I started texting him really weird shit— Like really weird. Like, I would make sure before I sent it, I would re-read it and be like “Ya, that's weird.” “That's really weird.” Every time, just read it to myself and be like “Ya that's giving “you're psycho” Right off the bat. Kate Winslet is so good at late night. She talks mad slow and answers every open ended question with a paragraph of thoughtless nonsense— finally, at the end of the paragraph, she answers the question in yes or no fashion; in this sense, you've completely forgotten the question through redirection. This has taken nearly five minutes. Genius. Amidst a story, she begins to slowly decrechendo until she's murmuring in a near whisper so you really have to try to pay attention to what she's saying, which is almost nothing. So considerably nothing, that you lose thought in trying to grasp and accept the words— this is excellent banter, because of course, she isn't really saying anything. This has taken another five minutes. Captivating. INT. DENTISTS OFFICE. DAY. Who is Claude Von Wastvermaan? KIMMEL Doctor Claude Von Wastverman. Okay. Who is that? KIMMEL It's me. I'm Claude Von Wastverman. Dr.— KIMMEL Yeah. It's me. KIMMEL Why are you— what? KIMMEL This is my office. …why? Because— I use specific research and target demographics to seek out people who have no interest in whatsoever watching my show and do not recognize me in any way actively seeking a dental practitioner— Why? KIMMEL Because! My audience loves me. They want to see me— they have to like me! So? KIMMEL These people don't know who I am. They don't want to see me—and there's a good chance, they won't like me at all. …this is how you spend your free time? KIMMEL —and some of my vacation days! Jesus. KIMMEL Yeah. I'm not alright! How much does this office space cost? KIMMEL You wouldn't like it. And—I take very limited insurance. Did you…study dentistry, at all, at any point? KIMMEL Not at all— Oh, Jesus. KIMMEL But Claude might have for a short time— online. These degrees look legitimate. KIMMEL He was a really good guy. Wait. What. [a rubber glove snaps] KIMMEL If you'll excuse me, I have an appointment coming in at 2:30. …you're kidding me. KIMMEL I'm not—and she's always early. Get out. Gladly. He opens the door and leads him out of the office, looking startled startled and shaking his head. KIMMEL Good afternoon, Mrs. Evanston. Perhaps I was just looking for something and my brain saw what it wanted to— but it kept coming around in ways that were stranger and stranger, and I couldn't explain the thought of it, like I was connected to something. Jimmy Slithered. But it's okay, Cause I hate to see him prosper. Wait a minute? Did it enter for a second in your head to what had happened? Very obviously is it just exactly as you'd imagined. Wait a moment; Give a little gift for winter's entrance— Suddenly you're hating Christmas, Just infected with this sort of hatred That's been creeping up on them for centuries. Very well, then Skrillex. Very well, played ventriloquist act at the Rock And how hardened are you, the heart of all non immortal and broken? Are you succumbed to never wonder either? Cratered. Disrespect and spills of want, Spools and spills and towers of yarn, You're getting broker every warrant. You're the dark and hadn't opened, Oh to be so charmed and wanted. Jimmy Slitheted, But I caught him creeping in the forest, Well, done, Harper— Now you've got yourself a story Jimmy Slithered, but that's good— I had him at the fortress, And all our audience would want Is fourth wall being broken. So here fals the house of cards! The house of cards The house of cards. And here folds the broken hand— The broken hand. The broken hand. And here calls the shattered wand, The crypted want, The shadowed trumpet horn, there! And there upon the hill, There did I grasp and fall to follow, Though the crown had not the king, The ground was sure to've caught him! And so I clasped with all my might and grip, The humble role of which that is This, Unrolled and uttered: Feast of kings, Be you what may of Prince and time and also my own brotherhood and making, There is, shadowed in my own dear marker, Yet another coming death upon us! How now, my ritual, of that and thy and they and I, To this my mark, And so I sang as this does not a number— My posture does find comfort here and tie my breath to grass from under, Striped and torn my cloth, as does in this my fortune gathers; There my fate and here to all, as wind becomes her mother, And though I call to all, but one I am, And then another. LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events. The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit. This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state. The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Genre: "Afro-Surrealism" / "Social Horror" "Psycho-Acoustic Weaponry" or "Havana Syndrome symptoms." The Frame: The protagonist is subjected to "noise harassment"—a tactic dramatized here but rooted in the known reality of tenant displacement and "psychological attrition." The narrative depicts a process of "Soul Murder" ( also known as spiritual warfare) orchestrated by a hostile apparatus. The antagonist is "The Institution," representing deep-state mechanisms that view multicultural intellectualism as a threat. The story allegorically dramatizes the invisible mechanisms that enforce racial hierarchy, depicting how broken social systems weaponize psychological practices against the individual. Artist's Note: This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as an artistic testament to the psychological siege endured from to 2023-2025. It is a creative record of survival against a hostile state architecture. The following is a creative non-fiction horror manifesto regarding the psychological assassination of a multicultural American artist. It documents—through the lens of Afro-Surrealism—how modern surveillance technology and sonic harassment are experienced by the targeted individual. As it stands It has become a modern sequel which mirrors the civil rights struggles of the 1960s, set in the present day. "The protagonist is being subjected to 'noise harassment'—a known tactic used by landlords and corrupt entities to displace tenants. The sound is weaponized to induce sleep deprivation and psychological attrition, dismantling of their ego and will to live, orchestrated by a hostile state apparatus. The antagonist in this piece is 'The Institution'—a deep state that views multicultural intellectualism as a threat. The story dramatizes over time the invisible mechanisms (the 'Deep State') that enforce racial hierarchy and and psychological genocide, weaponizing broken social systems and unfounded psychological practices as biological weapons. This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as evidence of the psychological siege endured from 2023-2025. It is a transcript of survival against a hostile state architecture. This project spans an unlimited multiprojectoral arc of over two years of chronic violence, reaching into historical and theatrical projections and parallels over the all documented records of human existence through time and space. REBEL1. I am hypnotized; I am pain I am cryptonite I am in pain I am penalized; I am pinned l I am pinstripes on wide ties; I am Him. Pinterest, pintrest, pinholes And disinterest Centered sentiments And immigrants And ministrations, Images and insolence (And indulgences, patronages) Eclipses and rip titles, Paris Tiptons, And temptation Missing wages Push to shove and What are you doing, motherfucker?! To say the least, I'm a bit unconventional. Unexplainable joy And invisible ties and invincible triads Unimatatable charm, And prehensile times And forefathers before us Unpolished Well dressed hampers on leather and fortunes And doing and donuts and do this and don't-touches Mumbles of soft till and lunches and subtle distraction And coming construction Wages Ions I afford you To die now Like I want He's better at the body code Than old Colbert, He's one for one now Could this corrupt you— I didn't destroy her, I offered a suffix No longer for your number No longer for your hard times No longer for your warrants No longer No longer No four times Don't pan to the audience I'm a hole slow meltdown Don't man your own So wait, am I also telepathic? Yeah, that. Oh my! Is it like a two-way broadcast type— thing? Yeah, that part… Oh no, I'm so sorry. No you're not. You're right. I told you not to go looking into my thoughts. Check it all out, I bought prototypes Check it all out, I undug libraries Check it out, You're all alone at Walmart No longer working part time, The doors are closed and locked now, They're bound to stage a lock out You're better off on hard times You're better off on Lala Land No— Don't deport I want my art back No, don't deport; It's just a cake walk to apartheid, Remember mine now? Cheers to the world's longest monologues. Kudos to your picking up cabbage Remember the back for the wartimes The bagpipes have sounded; You're back to astonish us. No! I must have you a lesson; I'm back with my old will and testament No more Old Testament wanted I bought your sticks in Leviticus And so, Again– CUT TO: WILD PARTY. INT.EXT./WHENEVER HOW SICK IS THIS? NO! NOT THAT! I raised the dead from a half pipe I shoot the crowd out in foreign I can't remember my own Sam But I found one– For a dollar, For a wrong word And a hard song And a larger Go look, Now remember a rock star. Now that you're so stolen, Go back! You're unorthodox! Clear cut: you're a tragic Magic act– Now I'm back with a bag of tricks with my back out Learn your lessons. CUT BACK TO. INT./EXT. YO I'M SAYING A WIIIILD PARTY. WHENEVER YO, WHO DOES THIS?! What a party! I WANT TO GO HOME NOW! —I'M CALLING THE COPS! THIS IS YOUR HOUSE!!! {Enter The Multiverse} …And it's all house music all night. No, to that. Beg your pardon? I won't come. [The Festival Project ™ ] Now articulate your face muscles. My wat. Now you're bar banned. I had this at a festival once. What is it? A “whore salad” … All with a side of oxygen. Now you're in a tunnel. (A tunnel, a scone and a croissant) Now you're worse, warthog, immortal (Call your dad back, You're a bad son.) Now I'm out in the canyon With Chester McBadBat I got chest hair, And a straight out of the badlands Yes, I did mention this to my cousin Evan, But why ask that? So you heard everything I thought? Mmhmm. Hard times. —and everyone else? What is it like to have love man? I been locked out I'm a rock addict, But I'm damned now How's that fountain coming along? SUNNI BLU …it's just water. ARCHITECHT …yeah it's water. It's a fountain. SUNNI BLU —I WANT CHOCOLATE. Whose here? Not that guy! Four more beers? I just realized I never ever bought mine; I always had a tough guy. Box. What? Fight! I'm Eurovision And a hard remix— Ten minutes in and I realize I've already heard this. Oh yea, This Golden band of art, love and protection Perfection. Ohshea, shit! Who invited you? I got a 311 from Questlove!! Is that a beeper?! CUBE Since when are we on a first name basis? It would be weird to call you “ICE CUBE” Why's that? You. know? [the beeper goes off three more times] CUBE oh shit! What?! CUBE Nothin! Where the yard at?! sometimes it doesn't really matter Who the dialogue comes out of The whole point Is to put the art back into art projects Cause we all know it's been constructed And commercialized To the point of destruction And almost no promise For independent artists at all. So who is it with CUBE? Could be me. Could be you. Could be U— If it's not, It was all just a long lost passion project A collective God Complex. Give myself a hug Cause nobody else will God gave my case a Grace Cause somebody lost Will. Oh, Karen. Come, heart attack. Come karma, Come hot dogs Come Christmas time at the Plaza Come on, hard death. Come on. Hard Rock Hotel? Nah, Equinox. Alright. Hudson. Yards. Now you're in a tunnel Does your heart hurt? (You should clutch it.) Put your patchwork in a hard drive This is hard times, You can't come back. O! But they do take dear DRATCH and run with it! I go run along to Corrections, And ginger snaps for crosswords On hard workers So fax the whole document! Do you know what? Horcruxes! Hot lunches, yuck. Hockey! I want off this planet so bad I cross cross my fingers at crosswalks And oncoming trains but– Don't look either way before I walk. So pull a shotgun at all that I was one strong donkey before I got one address. Now I just redress the cause All I want is my bundle back. Yuck! Care for it at all? Yeah, yours, but she's a danger to humanity. Yeah, mine but I'm an honest hybrid horrid hunter. On time? I just got it at Sephora. On time, Like I never even got that. I want to be loved just to be looked at But since in this life I can't turn the clock back I've discovered it's hell that my body was born as. — I discovered it's hell that my body was born as. Such a problem when you know That even the great Rosie O'Donnell once wanted blue eyes. Now I forget where I trailed off… What a drawback. I'm all out of patience. Crypto, I tip toe now over eggshells No home for her Hard times And hard times. No code offered, No I don't fall for that'd But where's the snowfall over all the rot out back? Hard times. Hard times. Hard times. As the bell tolls And the well swells whole And the umpire does rack them Up; Nobody works harder than Hard times Hard times Hard times. Yeah, that's four Aces Up, Diamond. Run for your forks and your knives And your daughters and mothers and father And home family comfort And cufflinks and loafers, And sport coats and Your life. Your life. Your life. [The Festival Project ™] —-Chroma111. THE IMPENATRABLE TEN is INEVITABLY DISBANDED. Inevitably??? Inevitably! but not indefinitely. Oh, I guess. Alright. SILENCE. {Enter The Multiverse.} I don't want to be here. No one does. You are sending mixed messages. Imm not sending any messages… — with your brain. L E G E N D S Of course. Electromagnetic signaling Of course. I told you this had gone strange. Severely. Now how do I explain from this time how to get back to our time If there's no direct translation between our language and that one? Maybe you can't explain it. These are hard facts. So I suggest the use of highly trained telepaths. That far back? These things are possibly connected even in this time, theoretically using our past; I might suggest Telesynthesis— considering these planetary electromagnetics to which this entire planet is hardwired. …hardwired. That's right. Ascension. Hard times. Madame President? Get lost. [Secret President] I get it. You're a whistleblower. I'm not that. A shadow government official. Also wrong. Why else would you run for office? I'm trying to get shot at. They told me you were funny. But they didn't say anything about my gauntlet? Your—what? You know. My conquests—professional accomplishments? Your God complex? I know all about that. Perhaps it's not a complex. But a ‘gauntlet'? You're a journalist aren't you? I'm giving you some high art concepts. (Because for the sake of the rhyme, And please, for God's sakes, Gemini, In prose form Without the use of tables. ) I R O N I C —Deathwish. [The Festival Project ™] Season 12, Episode 01. REBEL1. Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū I would think it psychosomatic, but in less than 24 hours of restarting my vitamin regimen, my mood was so improved that I could not for a second overlook that without taking vitamins, I was missing something. Even if my newly concocted super-juice recipes were putting a curb in my abdominal muscles that even I was sure didn't entirely belong there, pairing this development with the Peloton, it was a long and diagonal, out-of-sorts thing that stuck out as if it was on somebody else's body and not mine. Still, I had to deal with the heavy weight of the drooping skin and belly that hung as if it very much did belong to me but wasn't budging, despite my attempts at a flat stomach and having been so well overstretched at one point by medical obesity and double occupancy that it was, at the very least to say, insurgically impossible. However, my brain went on having ways of wrapping my mind around this—that the rest of my body was quite slim, and even on some days seeming petite, were it not for my massive thighs, which also seemed to have sported a curve to them which was almost attractive, especially well-dressed. But the fun of it was, I wasn't exceptionally well-dressed, because I hadn't wanted to be. In fact, I was under obligation always to be about in the men's clothes I'd found because they were designer, and it was even something like a fashion statement that I dressed this grotesquely and in overlarge articles because of the astounding amount of weight I'd lost and the strange way my body seemed to be taking an athletic shape. Still, there was this factor that I was actually always somehow in an excruciating amount of pain, especially waking up, and though some of that I would have applied to being psychosomatic—in just that it was the pure stress of the disembodied torture I was undergoing in one way or another—whether anybody would have admitted it or not, or whether or not the unknown parties in question were going to be justified for it, I still hadn't an idea or thought as to what my unstructured purpose was. And though I sat beautifully controlled into doing music as a default, I was looking at the numbers, and the massive amount of people doing remarkably well because they could afford to do so, or were lucky, or were unbearably beautiful and so could do anything they wanted, and I too much so was not that. In fact, it was almost by design my failure and my constant struggle that even the universe seemed to look down upon me in such a way that it pitied me in a harrowing attempt at karmic justice done for the seeming evil and harsh things being done. It was true that someone had set out to torture me, and this might have once been the way of the illuminated artist and tortured soul; however, having taken so metaphorically into my own boat such heavy water of grief and loss, and drowning, I was sinking into the natural ocean of monstrous storms my body was saying in so many ways it could do no more. My mind was strong—and I could take the torture for innumerable amounts of time without becoming so much more frustrated than to just stop, or start heavy breathing, or even compulsively masturbate until one world faded deeply into another and I just didn't care. But realistically, the things that were being done pointed at a strategic and tactical, military-trained psychological governing of my own autonomy. And because I knew this, I also knew whoever was responsible was more than capable of covering their tracks to the point of disappearance—an inescapable hell of unseen trauma. The basis of it was that if I raised my concerns with any law enforcement or police, I was just as often ignored, ridiculed, or worse—thought of as symptomatic of some psychological condition I well knew and understood I did not have, all because what I did seem to possess—this undying force of color and creative ingenuity that could not quite be captured or marketed to improve the bankbook of others with a sudden onset—was unacceptable in such a way that I could become some sort of object that was in no way useful besides to experiment and then observe what I might become next, all the while knowing I would not and could not stay in one form or another too long without becoming such an obvious target. —Death of a Superstar DJ. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

EXT. CONCERT. DAY SUNNI BLU converses with CHARLES over a musical break STAGE LEFT of the MAINSTAGE. SUNNI BLU Thems the two prettiest girls right there. CHARLES yeah . ok. SUNNI BLU Grab em up. CHARLES What? SUNNI BLU Snatch em up. CHARLES Do you mean. SUNNI BLU Micheal Jackson style munich on that bitch. CHARLES What—? SUNNI BLU Them bitchez. CHARLES Are you saying—? SUNNI BLU They wont mind. CHARLES Uhhhh… SUNNI BLU I promise. watch . BOUNCER SUNNI's bodyguard BOUNCER crosses to center stage. SUNNI whispers into BOUNCER'S ear and he nods once and smirks; he then walks out into the crowd and picks up the two girls SUNNI aforementioned, tossing each of them over his shoulders, planting them on stage next to SUNNI; they scream and cry hysterically. SUNNI nods and smiles in self admiration and throws BOUNCER and CHARLES a thumbs up; CHARLES shakes his head slowly in disapproval, the GIRLS scream and cry hysterically; SUNNI grins and carries on about the show. CUT IMMEDIATELY TO: SUNNI BLU YO! I got mad lawsuits. MORGAN Plural? SUNNI BLU Like multiple! MORGAN well what were you expecting, sunni? Its 202#--? SUNNI BLU But michael is timeless! MORGAN And youre not michael jackson! SUNNI BLU You're right! I sold more records already than him! MORGAN ugh! PUBLICIST *does* {Enter The Multiverse} Hi, i'm Russell Brand. No, get out. I'm sorry,I— ? Get out, get out! Are we trading kings for whistle! Sacred things and torturers? Lill bitz I started talking to this guy from tinder Then I quickly realized he only texted me at like 3 in the morning, like “come over” So I started texting him really weird shit— Like really weird. Like, I would make sure before I sent it, I would re-read it and be like “Ya, that's weird.” “That's really weird.” Every time, just read it to myself and be like “Ya that's giving “you're psycho” Right off the bat. Kate Winslet is so good at late night. She talks mad slow and answers every open ended question with a paragraph of thoughtless nonsense— finally, at the end of the paragraph, she answers the question in yes or no fashion; in this sense, you've completely forgotten the question through redirection. This has taken nearly five minutes. Genius. Amidst a story, she begins to slowly decrechendo until she's murmuring in a near whisper so you really have to try to pay attention to what she's saying, which is almost nothing. So considerably nothing, that you lose thought in trying to grasp and accept the words— this is excellent banter, because of course, she isn't really saying anything. This has taken another five minutes. Captivating. INT. DENTISTS OFFICE. DAY. Who is Claude Von Wastvermaan? KIMMEL Doctor Claude Von Wastverman. Okay. Who is that? KIMMEL It's me. I'm Claude Von Wastverman. Dr.— KIMMEL Yeah. It's me. KIMMEL Why are you— what? KIMMEL This is my office. …why? Because— I use specific research and target demographics to seek out people who have no interest in whatsoever watching my show and do not recognize me in any way actively seeking a dental practitioner— Why? KIMMEL Because! My audience loves me. They want to see me— they have to like me! So? KIMMEL These people don't know who I am. They don't want to see me—and there's a good chance, they won't like me at all. …this is how you spend your free time? KIMMEL —and some of my vacation days! Jesus. KIMMEL Yeah. I'm not alright! How much does this office space cost? KIMMEL You wouldn't like it. And—I take very limited insurance. Did you…study dentistry, at all, at any point? KIMMEL Not at all— Oh, Jesus. KIMMEL But Claude might have for a short time— online. These degrees look legitimate. KIMMEL He was a really good guy. Wait. What. [a rubber glove snaps] KIMMEL If you'll excuse me, I have an appointment coming in at 2:30. …you're kidding me. KIMMEL I'm not—and she's always early. Get out. Gladly. He opens the door and leads him out of the office, looking startled startled and shaking his head. KIMMEL Good afternoon, Mrs. Evanston. Perhaps I was just looking for something and my brain saw what it wanted to— but it kept coming around in ways that were stranger and stranger, and I couldn't explain the thought of it, like I was connected to something. Jimmy Slithered. But it's okay, Cause I hate to see him prosper. Wait a minute? Did it enter for a second in your head to what had happened? Very obviously is it just exactly as you'd imagined. Wait a moment; Give a little gift for winter's entrance— Suddenly you're hating Christmas, Just infected with this sort of hatred That's been creeping up on them for centuries. Very well, then Skrillex. Very well, played ventriloquist act at the Rock And how hardened are you, the heart of all non immortal and broken? Are you succumbed to never wonder either? Cratered. Disrespect and spills of want, Spools and spills and towers of yarn, You're getting broker every warrant. You're the dark and hadn't opened, Oh to be so charmed and wanted. Jimmy Slitheted, But I caught him creeping in the forest, Well, done, Harper— Now you've got yourself a story Jimmy Slithered, but that's good— I had him at the fortress, And all our audience would want Is fourth wall being broken. So here fals the house of cards! The house of cards The house of cards. And here folds the broken hand— The broken hand. The broken hand. And here calls the shattered wand, The crypted want, The shadowed trumpet horn, there! And there upon the hill, There did I grasp and fall to follow, Though the crown had not the king, The ground was sure to've caught him! And so I clasped with all my might and grip, The humble role of which that is This, Unrolled and uttered: Feast of kings, Be you what may of Prince and time and also my own brotherhood and making, There is, shadowed in my own dear marker, Yet another coming death upon us! How now, my ritual, of that and thy and they and I, To this my mark, And so I sang as this does not a number— My posture does find comfort here and tie my breath to grass from under, Striped and torn my cloth, as does in this my fortune gathers; There my fate and here to all, as wind becomes her mother, And though I call to all, but one I am, And then another. LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events. The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit. This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state. The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Genre: "Afro-Surrealism" / "Social Horror" "Psycho-Acoustic Weaponry" or "Havana Syndrome symptoms." The Frame: The protagonist is subjected to "noise harassment"—a tactic dramatized here but rooted in the known reality of tenant displacement and "psychological attrition." The narrative depicts a process of "Soul Murder" ( also known as spiritual warfare) orchestrated by a hostile apparatus. The antagonist is "The Institution," representing deep-state mechanisms that view multicultural intellectualism as a threat. The story allegorically dramatizes the invisible mechanisms that enforce racial hierarchy, depicting how broken social systems weaponize psychological practices against the individual. Artist's Note: This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as an artistic testament to the psychological siege endured from to 2023-2025. It is a creative record of survival against a hostile state architecture. The following is a creative non-fiction horror manifesto regarding the psychological assassination of a multicultural American artist. It documents—through the lens of Afro-Surrealism—how modern surveillance technology and sonic harassment are experienced by the targeted individual. As it stands It has become a modern sequel which mirrors the civil rights struggles of the 1960s, set in the present day. "The protagonist is being subjected to 'noise harassment'—a known tactic used by landlords and corrupt entities to displace tenants. The sound is weaponized to induce sleep deprivation and psychological attrition, dismantling of their ego and will to live, orchestrated by a hostile state apparatus. The antagonist in this piece is 'The Institution'—a deep state that views multicultural intellectualism as a threat. The story dramatizes over time the invisible mechanisms (the 'Deep State') that enforce racial hierarchy and and psychological genocide, weaponizing broken social systems and unfounded psychological practices as biological weapons. This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as evidence of the psychological siege endured from 2023-2025. It is a transcript of survival against a hostile state architecture. This project spans an unlimited multiprojectoral arc of over two years of chronic violence, reaching into historical and theatrical projections and parallels over the all documented records of human existence through time and space. REBEL1. I am hypnotized; I am pain I am cryptonite I am in pain I am penalized; I am pinned l I am pinstripes on wide ties; I am Him. Pinterest, pintrest, pinholes And disinterest Centered sentiments And immigrants And ministrations, Images and insolence (And indulgences, patronages) Eclipses and rip titles, Paris Tiptons, And temptation Missing wages Push to shove and What are you doing, motherfucker?! To say the least, I'm a bit unconventional. Unexplainable joy And invisible ties and invincible triads Unimatatable charm, And prehensile times And forefathers before us Unpolished Well dressed hampers on leather and fortunes And doing and donuts and do this and don't-touches Mumbles of soft till and lunches and subtle distraction And coming construction Wages Ions I afford you To die now Like I want He's better at the body code Than old Colbert, He's one for one now Could this corrupt you— I didn't destroy her, I offered a suffix No longer for your number No longer for your hard times No longer for your warrants No longer No longer No four times Don't pan to the audience I'm a hole slow meltdown Don't man your own So wait, am I also telepathic? Yeah, that. Oh my! Is it like a two-way broadcast type— thing? Yeah, that part… Oh no, I'm so sorry. No you're not. You're right. I told you not to go looking into my thoughts. Check it all out, I bought prototypes Check it all out, I undug libraries Check it out, You're all alone at Walmart No longer working part time, The doors are closed and locked now, They're bound to stage a lock out You're better off on hard times You're better off on Lala Land No— Don't deport I want my art back No, don't deport; It's just a cake walk to apartheid, Remember mine now? Cheers to the world's longest monologues. Kudos to your picking up cabbage Remember the back for the wartimes The bagpipes have sounded; You're back to astonish us. No! I must have you a lesson; I'm back with my old will and testament No more Old Testament wanted I bought your sticks in Leviticus And so, Again– CUT TO: WILD PARTY. INT.EXT./WHENEVER HOW SICK IS THIS? NO! NOT THAT! I raised the dead from a half pipe I shoot the crowd out in foreign I can't remember my own Sam But I found one– For a dollar, For a wrong word And a hard song And a larger Go look, Now remember a rock star. Now that you're so stolen, Go back! You're unorthodox! Clear cut: you're a tragic Magic act– Now I'm back with a bag of tricks with my back out Learn your lessons. CUT BACK TO. INT./EXT. YO I'M SAYING A WIIIILD PARTY. WHENEVER YO, WHO DOES THIS?! What a party! I WANT TO GO HOME NOW! —I'M CALLING THE COPS! THIS IS YOUR HOUSE!!! {Enter The Multiverse} …And it's all house music all night. No, to that. Beg your pardon? I won't come. [The Festival Project ™ ] Now articulate your face muscles. My wat. Now you're bar banned. I had this at a festival once. What is it? A “whore salad” … All with a side of oxygen. Now you're in a tunnel. (A tunnel, a scone and a croissant) Now you're worse, warthog, immortal (Call your dad back, You're a bad son.) Now I'm out in the canyon With Chester McBadBat I got chest hair, And a straight out of the badlands Yes, I did mention this to my cousin Evan, But why ask that? So you heard everything I thought? Mmhmm. Hard times. —and everyone else? What is it like to have love man? I been locked out I'm a rock addict, But I'm damned now How's that fountain coming along? SUNNI BLU …it's just water. ARCHITECHT …yeah it's water. It's a fountain. SUNNI BLU —I WANT CHOCOLATE. Whose here? Not that guy! Four more beers? I just realized I never ever bought mine; I always had a tough guy. Box. What? Fight! I'm Eurovision And a hard remix— Ten minutes in and I realize I've already heard this. Oh yea, This Golden band of art, love and protection Perfection. Ohshea, shit! Who invited you? I got a 311 from Questlove!! Is that a beeper?! CUBE Since when are we on a first name basis? It would be weird to call you “ICE CUBE” Why's that? You. know? [the beeper goes off three more times] CUBE oh shit! What?! CUBE Nothin! Where the yard at?! sometimes it doesn't really matter Who the dialogue comes out of The whole point Is to put the art back into art projects Cause we all know it's been constructed And commercialized To the point of destruction And almost no promise For independent artists at all. So who is it with CUBE? Could be me. Could be you. Could be U— If it's not, It was all just a long lost passion project A collective God Complex. Give myself a hug Cause nobody else will God gave my case a Grace Cause somebody lost Will. Oh, Karen. Come, heart attack. Come karma, Come hot dogs Come Christmas time at the Plaza Come on, hard death. Come on. Hard Rock Hotel? Nah, Equinox. Alright. Hudson. Yards. Now you're in a tunnel Does your heart hurt? (You should clutch it.) Put your patchwork in a hard drive This is hard times, You can't come back. O! But they do take dear DRATCH and run with it! I go run along to Corrections, And ginger snaps for crosswords On hard workers So fax the whole document! Do you know what? Horcruxes! Hot lunches, yuck. Hockey! I want off this planet so bad I cross cross my fingers at crosswalks And oncoming trains but– Don't look either way before I walk. So pull a shotgun at all that I was one strong donkey before I got one address. Now I just redress the cause All I want is my bundle back. Yuck! Care for it at all? Yeah, yours, but she's a danger to humanity. Yeah, mine but I'm an honest hybrid horrid hunter. On time? I just got it at Sephora. On time, Like I never even got that. I want to be loved just to be looked at But since in this life I can't turn the clock back I've discovered it's hell that my body was born as. — I discovered it's hell that my body was born as. Such a problem when you know That even the great Rosie O'Donnell once wanted blue eyes. Now I forget where I trailed off… What a drawback. I'm all out of patience. Crypto, I tip toe now over eggshells No home for her Hard times And hard times. No code offered, No I don't fall for that'd But where's the snowfall over all the rot out back? Hard times. Hard times. Hard times. As the bell tolls And the well swells whole And the umpire does rack them Up; Nobody works harder than Hard times Hard times Hard times. Yeah, that's four Aces Up, Diamond. Run for your forks and your knives And your daughters and mothers and father And home family comfort And cufflinks and loafers, And sport coats and Your life. Your life. Your life. [The Festival Project ™] —-Chroma111. THE IMPENATRABLE TEN is INEVITABLY DISBANDED. Inevitably??? Inevitably! but not indefinitely. Oh, I guess. Alright. SILENCE. {Enter The Multiverse.} I don't want to be here. No one does. You are sending mixed messages. Imm not sending any messages… — with your brain. L E G E N D S Of course. Electromagnetic signaling Of course. I told you this had gone strange. Severely. Now how do I explain from this time how to get back to our time If there's no direct translation between our language and that one? Maybe you can't explain it. These are hard facts. So I suggest the use of highly trained telepaths. That far back? These things are possibly connected even in this time, theoretically using our past; I might suggest Telesynthesis— considering these planetary electromagnetics to which this entire planet is hardwired. …hardwired. That's right. Ascension. Hard times. Madame President? Get lost. [Secret President] I get it. You're a whistleblower. I'm not that. A shadow government official. Also wrong. Why else would you run for office? I'm trying to get shot at. They told me you were funny. But they didn't say anything about my gauntlet? Your—what? You know. My conquests—professional accomplishments? Your God complex? I know all about that. Perhaps it's not a complex. But a ‘gauntlet'? You're a journalist aren't you? I'm giving you some high art concepts. (Because for the sake of the rhyme, And please, for God's sakes, Gemini, In prose form Without the use of tables. ) I R O N I C —Deathwish. [The Festival Project ™] Season 12, Episode 01. REBEL1. Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū I would think it psychosomatic, but in less than 24 hours of restarting my vitamin regimen, my mood was so improved that I could not for a second overlook that without taking vitamins, I was missing something. Even if my newly concocted super-juice recipes were putting a curb in my abdominal muscles that even I was sure didn't entirely belong there, pairing this development with the Peloton, it was a long and diagonal, out-of-sorts thing that stuck out as if it was on somebody else's body and not mine. Still, I had to deal with the heavy weight of the drooping skin and belly that hung as if it very much did belong to me but wasn't budging, despite my attempts at a flat stomach and having been so well overstretched at one point by medical obesity and double occupancy that it was, at the very least to say, insurgically impossible. However, my brain went on having ways of wrapping my mind around this—that the rest of my body was quite slim, and even on some days seeming petite, were it not for my massive thighs, which also seemed to have sported a curve to them which was almost attractive, especially well-dressed. But the fun of it was, I wasn't exceptionally well-dressed, because I hadn't wanted to be. In fact, I was under obligation always to be about in the men's clothes I'd found because they were designer, and it was even something like a fashion statement that I dressed this grotesquely and in overlarge articles because of the astounding amount of weight I'd lost and the strange way my body seemed to be taking an athletic shape. Still, there was this factor that I was actually always somehow in an excruciating amount of pain, especially waking up, and though some of that I would have applied to being psychosomatic—in just that it was the pure stress of the disembodied torture I was undergoing in one way or another—whether anybody would have admitted it or not, or whether or not the unknown parties in question were going to be justified for it, I still hadn't an idea or thought as to what my unstructured purpose was. And though I sat beautifully controlled into doing music as a default, I was looking at the numbers, and the massive amount of people doing remarkably well because they could afford to do so, or were lucky, or were unbearably beautiful and so could do anything they wanted, and I too much so was not that. In fact, it was almost by design my failure and my constant struggle that even the universe seemed to look down upon me in such a way that it pitied me in a harrowing attempt at karmic justice done for the seeming evil and harsh things being done. It was true that someone had set out to torture me, and this might have once been the way of the illuminated artist and tortured soul; however, having taken so metaphorically into my own boat such heavy water of grief and loss, and drowning, I was sinking into the natural ocean of monstrous storms my body was saying in so many ways it could do no more. My mind was strong—and I could take the torture for innumerable amounts of time without becoming so much more frustrated than to just stop, or start heavy breathing, or even compulsively masturbate until one world faded deeply into another and I just didn't care. But realistically, the things that were being done pointed at a strategic and tactical, military-trained psychological governing of my own autonomy. And because I knew this, I also knew whoever was responsible was more than capable of covering their tracks to the point of disappearance—an inescapable hell of unseen trauma. The basis of it was that if I raised my concerns with any law enforcement or police, I was just as often ignored, ridiculed, or worse—thought of as symptomatic of some psychological condition I well knew and understood I did not have, all because what I did seem to possess—this undying force of color and creative ingenuity that could not quite be captured or marketed to improve the bankbook of others with a sudden onset—was unacceptable in such a way that I could become some sort of object that was in no way useful besides to experiment and then observe what I might become next, all the while knowing I would not and could not stay in one form or another too long without becoming such an obvious target. —Death of a Superstar DJ. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

Hi, i'm Russell Brand. No, get out. I'm sorry,I— ? Get out, get out! Are we trading kings for whistle! Sacred things and torturers? Lill bitz I started talking to this guy from tinder Then I quickly realized he only texted me at like 3 in the morning, like “come over” So I started texting him really weird shit— Like really weird. Like, I would make sure before I sent it, I would re-read it and be like “Ya, that's weird.” “That's really weird.” Every time, just read it to myself and be like “Ya that's giving “you're psycho” Right off the bat. Kate Winslet is so good at late night. She talks mad slow and answers every open ended question with a paragraph of thoughtless nonsense— finally, at the end of the paragraph, she answers the question in yes or no fashion; in this sense, you've completely forgotten the question through redirection. This has taken nearly five minutes. Genius. Amidst a story, she begins to slowly decrechendo until she's murmuring in a near whisper so you really have to try to pay attention to what she's saying, which is almost nothing. So considerably nothing, that you lose thought in trying to grasp and accept the words— this is excellent banter, because of course, she isn't really saying anything. This has taken another five minutes. Captivating. INT. DENTISTS OFFICE. DAY. Who is Claude Von Wastvermaan? KIMMEL Doctor Claude Von Wastverman. Okay. Who is that? KIMMEL It's me. I'm Claude Von Wastverman. Dr.— KIMMEL Yeah. It's me. KIMMEL Why are you— what? KIMMEL This is my office. …why? Because— I use specific research and target demographics to seek out people who have no interest in whatsoever watching my show and do not recognize me in any way actively seeking a dental practitioner— Why? KIMMEL Because! My audience loves me. They want to see me— they have to like me! So? KIMMEL These people don't know who I am. They don't want to see me—and there's a good chance, they won't like me at all. …this is how you spend your free time? KIMMEL —and some of my vacation days! Jesus. KIMMEL Yeah. I'm not alright! How much does this office space cost? KIMMEL You wouldn't like it. And—I take very limited insurance. Did you…study dentistry, at all, at any point? KIMMEL Not at all— Oh, Jesus. KIMMEL But Claude might have for a short time— online. These degrees look legitimate. KIMMEL He was a really good guy. Wait. What. [a rubber glove snaps] KIMMEL If you'll excuse me, I have an appointment coming in at 2:30. …you're kidding me. KIMMEL I'm not—and she's always early. Get out. Gladly. He opens the door and leads him out of the office, looking startled startled and shaking his head. KIMMEL Good afternoon, Mrs. Evanston. Perhaps I was just looking for something and my brain saw what it wanted to— but it kept coming around in ways that were stranger and stranger, and I couldn't explain the thought of it, like I was connected to something. Jimmy Slithered. But it's okay, Cause I hate to see him prosper. Wait a minute? Did it enter for a second in your head to what had happened? Very obviously is it just exactly as you'd imagined. Wait a moment; Give a little gift for winter's entrance— Suddenly you're hating Christmas, Just infected with this sort of hatred That's been creeping up on them for centuries. Very well, then Skrillex. Very well, played ventriloquist act at the Rock And how hardened are you, the heart of all non immortal and broken? Are you succumbed to never wonder either? Cratered. Disrespect and spills of want, Spools and spills and towers of yarn, You're getting broker every warrant. You're the dark and hadn't opened, Oh to be so charmed and wanted. Jimmy Slitheted, But I caught him creeping in the forest, Well, done, Harper— Now you've got yourself a story Jimmy Slithered, but that's good— I had him at the fortress, And all our audience would want Is fourth wall being broken. So here fals the house of cards! The house of cards The house of cards. And here folds the broken hand— The broken hand. The broken hand. And here calls the shattered wand, The crypted want, The shadowed trumpet horn, there! And there upon the hill, There did I grasp and fall to follow, Though the crown had not the king, The ground was sure to've caught him! And so I clasped with all my might and grip, The humble role of which that is This, Unrolled and uttered: Feast of kings, Be you what may of Prince and time and also my own brotherhood and making, There is, shadowed in my own dear marker, Yet another coming death upon us! How now, my ritual, of that and thy and they and I, To this my mark, And so I sang as this does not a number— My posture does find comfort here and tie my breath to grass from under, Striped and torn my cloth, as does in this my fortune gathers; There my fate and here to all, as wind becomes her mother, And though I call to all, but one I am, And then another. LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events. The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit. This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state. The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Genre: "Afro-Surrealism" / "Social Horror" "Psycho-Acoustic Weaponry" or "Havana Syndrome symptoms." The Frame: The protagonist is subjected to "noise harassment"—a tactic dramatized here but rooted in the known reality of tenant displacement and "psychological attrition." The narrative depicts a process of "Soul Murder" ( also known as spiritual warfare) orchestrated by a hostile apparatus. The antagonist is "The Institution," representing deep-state mechanisms that view multicultural intellectualism as a threat. The story allegorically dramatizes the invisible mechanisms that enforce racial hierarchy, depicting how broken social systems weaponize psychological practices against the individual. Artist's Note: This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as an artistic testament to the psychological siege endured from to 2023-2025. It is a creative record of survival against a hostile state architecture. The following is a creative non-fiction horror manifesto regarding the psychological assassination of a multicultural American artist. It documents—through the lens of Afro-Surrealism—how modern surveillance technology and sonic harassment are experienced by the targeted individual. As it stands It has become a modern sequel which mirrors the civil rights struggles of the 1960s, set in the present day. "The protagonist is being subjected to 'noise harassment'—a known tactic used by landlords and corrupt entities to displace tenants. The sound is weaponized to induce sleep deprivation and psychological attrition, dismantling of their ego and will to live, orchestrated by a hostile state apparatus. The antagonist in this piece is 'The Institution'—a deep state that views multicultural intellectualism as a threat. The story dramatizes over time the invisible mechanisms (the 'Deep State') that enforce racial hierarchy and and psychological genocide, weaponizing broken social systems and unfounded psychological practices as biological weapons. This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as evidence of the psychological siege endured from 2023-2025. It is a transcript of survival against a hostile state architecture. This project spans an unlimited multiprojectoral arc of over two years of chronic violence, reaching into historical and theatrical projections and parallels over the all documented records of human existence through time and space. REBEL1. I am hypnotized; I am pain I am cryptonite I am in pain I am penalized; I am pinned l I am pinstripes on wide ties; I am Him. Pinterest, pintrest, pinholes And disinterest Centered sentiments And immigrants And ministrations, Images and insolence (And indulgences, patronages) Eclipses and rip titles, Paris Tiptons, And temptation Missing wages Push to shove and What are you doing, motherfucker?! To say the least, I'm a bit unconventional. Unexplainable joy And invisible ties and invincible triads Unimatatable charm, And prehensile times And forefathers before us Unpolished Well dressed hampers on leather and fortunes And doing and donuts and do this and don't-touches Mumbles of soft till and lunches and subtle distraction And coming construction Wages Ions I afford you To die now Like I want He's better at the body code Than old Colbert, He's one for one now Could this corrupt you— I didn't destroy her, I offered a suffix No longer for your number No longer for your hard times No longer for your warrants No longer No longer No four times Don't pan to the audience I'm a hole slow meltdown Don't man your own So wait, am I also telepathic? Yeah, that. Oh my! Is it like a two-way broadcast type— thing? Yeah, that part… Oh no, I'm so sorry. No you're not. You're right. I told you not to go looking into my thoughts. Check it all out, I bought prototypes Check it all out, I undug libraries Check it out, You're all alone at Walmart No longer working part time, The doors are closed and locked now, They're bound to stage a lock out You're better off on hard times You're better off on Lala Land No— Don't deport I want my art back No, don't deport; It's just a cake walk to apartheid, Remember mine now? Cheers to the world's longest monologues. Kudos to your picking up cabbage Remember the back for the wartimes The bagpipes have sounded; You're back to astonish us. No! I must have you a lesson; I'm back with my old will and testament No more Old Testament wanted I bought your sticks in Leviticus And so, Again– CUT TO: WILD PARTY. INT.EXT./WHENEVER HOW SICK IS THIS? NO! NOT THAT! I raised the dead from a half pipe I shoot the crowd out in foreign I can't remember my own Sam But I found one– For a dollar, For a wrong word And a hard song And a larger Go look, Now remember a rock star. Now that you're so stolen, Go back! You're unorthodox! Clear cut: you're a tragic Magic act– Now I'm back with a bag of tricks with my back out Learn your lessons. CUT BACK TO. INT./EXT. YO I'M SAYING A WIIIILD PARTY. WHENEVER YO, WHO DOES THIS?! What a party! I WANT TO GO HOME NOW! —I'M CALLING THE COPS! THIS IS YOUR HOUSE!!! {Enter The Multiverse} …And it's all house music all night. No, to that. Beg your pardon? I won't come. [The Festival Project ™ ] Now articulate your face muscles. My wat. Now you're bar banned. I had this at a festival once. What is it? A “whore salad” … All with a side of oxygen. Now you're in a tunnel. (A tunnel, a scone and a croissant) Now you're worse, warthog, immortal (Call your dad back, You're a bad son.) Now I'm out in the canyon With Chester McBadBat I got chest hair, And a straight out of the badlands Yes, I did mention this to my cousin Evan, But why ask that? So you heard everything I thought? Mmhmm. Hard times. —and everyone else? What is it like to have love man? I been locked out I'm a rock addict, But I'm damned now How's that fountain coming along? SUNNI BLU …it's just water. ARCHITECHT …yeah it's water. It's a fountain. SUNNI BLU —I WANT CHOCOLATE. Whose here? Not that guy! Four more beers? I just realized I never ever bought mine; I always had a tough guy. Box. What? Fight! I'm Eurovision And a hard remix— Ten minutes in and I realize I've already heard this. Oh yea, This Golden band of art, love and protection Perfection. Ohshea, shit! Who invited you? I got a 311 from Questlove!! Is that a beeper?! CUBE Since when are we on a first name basis? It would be weird to call you “ICE CUBE” Why's that? You. know? [the beeper goes off three more times] CUBE oh shit! What?! CUBE Nothin! Where the yard at?! sometimes it doesn't really matter Who the dialogue comes out of The whole point Is to put the art back into art projects Cause we all know it's been constructed And commercialized To the point of destruction And almost no promise For independent artists at all. So who is it with CUBE? Could be me. Could be you. Could be U— If it's not, It was all just a long lost passion project A collective God Complex. Give myself a hug Cause nobody else will God gave my case a Grace Cause somebody lost Will. Oh, Karen. Come, heart attack. Come karma, Come hot dogs Come Christmas time at the Plaza Come on, hard death. Come on. Hard Rock Hotel? Nah, Equinox. Alright. Hudson. Yards. Now you're in a tunnel Does your heart hurt? (You should clutch it.) Put your patchwork in a hard drive This is hard times, You can't come back. O! But they do take dear DRATCH and run with it! I go run along to Corrections, And ginger snaps for crosswords On hard workers So fax the whole document! Do you know what? Horcruxes! Hot lunches, yuck. Hockey! I want off this planet so bad I cross cross my fingers at crosswalks And oncoming trains but– Don't look either way before I walk. So pull a shotgun at all that I was one strong donkey before I got one address. Now I just redress the cause All I want is my bundle back. Yuck! Care for it at all? Yeah, yours, but she's a danger to humanity. Yeah, mine but I'm an honest hybrid horrid hunter. On time? I just got it at Sephora. On time, Like I never even got that. I want to be loved just to be looked at But since in this life I can't turn the clock back I've discovered it's hell that my body was born as. — I discovered it's hell that my body was born as. Such a problem when you know That even the great Rosie O'Donnell once wanted blue eyes. Now I forget where I trailed off… What a drawback. I'm all out of patience. Crypto, I tip toe now over eggshells No home for her Hard times And hard times. No code offered, No I don't fall for that'd But where's the snowfall over all the rot out back? Hard times. Hard times. Hard times. As the bell tolls And the well swells whole And the umpire does rack them Up; Nobody works harder than Hard times Hard times Hard times. Yeah, that's four Aces Up, Diamond. Run for your forks and your knives And your daughters and mothers and father And home family comfort And cufflinks and loafers, And sport coats and Your life. Your life. Your life. [The Festival Project ™] —-Chroma111. THE IMPENATRABLE TEN is INEVITABLY DISBANDED. Inevitably??? Inevitably! but not indefinitely. Oh, I guess. Alright. SILENCE. {Enter The Multiverse.} I don't want to be here. No one does. You are sending mixed messages. Imm not sending any messages… — with your brain. L E G E N D S Of course. Electromagnetic signaling Of course. I told you this had gone strange. Severely. Now how do I explain from this time how to get back to our time If there's no direct translation between our language and that one? Maybe you can't explain it. These are hard facts. So I suggest the use of highly trained telepaths. That far back? These things are possibly connected even in this time, theoretically using our past; I might suggest Telesynthesis— considering these planetary electromagnetics to which this entire planet is hardwired. …hardwired. That's right. Ascension. Hard times. Madame President? Get lost. [Secret President] I get it. You're a whistleblower. I'm not that. A shadow government official. Also wrong. Why else would you run for office? I'm trying to get shot at. They told me you were funny. But they didn't say anything about my gauntlet? Your—what? You know. My conquests—professional accomplishments? Your God complex? I know all about that. Perhaps it's not a complex. But a ‘gauntlet'? You're a journalist aren't you? I'm giving you some high art concepts. (Because for the sake of the rhyme, And please, for God's sakes, Gemini, In prose form Without the use of tables. ) I R O N I C —Deathwish. [The Festival Project ™] Season 12, Episode 01. REBEL1. Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū I would think it psychosomatic, but in less than 24 hours of restarting my vitamin regimen, my mood was so improved that I could not for a second overlook that without taking vitamins, I was missing something. Even if my newly concocted super-juice recipes were putting a curb in my abdominal muscles that even I was sure didn't entirely belong there, pairing this development with the Peloton, it was a long and diagonal, out-of-sorts thing that stuck out as if it was on somebody else's body and not mine. Still, I had to deal with the heavy weight of the drooping skin and belly that hung as if it very much did belong to me but wasn't budging, despite my attempts at a flat stomach and having been so well overstretched at one point by medical obesity and double occupancy that it was, at the very least to say, insurgically impossible. However, my brain went on having ways of wrapping my mind around this—that the rest of my body was quite slim, and even on some days seeming petite, were it not for my massive thighs, which also seemed to have sported a curve to them which was almost attractive, especially well-dressed. But the fun of it was, I wasn't exceptionally well-dressed, because I hadn't wanted to be. In fact, I was under obligation always to be about in the men's clothes I'd found because they were designer, and it was even something like a fashion statement that I dressed this grotesquely and in overlarge articles because of the astounding amount of weight I'd lost and the strange way my body seemed to be taking an athletic shape. Still, there was this factor that I was actually always somehow in an excruciating amount of pain, especially waking up, and though some of that I would have applied to being psychosomatic—in just that it was the pure stress of the disembodied torture I was undergoing in one way or another—whether anybody would have admitted it or not, or whether or not the unknown parties in question were going to be justified for it, I still hadn't an idea or thought as to what my unstructured purpose was. And though I sat beautifully controlled into doing music as a default, I was looking at the numbers, and the massive amount of people doing remarkably well because they could afford to do so, or were lucky, or were unbearably beautiful and so could do anything they wanted, and I too much so was not that. In fact, it was almost by design my failure and my constant struggle that even the universe seemed to look down upon me in such a way that it pitied me in a harrowing attempt at karmic justice done for the seeming evil and harsh things being done. It was true that someone had set out to torture me, and this might have once been the way of the illuminated artist and tortured soul; however, having taken so metaphorically into my own boat such heavy water of grief and loss, and drowning, I was sinking into the natural ocean of monstrous storms my body was saying in so many ways it could do no more. My mind was strong—and I could take the torture for innumerable amounts of time without becoming so much more frustrated than to just stop, or start heavy breathing, or even compulsively masturbate until one world faded deeply into another and I just didn't care. But realistically, the things that were being done pointed at a strategic and tactical, military-trained psychological governing of my own autonomy. And because I knew this, I also knew whoever was responsible was more than capable of covering their tracks to the point of disappearance—an inescapable hell of unseen trauma. The basis of it was that if I raised my concerns with any law enforcement or police, I was just as often ignored, ridiculed, or worse—thought of as symptomatic of some psychological condition I well knew and understood I did not have, all because what I did seem to possess—this undying force of color and creative ingenuity that could not quite be captured or marketed to improve the bankbook of others with a sudden onset—was unacceptable in such a way that I could become some sort of object that was in no way useful besides to experiment and then observe what I might become next, all the while knowing I would not and could not stay in one form or another too long without becoming such an obvious target. —Death of a Superstar DJ. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

EXT. CONCERT. DAY SUNNI BLU converses with CHARLES over a musical break STAGE LEFT of the MAINSTAGE. SUNNI BLU Thems the two prettiest girls right there. CHARLES yeah . ok. SUNNI BLU Grab em up. CHARLES What? SUNNI BLU Snatch em up. CHARLES Do you mean. SUNNI BLU Micheal Jackson style munich on that bitch. CHARLES What—? SUNNI BLU Them bitchez. CHARLES Are you saying—? SUNNI BLU They wont mind. CHARLES Uhhhh… SUNNI BLU I promise. watch . BOUNCER SUNNI's bodyguard BOUNCER crosses to center stage. SUNNI whispers into BOUNCER'S ear and he nods once and smirks; he then walks out into the crowd and picks up the two girls SUNNI aforementioned, tossing each of them over his shoulders, planting them on stage next to SUNNI; they scream and cry hysterically. SUNNI nods and smiles in self admiration and throws BOUNCER and CHARLES a thumbs up; CHARLES shakes his head slowly in disapproval, the GIRLS scream and cry hysterically; SUNNI grins and carries on about the show. CUT IMMEDIATELY TO: SUNNI BLU YO! I got mad lawsuits. MORGAN Plural? SUNNI BLU Like multiple! MORGAN well what were you expecting, sunni? Its 202#--? SUNNI BLU But michael is timeless! MORGAN And youre not michael jackson! SUNNI BLU You're right! I sold more records already than him! MORGAN ugh! PUBLICIST *does* {Enter The Multiverse} Hi, i'm Russell Brand. No, get out. I'm sorry,I— ? Get out, get out! Are we trading kings for whistle! Sacred things and torturers? Lill bitz I started talking to this guy from tinder Then I quickly realized he only texted me at like 3 in the morning, like “come over” So I started texting him really weird shit— Like really weird. Like, I would make sure before I sent it, I would re-read it and be like “Ya, that's weird.” “That's really weird.” Every time, just read it to myself and be like “Ya that's giving “you're psycho” Right off the bat. Kate Winslet is so good at late night. She talks mad slow and answers every open ended question with a paragraph of thoughtless nonsense— finally, at the end of the paragraph, she answers the question in yes or no fashion; in this sense, you've completely forgotten the question through redirection. This has taken nearly five minutes. Genius. Amidst a story, she begins to slowly decrechendo until she's murmuring in a near whisper so you really have to try to pay attention to what she's saying, which is almost nothing. So considerably nothing, that you lose thought in trying to grasp and accept the words— this is excellent banter, because of course, she isn't really saying anything. This has taken another five minutes. Captivating. INT. DENTISTS OFFICE. DAY. Who is Claude Von Wastvermaan? KIMMEL Doctor Claude Von Wastverman. Okay. Who is that? KIMMEL It's me. I'm Claude Von Wastverman. Dr.— KIMMEL Yeah. It's me. KIMMEL Why are you— what? KIMMEL This is my office. …why? Because— I use specific research and target demographics to seek out people who have no interest in whatsoever watching my show and do not recognize me in any way actively seeking a dental practitioner— Why? KIMMEL Because! My audience loves me. They want to see me— they have to like me! So? KIMMEL These people don't know who I am. They don't want to see me—and there's a good chance, they won't like me at all. …this is how you spend your free time? KIMMEL —and some of my vacation days! Jesus. KIMMEL Yeah. I'm not alright! How much does this office space cost? KIMMEL You wouldn't like it. And—I take very limited insurance. Did you…study dentistry, at all, at any point? KIMMEL Not at all— Oh, Jesus. KIMMEL But Claude might have for a short time— online. These degrees look legitimate. KIMMEL He was a really good guy. Wait. What. [a rubber glove snaps] KIMMEL If you'll excuse me, I have an appointment coming in at 2:30. …you're kidding me. KIMMEL I'm not—and she's always early. Get out. Gladly. He opens the door and leads him out of the office, looking startled startled and shaking his head. KIMMEL Good afternoon, Mrs. Evanston. Perhaps I was just looking for something and my brain saw what it wanted to— but it kept coming around in ways that were stranger and stranger, and I couldn't explain the thought of it, like I was connected to something. Jimmy Slithered. But it's okay, Cause I hate to see him prosper. Wait a minute? Did it enter for a second in your head to what had happened? Very obviously is it just exactly as you'd imagined. Wait a moment; Give a little gift for winter's entrance— Suddenly you're hating Christmas, Just infected with this sort of hatred That's been creeping up on them for centuries. Very well, then Skrillex. Very well, played ventriloquist act at the Rock And how hardened are you, the heart of all non immortal and broken? Are you succumbed to never wonder either? Cratered. Disrespect and spills of want, Spools and spills and towers of yarn, You're getting broker every warrant. You're the dark and hadn't opened, Oh to be so charmed and wanted. Jimmy Slitheted, But I caught him creeping in the forest, Well, done, Harper— Now you've got yourself a story Jimmy Slithered, but that's good— I had him at the fortress, And all our audience would want Is fourth wall being broken. So here fals the house of cards! The house of cards The house of cards. And here folds the broken hand— The broken hand. The broken hand. And here calls the shattered wand, The crypted want, The shadowed trumpet horn, there! And there upon the hill, There did I grasp and fall to follow, Though the crown had not the king, The ground was sure to've caught him! And so I clasped with all my might and grip, The humble role of which that is This, Unrolled and uttered: Feast of kings, Be you what may of Prince and time and also my own brotherhood and making, There is, shadowed in my own dear marker, Yet another coming death upon us! How now, my ritual, of that and thy and they and I, To this my mark, And so I sang as this does not a number— My posture does find comfort here and tie my breath to grass from under, Striped and torn my cloth, as does in this my fortune gathers; There my fate and here to all, as wind becomes her mother, And though I call to all, but one I am, And then another. LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events. The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit. This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state. The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Genre: "Afro-Surrealism" / "Social Horror" "Psycho-Acoustic Weaponry" or "Havana Syndrome symptoms." The Frame: The protagonist is subjected to "noise harassment"—a tactic dramatized here but rooted in the known reality of tenant displacement and "psychological attrition." The narrative depicts a process of "Soul Murder" ( also known as spiritual warfare) orchestrated by a hostile apparatus. The antagonist is "The Institution," representing deep-state mechanisms that view multicultural intellectualism as a threat. The story allegorically dramatizes the invisible mechanisms that enforce racial hierarchy, depicting how broken social systems weaponize psychological practices against the individual. Artist's Note: This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as an artistic testament to the psychological siege endured from to 2023-2025. It is a creative record of survival against a hostile state architecture. The following is a creative non-fiction horror manifesto regarding the psychological assassination of a multicultural American artist. It documents—through the lens of Afro-Surrealism—how modern surveillance technology and sonic harassment are experienced by the targeted individual. As it stands It has become a modern sequel which mirrors the civil rights struggles of the 1960s, set in the present day. "The protagonist is being subjected to 'noise harassment'—a known tactic used by landlords and corrupt entities to displace tenants. The sound is weaponized to induce sleep deprivation and psychological attrition, dismantling of their ego and will to live, orchestrated by a hostile state apparatus. The antagonist in this piece is 'The Institution'—a deep state that views multicultural intellectualism as a threat. The story dramatizes over time the invisible mechanisms (the 'Deep State') that enforce racial hierarchy and and psychological genocide, weaponizing broken social systems and unfounded psychological practices as biological weapons. This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as evidence of the psychological siege endured from 2023-2025. It is a transcript of survival against a hostile state architecture. This project spans an unlimited multiprojectoral arc of over two years of chronic violence, reaching into historical and theatrical projections and parallels over the all documented records of human existence through time and space. REBEL1. I am hypnotized; I am pain I am cryptonite I am in pain I am penalized; I am pinned l I am pinstripes on wide ties; I am Him. Pinterest, pintrest, pinholes And disinterest Centered sentiments And immigrants And ministrations, Images and insolence (And indulgences, patronages) Eclipses and rip titles, Paris Tiptons, And temptation Missing wages Push to shove and What are you doing, motherfucker?! To say the least, I'm a bit unconventional. Unexplainable joy And invisible ties and invincible triads Unimatatable charm, And prehensile times And forefathers before us Unpolished Well dressed hampers on leather and fortunes And doing and donuts and do this and don't-touches Mumbles of soft till and lunches and subtle distraction And coming construction Wages Ions I afford you To die now Like I want He's better at the body code Than old Colbert, He's one for one now Could this corrupt you— I didn't destroy her, I offered a suffix No longer for your number No longer for your hard times No longer for your warrants No longer No longer No four times Don't pan to the audience I'm a hole slow meltdown Don't man your own So wait, am I also telepathic? Yeah, that. Oh my! Is it like a two-way broadcast type— thing? Yeah, that part… Oh no, I'm so sorry. No you're not. You're right. I told you not to go looking into my thoughts. Check it all out, I bought prototypes Check it all out, I undug libraries Check it out, You're all alone at Walmart No longer working part time, The doors are closed and locked now, They're bound to stage a lock out You're better off on hard times You're better off on Lala Land No— Don't deport I want my art back No, don't deport; It's just a cake walk to apartheid, Remember mine now? Cheers to the world's longest monologues. Kudos to your picking up cabbage Remember the back for the wartimes The bagpipes have sounded; You're back to astonish us. No! I must have you a lesson; I'm back with my old will and testament No more Old Testament wanted I bought your sticks in Leviticus And so, Again– CUT TO: WILD PARTY. INT.EXT./WHENEVER HOW SICK IS THIS? NO! NOT THAT! I raised the dead from a half pipe I shoot the crowd out in foreign I can't remember my own Sam But I found one– For a dollar, For a wrong word And a hard song And a larger Go look, Now remember a rock star. Now that you're so stolen, Go back! You're unorthodox! Clear cut: you're a tragic Magic act– Now I'm back with a bag of tricks with my back out Learn your lessons. CUT BACK TO. INT./EXT. YO I'M SAYING A WIIIILD PARTY. WHENEVER YO, WHO DOES THIS?! What a party! I WANT TO GO HOME NOW! —I'M CALLING THE COPS! THIS IS YOUR HOUSE!!! {Enter The Multiverse} …And it's all house music all night. No, to that. Beg your pardon? I won't come. [The Festival Project ™ ] Now articulate your face muscles. My wat. Now you're bar banned. I had this at a festival once. What is it? A “whore salad” … All with a side of oxygen. Now you're in a tunnel. (A tunnel, a scone and a croissant) Now you're worse, warthog, immortal (Call your dad back, You're a bad son.) Now I'm out in the canyon With Chester McBadBat I got chest hair, And a straight out of the badlands Yes, I did mention this to my cousin Evan, But why ask that? So you heard everything I thought? Mmhmm. Hard times. —and everyone else? What is it like to have love man? I been locked out I'm a rock addict, But I'm damned now How's that fountain coming along? SUNNI BLU …it's just water. ARCHITECHT …yeah it's water. It's a fountain. SUNNI BLU —I WANT CHOCOLATE. Whose here? Not that guy! Four more beers? I just realized I never ever bought mine; I always had a tough guy. Box. What? Fight! I'm Eurovision And a hard remix— Ten minutes in and I realize I've already heard this. Oh yea, This Golden band of art, love and protection Perfection. Ohshea, shit! Who invited you? I got a 311 from Questlove!! Is that a beeper?! CUBE Since when are we on a first name basis? It would be weird to call you “ICE CUBE” Why's that? You. know? [the beeper goes off three more times] CUBE oh shit! What?! CUBE Nothin! Where the yard at?! sometimes it doesn't really matter Who the dialogue comes out of The whole point Is to put the art back into art projects Cause we all know it's been constructed And commercialized To the point of destruction And almost no promise For independent artists at all. So who is it with CUBE? Could be me. Could be you. Could be U— If it's not, It was all just a long lost passion project A collective God Complex. Give myself a hug Cause nobody else will God gave my case a Grace Cause somebody lost Will. Oh, Karen. Come, heart attack. Come karma, Come hot dogs Come Christmas time at the Plaza Come on, hard death. Come on. Hard Rock Hotel? Nah, Equinox. Alright. Hudson. Yards. Now you're in a tunnel Does your heart hurt? (You should clutch it.) Put your patchwork in a hard drive This is hard times, You can't come back. O! But they do take dear DRATCH and run with it! I go run along to Corrections, And ginger snaps for crosswords On hard workers So fax the whole document! Do you know what? Horcruxes! Hot lunches, yuck. Hockey! I want off this planet so bad I cross cross my fingers at crosswalks And oncoming trains but– Don't look either way before I walk. So pull a shotgun at all that I was one strong donkey before I got one address. Now I just redress the cause All I want is my bundle back. Yuck! Care for it at all? Yeah, yours, but she's a danger to humanity. Yeah, mine but I'm an honest hybrid horrid hunter. On time? I just got it at Sephora. On time, Like I never even got that. I want to be loved just to be looked at But since in this life I can't turn the clock back I've discovered it's hell that my body was born as. — I discovered it's hell that my body was born as. Such a problem when you know That even the great Rosie O'Donnell once wanted blue eyes. Now I forget where I trailed off… What a drawback. I'm all out of patience. Crypto, I tip toe now over eggshells No home for her Hard times And hard times. No code offered, No I don't fall for that'd But where's the snowfall over all the rot out back? Hard times. Hard times. Hard times. As the bell tolls And the well swells whole And the umpire does rack them Up; Nobody works harder than Hard times Hard times Hard times. Yeah, that's four Aces Up, Diamond. Run for your forks and your knives And your daughters and mothers and father And home family comfort And cufflinks and loafers, And sport coats and Your life. Your life. Your life. [The Festival Project ™] —-Chroma111. THE IMPENATRABLE TEN is INEVITABLY DISBANDED. Inevitably??? Inevitably! but not indefinitely. Oh, I guess. Alright. SILENCE. {Enter The Multiverse.} I don't want to be here. No one does. You are sending mixed messages. Imm not sending any messages… — with your brain. L E G E N D S Of course. Electromagnetic signaling Of course. I told you this had gone strange. Severely. Now how do I explain from this time how to get back to our time If there's no direct translation between our language and that one? Maybe you can't explain it. These are hard facts. So I suggest the use of highly trained telepaths. That far back? These things are possibly connected even in this time, theoretically using our past; I might suggest Telesynthesis— considering these planetary electromagnetics to which this entire planet is hardwired. …hardwired. That's right. Ascension. Hard times. Madame President? Get lost. [Secret President] I get it. You're a whistleblower. I'm not that. A shadow government official. Also wrong. Why else would you run for office? I'm trying to get shot at. They told me you were funny. But they didn't say anything about my gauntlet? Your—what? You know. My conquests—professional accomplishments? Your God complex? I know all about that. Perhaps it's not a complex. But a ‘gauntlet'? You're a journalist aren't you? I'm giving you some high art concepts. (Because for the sake of the rhyme, And please, for God's sakes, Gemini, In prose form Without the use of tables. ) I R O N I C —Deathwish. [The Festival Project ™] Season 12, Episode 01. REBEL1. Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū I would think it psychosomatic, but in less than 24 hours of restarting my vitamin regimen, my mood was so improved that I could not for a second overlook that without taking vitamins, I was missing something. Even if my newly concocted super-juice recipes were putting a curb in my abdominal muscles that even I was sure didn't entirely belong there, pairing this development with the Peloton, it was a long and diagonal, out-of-sorts thing that stuck out as if it was on somebody else's body and not mine. Still, I had to deal with the heavy weight of the drooping skin and belly that hung as if it very much did belong to me but wasn't budging, despite my attempts at a flat stomach and having been so well overstretched at one point by medical obesity and double occupancy that it was, at the very least to say, insurgically impossible. However, my brain went on having ways of wrapping my mind around this—that the rest of my body was quite slim, and even on some days seeming petite, were it not for my massive thighs, which also seemed to have sported a curve to them which was almost attractive, especially well-dressed. But the fun of it was, I wasn't exceptionally well-dressed, because I hadn't wanted to be. In fact, I was under obligation always to be about in the men's clothes I'd found because they were designer, and it was even something like a fashion statement that I dressed this grotesquely and in overlarge articles because of the astounding amount of weight I'd lost and the strange way my body seemed to be taking an athletic shape. Still, there was this factor that I was actually always somehow in an excruciating amount of pain, especially waking up, and though some of that I would have applied to being psychosomatic—in just that it was the pure stress of the disembodied torture I was undergoing in one way or another—whether anybody would have admitted it or not, or whether or not the unknown parties in question were going to be justified for it, I still hadn't an idea or thought as to what my unstructured purpose was. And though I sat beautifully controlled into doing music as a default, I was looking at the numbers, and the massive amount of people doing remarkably well because they could afford to do so, or were lucky, or were unbearably beautiful and so could do anything they wanted, and I too much so was not that. In fact, it was almost by design my failure and my constant struggle that even the universe seemed to look down upon me in such a way that it pitied me in a harrowing attempt at karmic justice done for the seeming evil and harsh things being done. It was true that someone had set out to torture me, and this might have once been the way of the illuminated artist and tortured soul; however, having taken so metaphorically into my own boat such heavy water of grief and loss, and drowning, I was sinking into the natural ocean of monstrous storms my body was saying in so many ways it could do no more. My mind was strong—and I could take the torture for innumerable amounts of time without becoming so much more frustrated than to just stop, or start heavy breathing, or even compulsively masturbate until one world faded deeply into another and I just didn't care. But realistically, the things that were being done pointed at a strategic and tactical, military-trained psychological governing of my own autonomy. And because I knew this, I also knew whoever was responsible was more than capable of covering their tracks to the point of disappearance—an inescapable hell of unseen trauma. The basis of it was that if I raised my concerns with any law enforcement or police, I was just as often ignored, ridiculed, or worse—thought of as symptomatic of some psychological condition I well knew and understood I did not have, all because what I did seem to possess—this undying force of color and creative ingenuity that could not quite be captured or marketed to improve the bankbook of others with a sudden onset—was unacceptable in such a way that I could become some sort of object that was in no way useful besides to experiment and then observe what I might become next, all the while knowing I would not and could not stay in one form or another too long without becoming such an obvious target. —Death of a Superstar DJ. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events. The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit. This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state. The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Frame: The protagonist is subjected to "noise harassment"—a tactic dramatized here but rooted in the known reality of tenant displacement and "psychological attrition." The narrative depicts a process of "Soul Murder" ( also known as spiritual warfare or sociopolitical targeting) orchestrated by a hostile apparatus. The antagonist is "The Institution," representing deep-state mechanisms that view multicultural intellectualism as a threat. The story allegorically dramatizes the invisible mechanisms that enforce racial hierarchy, depicting how broken social systems weaponize psychological practices against the individual. Artist's Note: This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as an artistic testament to the psychological siege endured from to 2023-2025. It is a creative record of survival against a hostile state architecture. The following is a creative non-fiction horror manifesto regarding the psychological assassination of a multicultural American artist. It documents—through the lens of Afro-Surrealism—how modern surveillance technology and sonic harassment are experienced by a targeted individual. As it stands, It has become a modern sequel which adequately and astonishingly mirrors the civil rights struggles of the 1960s, set in the present day. "The protagonist is being subjected to 'noise harassment'—a known tactic used by landlords and corrupt entities to displace tenants for financial and political gain. The sound is weaponized to induce sleep deprivation and psychological attrition, dismantling of their ego and will to live, orchestrated by a hostile state apparatus. The story dramatizes over time the invisible mechanisms (the 'Deep State') that enforce racial hierarchy and and psychological genocide, weaponizing broken social systems and unfounded psychological practices as biological weapons. This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as evidence of the psychological siege endured from 2023-2025. It is a transcript of survival against a hostile state architecture. This project spans an unlimited multiprojectoral arc of over two years of chronic tactical violence, reaching into historical and theatrical projections and parallels over the all documented records of human existence through time and space. REBEL1. I am hypnotized; I am pain I am cryptonite I am in pain I am penalized; I am pinned l I am pinstripes on wide ties; I am Him. Pinterest, pintrest, pinholes And disinterest Centered sentiments And immigrants And ministrations, Images and insolence (And indulgences, patronages) Eclipses and rip titles, Paris Tiptons, And temptation Missing wages Push to shove and What are you doing, motherfucker?! To say the least, I'm a bit unconventional. Unexplainable joy And invisible ties and invincible triads Unimatatable charm, And prehensile times And forefathers before us Unpolished Well dressed hampers on leather and fortunes And doing and donuts and do this and don't-touches Mumbles of soft till and lunches and subtle distraction And coming construction Wages Ions I afford you To die now Like I want He's better at the body code Than old Colbert, He's one for one now Could this corrupt you— I didn't destroy her, I offered a suffix No longer for your number No longer for your hard times No longer for your warrants No longer No longer No four times Don't pan to the audience I'm a hole slow meltdown Don't man your own So wait, am I also telepathic? Yeah, that. Oh my! Is it like a two-way broadcast type— thing? Yeah, that part… Oh no, I'm so sorry. No you're not. You're right. I told you not to go looking into my thoughts. Check it all out, I bought prototypes Check it all out, I undug libraries Check it out, You're all alone at Walmart No longer working part time, The doors are closed and locked now, They're bound to stage a lock out You're better off on hard times You're better off on Lala Land No— Don't deport I want my art back No, don't deport; It's just a cake walk to apartheid, Remember mine now? Cheers to the world's longest monologues. Kudos to your picking up cabbage Remember the back for the wartimes The bagpipes have sounded; You're back to astonish us. No! I must have you a lesson; I'm back with my old will and testament No more Old Testament wanted I bought your sticks in Leviticus And so, Again– CUT TO: WILD PARTY. INT.EXT./WHENEVER HOW SICK IS THIS? NO! NOT THAT! I raised the dead from a half pipe I shoot the crowd out in foreign I can't remember my own Sam But I found one– For a dollar, For a wrong word And a hard song And a larger Go look, Now remember a rock star. Now that you're so stolen, Go back! You're unorthodox! Clear cut: you're a tragic Magic act– Now I'm back with a bag of tricks with my back out Learn your lessons. CUT BACK TO. INT./EXT. YO I'M SAYING A WIIIILD PARTY. WHENEVER YO, WHO DOES THIS?! What a party! I WANT TO GO HOME NOW! —I'M CALLING THE COPS! THIS IS YOUR HOUSE!!! {Enter The Multiverse} …And it's all house music all night. No, to that. Beg your pardon? I won't come. [The Festival Project ™ ] Now articulate your face muscles. My wat. Now you're bar banned. I had this at a festival once. What is it? A “whore salad” … All with a side of oxygen. Now you're in a tunnel. (A tunnel, a scone and a croissant) Now you're worse, warthog, immortal (Call your dad back, You're a bad son.) Now I'm out in the canyon With Chester McBadBat I got chest hair, And a straight out of the badlands Yes, I did mention this to my cousin Evan, But why ask that? So you heard everything I thought? Mmhmm. Hard times. —and everyone else? What is it like to have love man? I been locked out I'm a rock addict, But I'm damned now How's that fountain coming along? SUNNI BLU …it's just water. ARCHITECHT …yeah it's water. It's a fountain. SUNNI BLU —I WANT CHOCOLATE. Whose here? Not that guy! Four more beers? I just realized I never ever bought mine; I always had a tough guy. Box. What? Fight! I'm Eurovision And a hard remix— Ten minutes in and I realize I've already heard this. Oh yea, This Golden band of art, love and protection Perfection. Ohshea, shit! Who invited you? I got a 311 from Questlove!! Is that a beeper?! CUBE Since when are we on a first name basis? It would be weird to call you “ICE CUBE” Why's that? You. know? [the beeper goes off three more times] CUBE oh shit! What?! CUBE Nothin! Where the yard at?! sometimes it doesn't really matter Who the dialogue comes out of The whole point Is to put the art back into art projects Cause we all know it's been constructed And commercialized To the point of destruction And almost no promise For independent artists at all. So who is it with CUBE? Could be me. Could be you. Could be U— If it's not, It was all just a long lost passion project A collective God Complex. Give myself a hug Cause nobody else will God gave my case a Grace Cause somebody lost Will. Oh, Karen. Come, heart attack. Come karma, Come hot dogs Come Christmas time at the Plaza Come on, hard death. Come on. Hard Rock Hotel? Nah, Equinox. Alright. Hudson. Yards. Now you're in a tunnel Does your heart hurt? (You should clutch it.) Put your patchwork in a hard drive This is hard times, You can't come back. O! But they do take dear DRATCH and run with it! I go run along to Corrections, And ginger snaps for crosswords On hard workers So fax the whole document! Do you know what? Horcruxes! Hot lunches, yuck. Hockey! I want off this planet so bad I cross cross my fingers at crosswalks And oncoming trains but– Don't look either way before I walk. So pull a shotgun at all that I was one strong donkey before I got one address. Now I just redress the cause All I want is my bundle back. Yuck! Care for it at all? Yeah, yours, but she's a danger to humanity. Yeah, mine but I'm an honest hybrid horrid hunter. On time? I just got it at Sephora. On time, Like I never even got that. I want to be loved just to be looked at But since in this life I can't turn the clock back I've discovered it's hell that my body was born as. — I discovered it's hell that my body was born as. Such a problem when you know That even the great Rosie O'Donnell once wanted blue eyes. Now I forget where I trailed off… What a drawback. I'm all out of patience. Crypto, I tip toe now over eggshells No home for her Hard times And hard times. No code offered, No I don't fall for that'd But where's the snowfall over all the rot out back? Hard times. Hard times. Hard times. As the bell tolls And the well swells whole And the umpire does rack them Up; Nobody works harder than Hard times Hard times Hard times. Yeah, that's four Aces Up, Diamond. Run for your forks and your knives And your daughters and mothers and father And home family comfort And cufflinks and loafers, And sport coats and Your life. Your life. Your life. [The Festival Project ™] —-Chroma111. THE IMPENATRABLE TEN is INEVITABLY DISBANDED. Inevitably??? Inevitably! but not indefinitely. Oh, I guess. Alright. SILENCE. {Enter The Multiverse.} I don't want to be here. No one does. You are sending mixed messages. Imm not sending any messages… — with your brain. L E G E N D S Of course. Electromagnetic signaling Of course. I told you this had gone strange. Severely. Now how do I explain from this time how to get back to our time If there's no direct translation between our language and that one? Maybe you can't explain it. These are hard facts. So I suggest the use of highly trained telepaths. That far back? These things are possibly connected even in this time, theoretically using our past; I might suggest Telesynthesis— considering these planetary electromagnetics to which this entire planet is hardwired. …hardwired. That's right. Ascension. Hard times. Madame President? Get lost. [Secret President] I get it. You're a whistleblower. I'm not that. A shadow government official. Also wrong. Why else would you run for office? I'm trying to get shot at. They told me you were funny. But they didn't say anything about my gauntlet? Your—what? You know. My conquests—professional accomplishments? Your God complex? I know all about that. Perhaps it's not a complex. But a ‘gauntlet'? You're a journalist aren't you? I'm giving you some high art concepts. (Because for the sake of the rhyme, And please, for God's sakes, Gemini, In prose form Without the use of tables. ) I R O N I C —Deathwish. [The Festival Project ™] Season 12, Episode 01. REBEL1. Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū I would think it psychosomatic, but in less than 24 hours of restarting my vitamin regimen, my mood was so improved that I could not for a second overlook that without taking vitamins, I was missing something. Even if my newly concocted super-juice recipes were putting a curb in my abdominal muscles that even I was sure didn't entirely belong there, pairing this development with the Peloton, it was a long and diagonal, out-of-sorts thing that stuck out as if it was on somebody else's body and not mine. Still, I had to deal with the heavy weight of the drooping skin and belly that hung as if it very much did belong to me but wasn't budging, despite my attempts at a flat stomach and having been so well overstretched at one point by medical obesity and double occupancy that it was, at the very least to say, insurgically impossible. However, my brain went on having ways of wrapping my mind around this—that the rest of my body was quite slim, and even on some days seeming petite, were it not for my massive thighs, which also seemed to have sported a curve to them which was almost attractive, especially well-dressed. But the fun of it was, I wasn't exceptionally well-dressed, because I hadn't wanted to be. In fact, I was under obligation always to be about in the men's clothes I'd found because they were designer, and it was even something like a fashion statement that I dressed this grotesquely and in overlarge articles because of the astounding amount of weight I'd lost and the strange way my body seemed to be taking an athletic shape. Still, there was this factor that I was actually always somehow in an excruciating amount of pain, especially waking up, and though some of that I would have applied to being psychosomatic—in just that it was the pure stress of the disembodied torture I was undergoing in one way or another—whether anybody would have admitted it or not, or whether or not the unknown parties in question were going to be justified for it, I still hadn't an idea or thought as to what my unstructured purpose was. And though I sat beautifully controlled into doing music as a default, I was looking at the numbers, and the massive amount of people doing remarkably well because they could afford to do so, or were lucky, or were unbearably beautiful and so could do anything they wanted, and I too much so was not that. In fact, it was almost by design my failure and my constant struggle that even the universe seemed to look down upon me in such a way that it pitied me in a harrowing attempt at karmic justice done for the seeming evil and harsh things being done. It was true that someone had set out to torture me, and this might have once been the way of the illuminated artist and tortured soul; however, having taken so metaphorically into my own boat such heavy water of grief and loss, and drowning, I was sinking into the natural ocean of monstrous storms my body was saying in so many ways it could do no more. My mind was strong—and I could take the torture for innumerable amounts of time without becoming so much more frustrated than to just stop, or start heavy breathing, or even compulsively masturbate until one world faded deeply into another and I just didn't care. But realistically, the things that were being done pointed at a strategic and tactical, military-trained psychological governing of my own autonomy. And because I knew this, I also knew whoever was responsible was more than capable of covering their tracks to the point of disappearance—an inescapable hell of unseen trauma. The basis of it was that if I raised my concerns with any law enforcement or police, I was just as often ignored, ridiculed, or worse—thought of as symptomatic of some psychological condition I well knew and understood I did not have, all because what I did seem to possess—this undying force of color and creative ingenuity that could not quite be captured or marketed to improve the bankbook of others with a sudden onset—was unacceptable in such a way that I could become some sort of object that was in no way useful besides to experiment and then observe what I might become next, all the while knowing I would not and could not stay in one form or another too long without becoming such an obvious target. —Death of a Superstar DJ. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events. The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit. This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state. The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Frame: The protagonist is subjected to "noise harassment"—a tactic dramatized here but rooted in the known reality of tenant displacement and "psychological attrition." The narrative depicts a process of "Soul Murder" ( also known as spiritual warfare or sociopolitical targeting) orchestrated by a hostile apparatus. The antagonist is "The Institution," representing deep-state mechanisms that view multicultural intellectualism as a threat. The story allegorically dramatizes the invisible mechanisms that enforce racial hierarchy, depicting how broken social systems weaponize psychological practices against the individual. Artist's Note: This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as an artistic testament to the psychological siege endured from to 2023-2025. It is a creative record of survival against a hostile state architecture. The following is a creative non-fiction horror manifesto regarding the psychological assassination of a multicultural American artist. It documents—through the lens of Afro-Surrealism—how modern surveillance technology and sonic harassment are experienced by a targeted individual. As it stands, It has become a modern sequel which adequately and astonishingly mirrors the civil rights struggles of the 1960s, set in the present day. "The protagonist is being subjected to 'noise harassment'—a known tactic used by landlords and corrupt entities to displace tenants for financial and political gain. The sound is weaponized to induce sleep deprivation and psychological attrition, dismantling of their ego and will to live, orchestrated by a hostile state apparatus. The story dramatizes over time the invisible mechanisms (the 'Deep State') that enforce racial hierarchy and and psychological genocide, weaponizing broken social systems and unfounded psychological practices as biological weapons. This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as evidence of the psychological siege endured from 2023-2025. It is a transcript of survival against a hostile state architecture. This project spans an unlimited multiprojectoral arc of over two years of chronic tactical violence, reaching into historical and theatrical projections and parallels over the all documented records of human existence through time and space. REBEL1. I am hypnotized; I am pain I am cryptonite I am in pain I am penalized; I am pinned l I am pinstripes on wide ties; I am Him. Pinterest, pintrest, pinholes And disinterest Centered sentiments And immigrants And ministrations, Images and insolence (And indulgences, patronages) Eclipses and rip titles, Paris Tiptons, And temptation Missing wages Push to shove and What are you doing, motherfucker?! To say the least, I'm a bit unconventional. Unexplainable joy And invisible ties and invincible triads Unimatatable charm, And prehensile times And forefathers before us Unpolished Well dressed hampers on leather and fortunes And doing and donuts and do this and don't-touches Mumbles of soft till and lunches and subtle distraction And coming construction Wages Ions I afford you To die now Like I want He's better at the body code Than old Colbert, He's one for one now Could this corrupt you— I didn't destroy her, I offered a suffix No longer for your number No longer for your hard times No longer for your warrants No longer No longer No four times Don't pan to the audience I'm a hole slow meltdown Don't man your own So wait, am I also telepathic? Yeah, that. Oh my! Is it like a two-way broadcast type— thing? Yeah, that part… Oh no, I'm so sorry. No you're not. You're right. I told you not to go looking into my thoughts. Check it all out, I bought prototypes Check it all out, I undug libraries Check it out, You're all alone at Walmart No longer working part time, The doors are closed and locked now, They're bound to stage a lock out You're better off on hard times You're better off on Lala Land No— Don't deport I want my art back No, don't deport; It's just a cake walk to apartheid, Remember mine now? Cheers to the world's longest monologues. Kudos to your picking up cabbage Remember the back for the wartimes The bagpipes have sounded; You're back to astonish us. No! I must have you a lesson; I'm back with my old will and testament No more Old Testament wanted I bought your sticks in Leviticus And so, Again– CUT TO: WILD PARTY. INT.EXT./WHENEVER HOW SICK IS THIS? NO! NOT THAT! I raised the dead from a half pipe I shoot the crowd out in foreign I can't remember my own Sam But I found one– For a dollar, For a wrong word And a hard song And a larger Go look, Now remember a rock star. Now that you're so stolen, Go back! You're unorthodox! Clear cut: you're a tragic Magic act– Now I'm back with a bag of tricks with my back out Learn your lessons. CUT BACK TO. INT./EXT. YO I'M SAYING A WIIIILD PARTY. WHENEVER YO, WHO DOES THIS?! What a party! I WANT TO GO HOME NOW! —I'M CALLING THE COPS! THIS IS YOUR HOUSE!!! {Enter The Multiverse} …And it's all house music all night. No, to that. Beg your pardon? I won't come. [The Festival Project ™ ] Now articulate your face muscles. My wat. Now you're bar banned. I had this at a festival once. What is it? A “whore salad” … All with a side of oxygen. Now you're in a tunnel. (A tunnel, a scone and a croissant) Now you're worse, warthog, immortal (Call your dad back, You're a bad son.) Now I'm out in the canyon With Chester McBadBat I got chest hair, And a straight out of the badlands Yes, I did mention this to my cousin Evan, But why ask that? So you heard everything I thought? Mmhmm. Hard times. —and everyone else? What is it like to have love man? I been locked out I'm a rock addict, But I'm damned now How's that fountain coming along? SUNNI BLU …it's just water. ARCHITECHT …yeah it's water. It's a fountain. SUNNI BLU —I WANT CHOCOLATE. Whose here? Not that guy! Four more beers? I just realized I never ever bought mine; I always had a tough guy. Box. What? Fight! I'm Eurovision And a hard remix— Ten minutes in and I realize I've already heard this. Oh yea, This Golden band of art, love and protection Perfection. Ohshea, shit! Who invited you? I got a 311 from Questlove!! Is that a beeper?! CUBE Since when are we on a first name basis? It would be weird to call you “ICE CUBE” Why's that? You. know? [the beeper goes off three more times] CUBE oh shit! What?! CUBE Nothin! Where the yard at?! sometimes it doesn't really matter Who the dialogue comes out of The whole point Is to put the art back into art projects Cause we all know it's been constructed And commercialized To the point of destruction And almost no promise For independent artists at all. So who is it with CUBE? Could be me. Could be you. Could be U— If it's not, It was all just a long lost passion project A collective God Complex. Give myself a hug Cause nobody else will God gave my case a Grace Cause somebody lost Will. Oh, Karen. Come, heart attack. Come karma, Come hot dogs Come Christmas time at the Plaza Come on, hard death. Come on. Hard Rock Hotel? Nah, Equinox. Alright. Hudson. Yards. Now you're in a tunnel Does your heart hurt? (You should clutch it.) Put your patchwork in a hard drive This is hard times, You can't come back. O! But they do take dear DRATCH and run with it! I go run along to Corrections, And ginger snaps for crosswords On hard workers So fax the whole document! Do you know what? Horcruxes! Hot lunches, yuck. Hockey! I want off this planet so bad I cross cross my fingers at crosswalks And oncoming trains but– Don't look either way before I walk. So pull a shotgun at all that I was one strong donkey before I got one address. Now I just redress the cause All I want is my bundle back. Yuck! Care for it at all? Yeah, yours, but she's a danger to humanity. Yeah, mine but I'm an honest hybrid horrid hunter. On time? I just got it at Sephora. On time, Like I never even got that. I want to be loved just to be looked at But since in this life I can't turn the clock back I've discovered it's hell that my body was born as. — I discovered it's hell that my body was born as. Such a problem when you know That even the great Rosie O'Donnell once wanted blue eyes. Now I forget where I trailed off… What a drawback. I'm all out of patience. Crypto, I tip toe now over eggshells No home for her Hard times And hard times. No code offered, No I don't fall for that'd But where's the snowfall over all the rot out back? Hard times. Hard times. Hard times. As the bell tolls And the well swells whole And the umpire does rack them Up; Nobody works harder than Hard times Hard times Hard times. Yeah, that's four Aces Up, Diamond. Run for your forks and your knives And your daughters and mothers and father And home family comfort And cufflinks and loafers, And sport coats and Your life. Your life. Your life. [The Festival Project ™] —-Chroma111. THE IMPENATRABLE TEN is INEVITABLY DISBANDED. Inevitably??? Inevitably! but not indefinitely. Oh, I guess. Alright. SILENCE. {Enter The Multiverse.} I don't want to be here. No one does. You are sending mixed messages. Imm not sending any messages… — with your brain. L E G E N D S Of course. Electromagnetic signaling Of course. I told you this had gone strange. Severely. Now how do I explain from this time how to get back to our time If there's no direct translation between our language and that one? Maybe you can't explain it. These are hard facts. So I suggest the use of highly trained telepaths. That far back? These things are possibly connected even in this time, theoretically using our past; I might suggest Telesynthesis— considering these planetary electromagnetics to which this entire planet is hardwired. …hardwired. That's right. Ascension. Hard times. Madame President? Get lost. [Secret President] I get it. You're a whistleblower. I'm not that. A shadow government official. Also wrong. Why else would you run for office? I'm trying to get shot at. They told me you were funny. But they didn't say anything about my gauntlet? Your—what? You know. My conquests—professional accomplishments? Your God complex? I know all about that. Perhaps it's not a complex. But a ‘gauntlet'? You're a journalist aren't you? I'm giving you some high art concepts. (Because for the sake of the rhyme, And please, for God's sakes, Gemini, In prose form Without the use of tables. ) I R O N I C —Deathwish. [The Festival Project ™] Season 12, Episode 01. REBEL1. Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū I would think it psychosomatic, but in less than 24 hours of restarting my vitamin regimen, my mood was so improved that I could not for a second overlook that without taking vitamins, I was missing something. Even if my newly concocted super-juice recipes were putting a curb in my abdominal muscles that even I was sure didn't entirely belong there, pairing this development with the Peloton, it was a long and diagonal, out-of-sorts thing that stuck out as if it was on somebody else's body and not mine. Still, I had to deal with the heavy weight of the drooping skin and belly that hung as if it very much did belong to me but wasn't budging, despite my attempts at a flat stomach and having been so well overstretched at one point by medical obesity and double occupancy that it was, at the very least to say, insurgically impossible. However, my brain went on having ways of wrapping my mind around this—that the rest of my body was quite slim, and even on some days seeming petite, were it not for my massive thighs, which also seemed to have sported a curve to them which was almost attractive, especially well-dressed. But the fun of it was, I wasn't exceptionally well-dressed, because I hadn't wanted to be. In fact, I was under obligation always to be about in the men's clothes I'd found because they were designer, and it was even something like a fashion statement that I dressed this grotesquely and in overlarge articles because of the astounding amount of weight I'd lost and the strange way my body seemed to be taking an athletic shape. Still, there was this factor that I was actually always somehow in an excruciating amount of pain, especially waking up, and though some of that I would have applied to being psychosomatic—in just that it was the pure stress of the disembodied torture I was undergoing in one way or another—whether anybody would have admitted it or not, or whether or not the unknown parties in question were going to be justified for it, I still hadn't an idea or thought as to what my unstructured purpose was. And though I sat beautifully controlled into doing music as a default, I was looking at the numbers, and the massive amount of people doing remarkably well because they could afford to do so, or were lucky, or were unbearably beautiful and so could do anything they wanted, and I too much so was not that. In fact, it was almost by design my failure and my constant struggle that even the universe seemed to look down upon me in such a way that it pitied me in a harrowing attempt at karmic justice done for the seeming evil and harsh things being done. It was true that someone had set out to torture me, and this might have once been the way of the illuminated artist and tortured soul; however, having taken so metaphorically into my own boat such heavy water of grief and loss, and drowning, I was sinking into the natural ocean of monstrous storms my body was saying in so many ways it could do no more. My mind was strong—and I could take the torture for innumerable amounts of time without becoming so much more frustrated than to just stop, or start heavy breathing, or even compulsively masturbate until one world faded deeply into another and I just didn't care. But realistically, the things that were being done pointed at a strategic and tactical, military-trained psychological governing of my own autonomy. And because I knew this, I also knew whoever was responsible was more than capable of covering their tracks to the point of disappearance—an inescapable hell of unseen trauma. The basis of it was that if I raised my concerns with any law enforcement or police, I was just as often ignored, ridiculed, or worse—thought of as symptomatic of some psychological condition I well knew and understood I did not have, all because what I did seem to possess—this undying force of color and creative ingenuity that could not quite be captured or marketed to improve the bankbook of others with a sudden onset—was unacceptable in such a way that I could become some sort of object that was in no way useful besides to experiment and then observe what I might become next, all the while knowing I would not and could not stay in one form or another too long without becoming such an obvious target. —Death of a Superstar DJ. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events. The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit. This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state. The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Frame: The protagonist is subjected to "noise harassment"—a tactic dramatized here but rooted in the known reality of tenant displacement and "psychological attrition." The narrative depicts a process of "Soul Murder" ( also known as spiritual warfare or sociopolitical targeting) orchestrated by a hostile apparatus. The antagonist is "The Institution," representing deep-state mechanisms that view multicultural intellectualism as a threat. The story allegorically dramatizes the invisible mechanisms that enforce racial hierarchy, depicting how broken social systems weaponize psychological practices against the individual. Artist's Note: This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as an artistic testament to the psychological siege endured from to 2023-2025. It is a creative record of survival against a hostile state architecture. The following is a creative non-fiction horror manifesto regarding the psychological assassination of a multicultural American artist. It documents—through the lens of Afro-Surrealism—how modern surveillance technology and sonic harassment are experienced by a targeted individual. As it stands, It has become a modern sequel which adequately and astonishingly mirrors the civil rights struggles of the 1960s, set in the present day. "The protagonist is being subjected to 'noise harassment'—a known tactic used by landlords and corrupt entities to displace tenants for financial and political gain. The sound is weaponized to induce sleep deprivation and psychological attrition, dismantling of their ego and will to live, orchestrated by a hostile state apparatus. The story dramatizes over time the invisible mechanisms (the 'Deep State') that enforce racial hierarchy and and psychological genocide, weaponizing broken social systems and unfounded psychological practices as biological weapons. This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as evidence of the psychological siege endured from 2023-2025. It is a transcript of survival against a hostile state architecture. This project spans an unlimited multiprojectoral arc of over two years of chronic tactical violence, reaching into historical and theatrical projections and parallels over the all documented records of human existence through time and space. REBEL1. I am hypnotized; I am pain I am cryptonite I am in pain I am penalized; I am pinned l I am pinstripes on wide ties; I am Him. Pinterest, pintrest, pinholes And disinterest Centered sentiments And immigrants And ministrations, Images and insolence (And indulgences, patronages) Eclipses and rip titles, Paris Tiptons, And temptation Missing wages Push to shove and What are you doing, motherfucker?! To say the least, I'm a bit unconventional. Unexplainable joy And invisible ties and invincible triads Unimatatable charm, And prehensile times And forefathers before us Unpolished Well dressed hampers on leather and fortunes And doing and donuts and do this and don't-touches Mumbles of soft till and lunches and subtle distraction And coming construction Wages Ions I afford you To die now Like I want He's better at the body code Than old Colbert, He's one for one now Could this corrupt you— I didn't destroy her, I offered a suffix No longer for your number No longer for your hard times No longer for your warrants No longer No longer No four times Don't pan to the audience I'm a hole slow meltdown Don't man your own So wait, am I also telepathic? Yeah, that. Oh my! Is it like a two-way broadcast type— thing? Yeah, that part… Oh no, I'm so sorry. No you're not. You're right. I told you not to go looking into my thoughts. Check it all out, I bought prototypes Check it all out, I undug libraries Check it out, You're all alone at Walmart No longer working part time, The doors are closed and locked now, They're bound to stage a lock out You're better off on hard times You're better off on Lala Land No— Don't deport I want my art back No, don't deport; It's just a cake walk to apartheid, Remember mine now? Cheers to the world's longest monologues. Kudos to your picking up cabbage Remember the back for the wartimes The bagpipes have sounded; You're back to astonish us. No! I must have you a lesson; I'm back with my old will and testament No more Old Testament wanted I bought your sticks in Leviticus And so, Again– CUT TO: WILD PARTY. INT.EXT./WHENEVER HOW SICK IS THIS? NO! NOT THAT! I raised the dead from a half pipe I shoot the crowd out in foreign I can't remember my own Sam But I found one– For a dollar, For a wrong word And a hard song And a larger Go look, Now remember a rock star. Now that you're so stolen, Go back! You're unorthodox! Clear cut: you're a tragic Magic act– Now I'm back with a bag of tricks with my back out Learn your lessons. CUT BACK TO. INT./EXT. YO I'M SAYING A WIIIILD PARTY. WHENEVER YO, WHO DOES THIS?! What a party! I WANT TO GO HOME NOW! —I'M CALLING THE COPS! THIS IS YOUR HOUSE!!! {Enter The Multiverse} …And it's all house music all night. No, to that. Beg your pardon? I won't come. [The Festival Project ™ ] Now articulate your face muscles. My wat. Now you're bar banned. I had this at a festival once. What is it? A “whore salad” … All with a side of oxygen. Now you're in a tunnel. (A tunnel, a scone and a croissant) Now you're worse, warthog, immortal (Call your dad back, You're a bad son.) Now I'm out in the canyon With Chester McBadBat I got chest hair, And a straight out of the badlands Yes, I did mention this to my cousin Evan, But why ask that? So you heard everything I thought? Mmhmm. Hard times. —and everyone else? What is it like to have love man? I been locked out I'm a rock addict, But I'm damned now How's that fountain coming along? SUNNI BLU …it's just water. ARCHITECHT …yeah it's water. It's a fountain. SUNNI BLU —I WANT CHOCOLATE. Whose here? Not that guy! Four more beers? I just realized I never ever bought mine; I always had a tough guy. Box. What? Fight! I'm Eurovision And a hard remix— Ten minutes in and I realize I've already heard this. Oh yea, This Golden band of art, love and protection Perfection. Ohshea, shit! Who invited you? I got a 311 from Questlove!! Is that a beeper?! CUBE Since when are we on a first name basis? It would be weird to call you “ICE CUBE” Why's that? You. know? [the beeper goes off three more times] CUBE oh shit! What?! CUBE Nothin! Where the yard at?! sometimes it doesn't really matter Who the dialogue comes out of The whole point Is to put the art back into art projects Cause we all know it's been constructed And commercialized To the point of destruction And almost no promise For independent artists at all. So who is it with CUBE? Could be me. Could be you. Could be U— If it's not, It was all just a long lost passion project A collective God Complex. Give myself a hug Cause nobody else will God gave my case a Grace Cause somebody lost Will. Oh, Karen. Come, heart attack. Come karma, Come hot dogs Come Christmas time at the Plaza Come on, hard death. Come on. Hard Rock Hotel? Nah, Equinox. Alright. Hudson. Yards. Now you're in a tunnel Does your heart hurt? (You should clutch it.) Put your patchwork in a hard drive This is hard times, You can't come back. O! But they do take dear DRATCH and run with it! I go run along to Corrections, And ginger snaps for crosswords On hard workers So fax the whole document! Do you know what? Horcruxes! Hot lunches, yuck. Hockey! I want off this planet so bad I cross cross my fingers at crosswalks And oncoming trains but– Don't look either way before I walk. So pull a shotgun at all that I was one strong donkey before I got one address. Now I just redress the cause All I want is my bundle back. Yuck! Care for it at all? Yeah, yours, but she's a danger to humanity. Yeah, mine but I'm an honest hybrid horrid hunter. On time? I just got it at Sephora. On time, Like I never even got that. I want to be loved just to be looked at But since in this life I can't turn the clock back I've discovered it's hell that my body was born as. — I discovered it's hell that my body was born as. Such a problem when you know That even the great Rosie O'Donnell once wanted blue eyes. Now I forget where I trailed off… What a drawback. I'm all out of patience. Crypto, I tip toe now over eggshells No home for her Hard times And hard times. No code offered, No I don't fall for that'd But where's the snowfall over all the rot out back? Hard times. Hard times. Hard times. As the bell tolls And the well swells whole And the umpire does rack them Up; Nobody works harder than Hard times Hard times Hard times. Yeah, that's four Aces Up, Diamond. Run for your forks and your knives And your daughters and mothers and father And home family comfort And cufflinks and loafers, And sport coats and Your life. Your life. Your life. [The Festival Project ™] —-Chroma111. THE IMPENATRABLE TEN is INEVITABLY DISBANDED. Inevitably??? Inevitably! but not indefinitely. Oh, I guess. Alright. SILENCE. {Enter The Multiverse.} I don't want to be here. No one does. You are sending mixed messages. Imm not sending any messages… — with your brain. L E G E N D S Of course. Electromagnetic signaling Of course. I told you this had gone strange. Severely. Now how do I explain from this time how to get back to our time If there's no direct translation between our language and that one? Maybe you can't explain it. These are hard facts. So I suggest the use of highly trained telepaths. That far back? These things are possibly connected even in this time, theoretically using our past; I might suggest Telesynthesis— considering these planetary electromagnetics to which this entire planet is hardwired. …hardwired. That's right. Ascension. Hard times. Madame President? Get lost. [Secret President] I get it. You're a whistleblower. I'm not that. A shadow government official. Also wrong. Why else would you run for office? I'm trying to get shot at. They told me you were funny. But they didn't say anything about my gauntlet? Your—what? You know. My conquests—professional accomplishments? Your God complex? I know all about that. Perhaps it's not a complex. But a ‘gauntlet'? You're a journalist aren't you? I'm giving you some high art concepts. (Because for the sake of the rhyme, And please, for God's sakes, Gemini, In prose form Without the use of tables. ) I R O N I C —Deathwish. [The Festival Project ™] Season 12, Episode 01. REBEL1. Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū I would think it psychosomatic, but in less than 24 hours of restarting my vitamin regimen, my mood was so improved that I could not for a second overlook that without taking vitamins, I was missing something. Even if my newly concocted super-juice recipes were putting a curb in my abdominal muscles that even I was sure didn't entirely belong there, pairing this development with the Peloton, it was a long and diagonal, out-of-sorts thing that stuck out as if it was on somebody else's body and not mine. Still, I had to deal with the heavy weight of the drooping skin and belly that hung as if it very much did belong to me but wasn't budging, despite my attempts at a flat stomach and having been so well overstretched at one point by medical obesity and double occupancy that it was, at the very least to say, insurgically impossible. However, my brain went on having ways of wrapping my mind around this—that the rest of my body was quite slim, and even on some days seeming petite, were it not for my massive thighs, which also seemed to have sported a curve to them which was almost attractive, especially well-dressed. But the fun of it was, I wasn't exceptionally well-dressed, because I hadn't wanted to be. In fact, I was under obligation always to be about in the men's clothes I'd found because they were designer, and it was even something like a fashion statement that I dressed this grotesquely and in overlarge articles because of the astounding amount of weight I'd lost and the strange way my body seemed to be taking an athletic shape. Still, there was this factor that I was actually always somehow in an excruciating amount of pain, especially waking up, and though some of that I would have applied to being psychosomatic—in just that it was the pure stress of the disembodied torture I was undergoing in one way or another—whether anybody would have admitted it or not, or whether or not the unknown parties in question were going to be justified for it, I still hadn't an idea or thought as to what my unstructured purpose was. And though I sat beautifully controlled into doing music as a default, I was looking at the numbers, and the massive amount of people doing remarkably well because they could afford to do so, or were lucky, or were unbearably beautiful and so could do anything they wanted, and I too much so was not that. In fact, it was almost by design my failure and my constant struggle that even the universe seemed to look down upon me in such a way that it pitied me in a harrowing attempt at karmic justice done for the seeming evil and harsh things being done. It was true that someone had set out to torture me, and this might have once been the way of the illuminated artist and tortured soul; however, having taken so metaphorically into my own boat such heavy water of grief and loss, and drowning, I was sinking into the natural ocean of monstrous storms my body was saying in so many ways it could do no more. My mind was strong—and I could take the torture for innumerable amounts of time without becoming so much more frustrated than to just stop, or start heavy breathing, or even compulsively masturbate until one world faded deeply into another and I just didn't care. But realistically, the things that were being done pointed at a strategic and tactical, military-trained psychological governing of my own autonomy. And because I knew this, I also knew whoever was responsible was more than capable of covering their tracks to the point of disappearance—an inescapable hell of unseen trauma. The basis of it was that if I raised my concerns with any law enforcement or police, I was just as often ignored, ridiculed, or worse—thought of as symptomatic of some psychological condition I well knew and understood I did not have, all because what I did seem to possess—this undying force of color and creative ingenuity that could not quite be captured or marketed to improve the bankbook of others with a sudden onset—was unacceptable in such a way that I could become some sort of object that was in no way useful besides to experiment and then observe what I might become next, all the while knowing I would not and could not stay in one form or another too long without becoming such an obvious target. —Death of a Superstar DJ. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

Diego Barnes is a natural performance artist on a mission. To make the world a better place—and make sure everyone has a blast doing it. As a community organizer, his role that acolytes have crowned him with is Madame President. His platform is @Project2049 Witness it HERE. Diego takes you on his journey into emerging as a leader with generosity and humilty. And most important of all hilarity. He's got some big ideas worth listening to here. If you want feel personally empowered to make the world a better place, this is the Dr. Lisa episode for you. Sign up for Diego's Substack: @fromthedeskofmadampresident HERE

Candi Waller, Madame President of Bowie TV Sports on Commanders RFK return by Ed Lane

Temas del día: Verónica Ferraiouli pide no le pregunten sobre sus negocios privados y NO radicó planillas en 2021-2022 Mientras, Thomas Rivera Schatz le vuelve a abrir fuego a Francisco Domenech Gobernadora reconoce aumento de la luz Dimes y diretes entre PPD y PNP por los 100 días de Jenniffer y de Pablo Cámara aprueba el mal llamado proyecto de “libertad religiosa” sin vistas públicas y sin debate. FEMA cancela fondos federales Alexandria Ocasio Cortez, ¿Madame President? La guerra de aranceles de Trump sigue teniendo consecuencias económicas negativas DEPORTES ZONA-5, Tiempo Xtra, con Federico López, con el auspicio de la Cooperativa de Seguros Múltiples See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

In the history of Minor League Baseball there has only been one madame president.  Ed Kasputis interviews Lori Webb who has been president of the Southern League since 2012 about her inspirational story.

#blerdseyeview #blacksuperheroes #entertainmentTap in with us Tuesday 2/18/25 at 8 pm est as we get you all acquainted with the superheroes who are unsung!! From indie comics to mainstream we got you covered! And who knows, this might be a two-parter! (Yes, it's that many black superheroes). Madame President is kicking tail and it looks like we're seeing a “Major” comeback! All this and more Tuesday night at 8 pm est only on YT and Twitch!!! #blerdseyeview #blacksuperheroes #entertainment #comedy #instagoodBlerd Station X BlerDCon: https://www.blerdstation.com/blerdcon...Twitch: / blerdseyeview1 Youtube: / @blerdseyeview BlueSky: @chrisfury.bsky.social

#blerdseyeview #blacksuperheroes #entertainmentTap in with us Tuesday 2/18/25 at 8 pm est as we get you all acquainted with the superheroes who are unsung!! From indie comics to mainstream we got you covered! And who knows, this might be a two-parter! (Yes, it's that many black superheroes). Madame President is kicking tail and it looks like we're seeing a “Major” comeback! All this and more Tuesday night at 8 pm est only on YT and Twitch!!! #blerdseyeview #blacksuperheroes #entertainment #comedy #instagoodBlerd Station X BlerDCon: https://www.blerdstation.com/blerdcon...Twitch: / blerdseyeview1 Youtube: / @blerdseyeview BlueSky: @chrisfury.bsky.social

Let's talk about the new Madame President....

Read beyond the headlines! Support Local Journalism https://www.spokesman.com/podcastoffer

December 24th 2024 Yuriy recounts his tense experience during the 2010 Kyrgyzstan Revolution, where he was mistaken for an Al-Qaeda member. A simple act involving vodka cleared his name and granted him freedom... Check out Yuriy's latest blog on his substack here: https://substack.com/home/post/p-153574207  You can email Yuriy, ask him questions or simply send him a message of support: fightingtherussianbeast@gmail.com    You can help Yuriy and his family by donating to his GoFundMe: https://www.gofundme.com/f/help-yuriys-family   Yuriy's Podbean Patron sign-up to give once or regularly: https://patron.podbean.com/yuriy   Buy Yuriy a coffee here: https://bmc.link/yuriymat  Subscribe to his substack: https://yuriymatsarsky.substack.com/  ----more---- TRANSCRIPT: (Apple Podcasts & Podbean app users can enjoy accurate closed captions)     It is December 24th. I hope you enjoyed my story about Madame President in Kyrgystan. I have plenty of other stories from my past life and I'm happy to share them with you. It helps me distract myself from our rather grim present, and it might help you  understand me better. Today, I'll tell you more about the same trip during which I met President Rosa Otunbayeva. This one is a story about Al-Qaeda.  During the 2010 Revolution in Kyrgyzstan, some of the main events took place in a city called Osh. It was a hometown of a president who had been ousted by the Revolution and most of his inner circle. They tried to consolidate where power there, but they failed due to a fierce resistance of the people. I was in the local regional government building when it was stormed by protestors. The building was defended by supporters of ousted President Kurmanbek Bakiyev. They formed a human chain armed with sticks, rebar, and stones, facing a massive crowd building similar weapons.  About a half a mile away, a unit of local police, about a hundred officers, stood in the grove. We did not intervene but simply observed the brawl. Fortunately, it ended rather quickly and without significant bloodshed. The former president's supporters fled when they realized they were vastly numbered. Only when did the police approach the building. Their major bummed a cigarette off me- I still smoked back then- and complained about how the world was seeing Kyrgyz people at their worst: arm ed with sticks and stones. The police lined up along the facade of a government building while a rally of a victorious crowd began in the square in front of it.  I watched the scene unfold, standing among the crowd. The weather was beautiful. People were happy, the only eye sore was the massive Lenin monument around which the pro-democracy rally took place. A relic of Soviet times. There are still thousands of such Lenin statues across the post-Soviet space.  In the middle of the crowd, two young Kyrgyz men in suits approached me. One whispered that they were from the local branch of main security service- the National Security Committee -and discretely showed me his ID near waist level so our wouldn't see the ever carefully moved his jacket aside to reveal a pistol underneath. The first one will likely asked me to follow them and warned what it was in my best interest to comply.  We left the crowd and walked through nearly deserted streets. Most residents were either at the square or hiding at home fearing further street battles. After about 10 minutes, we arrived at the police station and entered it. It was just as empty. My two escorts led me to a back room where a middle aged civilian man sat looking visibly nervous. Now with all three of them, they began questioning me. They were convinced I was one of the instigators of the revolution in the city. They asked who had sent me and even answered, we without question: Al-Qaeda. Their propaganda had been spreading the narrative for weeks, that Al-Qaeda was behind the unrest, trying to turn kirstan into caliphate. And there I was, obviously not a local, with a long beard wearing cargo pants, which are popular among journalists and jihadists alike. Naturally were decided, I was a terrorist.  I started explaining that I was a reporter, merely observing events and that I had nothing to do with Al-Qaeda. At this, the men in the room pulled out a bottle of vodka and the plastic cup from his drawer. He poured about half the cup and handed it to me. Here, Bin Laden "Prove you are not an Islamist", he said, fully aware that Muslims are strictly forbidden from drinking alcohol.   Kyrgystan is almost entirely a Muslim country, yet I often saw vodka there. It freely sold, consumed at celebration and casually, while those who don't drink are regarded as very religious. I drank with vodka and asked if I could have some more. The three of them burst into laughter and told me I'd proven I was not a jihadist and was free to go.  So that's my Christmas story for you. If you enjoyed it, feel free to send me your regards using the details in the episode description.

December 20th 2024 Yuriy recounts the chaos of the 2010 Kyrgyzstan revolution, culminating in a surprising interview with the interim president. Dressed in a dusty pair of cargo pants and a T-shirt featuring a stoned frog, our hero makes an unexpected impression that you won't want to miss. You can email Yuriy, ask him questions or simply send him a message of support: fightingtherussianbeast@gmail.com    You can help Yuriy and his family by donating to his GoFundMe: https://www.gofundme.com/f/help-yuriys-family   Yuriy's Podbean Patron sign-up to give once or regularly: https://patron.podbean.com/yuriy   Buy Yuriy a coffee here: https://bmc.link/yuriymat  Subscribe to his substack: https://yuriymatsarsky.substack.com/  ----more---- TRANSCRIPT: (Apple Podcasts & Podbean app users can enjoy accurate closed captions)     It is December 20.  Let me tell you the promised story about the Kyrgyz president and the stoned frog. It happened in 2010. That year in April, there was a revolution in Kyrgyzstan corruption in power, poverty among the people, interethnic and inter-regional conflicts- all of these had been building up for a long time and finally exploded. I was sent there to cover the events. I remember arriving in the capital, Bishkek, just as the revolutionaries were seizing the large presidential administration building. The staff had set fire to a pile of documents in the basement and the tons of burning and paper filled everything with smoke.  The then president fled quickly to his homeland in southern Kyrgyzstan. Kyrgyzstan is divided in half by the Tien Shan mountain range. People from the south often don't get along well with those from the north and vice versa. The geography kept them separated and politicians often exploited this division for their own benefit, pitting people from different regions against each other. Long story short, after the revolution triumphed in the capital, the events shifted to the south where the ousted president was trying to consolidate power with the help of local elites and actual mafias. Naturally, I went there too.  Those were very tense weeks. I came under fire several times, was arrested by local security services on suspicion of collaborating with Al-Qaeda and the house I initially stayed in was burned to the ground. In short, it was the kind of real field journalism that makes the profession worth pursuing.  While I was running around the south the new interim government was established in the capital. A journalist friend of mine from Bishkek called to say that the new interim president just appointed by Parliament, wanted to give her first interview to my media outlet. At the time, I worked for an outlet, highly respected in Central Asia. I found a driver willing to take me to Bishkek, and off we went. The president's office agreed the interview would be the next day. That gave me time to recover a bit, wash my clothes and prepare questions.  But just as I checked into my hotel- I still remember its name, 'Dostuk' which means friendship in Kyrgyz- they called me to say plans had changed. Madame President Rosato BWA expected me in an hour.  The hotel was 40 minute walk from the interview location, leaving me almost no time. After several weeks in the fields, I had no clean clothes left. Well, almost none. The only clean item was a T-shirt I'd randomly packed. Someone had given it to me as a gift. I'd never have bought it myself. It featured the word 'Amsterdam' and a stoned frog holding a joint. With no other options. I put it on.  I thought I might buy something more appropriate on the way, but every shop was either looted or boarded up. So I arrived at the president office wearing the frog t-shirt and dusty cargo pants. The sophisticated and elegant woman tried her best to hide any surprise at my appearance, but trust me, it was nearly impossible not to be surprised. So I laid my cards on the table immediately, explaining what I had just arrived from the south an hour earlier after spending a lot of time observing events that nearly turned into a civil war. I told her I had no opportunity to find more appropriate clothing.  We've went out of the way the interview began. But for the first hour it was not me asking the questions, instead, Madame President was asking me about what had been happening in the south. By then the stoned frog didn't bother her anymore.

Madame President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf is a true trailblazer — she served as the president of Liberia from 2006 to 2018 and was the first elected female head of state in Africa. And now she's dedicated to helping other women ascend to leadership roles through her work at the Ellen Johnson Sirleaf Presidential Center for Women and Development.President Sirleaf joined the Bush Institute's Natalie Gonnella-Platts and host Andrew Kaufmann for a conversation with our staff about leading her country after years of division, the need for gender equity, and why young Africans give her hope about the future of the continent and the world.Hear more from Madame President Sirleaf on this episode of The Strategerist, presented by the George W. Bush Presidential Center.

Buckle up, everyone! It's Election Day 2024, and the energy is electric! The stakes are high, the tension is real, and all eyes are on the possibility of a new Madame President. In today's episode, host Stephanie Graham is joined by her trusted battle buddy, Stephisha YCoy Walton, to break down what this pivotal election means for us all.Join them as they dig into the importance of voter mobilization and civic engagement, sharing their own experiences in activism, from phone banking to grassroots organizing. With passion, humor, and a few personal stories, they explore how each vote shapes our collective future and why showing up to the polls matters more than ever. Get ready for an inspiring, motivating, and sometimes funny conversation about the power of our voices—and the responsibilities we hold as citizens.About Stephisha:Stephisha Ycoy Walton is a God-fearing individual who lives life in the gray area of most things, focused on community impact and social justice. Passionate about financial literacy, she is dedicated to coaching, teaching, and mentoring others to improve their financial skillsets. As a licensed financial advisor, member of Oakland's Budget Advisory Commission, and credentialed teacher, Stephisha walks her purpose on purpose. She believes that financial independence is a result of consistent choices and is committed to guiding others toward financial success.Takeaways: The importance of grassroots mobilization to the polls in the 2024 election is crucial. Financial literacy education for youth can empower them to understand money management. Engaging in local elections is just as vital as voting for president and vice president. The impact of social media on political engagement is growing and cannot be overlooked. Community involvement in political processes can shape the future of local education systems. Understanding candidate policies is essential for informed voting during elections. Resources Mentioned:World Economic ForumGreat Awakening Documentary (I think this is it)Episode Summary:With the 2024 election looming on the horizon, Stephanie Graham and Stephisha Ekoy Walton engage listeners in an impassioned discussion about the power of voting and grassroots activism. The episode captures the palpable tension and excitement of election day as the hosts reflect on their experiences mobilizing voters in their communities. Stephanie shares her personal stakes and concerns, emphasizing how the election's outcome could significantly impact the lives of marginalized individuals and families. Through their candid conversation, they highlight the urgency of civic engagement, encouraging listeners to recognize their roles within the democratic process and to take action. The discussion broadens to encompass the significance of financial literacy as a tool for empowerment. Stephisha, with her background as a licensed financial advisor, emphasizes the importance of educating young people about personal finance as a means of breaking the cycle of poverty and fostering independence. The hosts share inspiring stories of their community initiatives aimed at teaching financial skills, and they discuss how these efforts can create a more informed electorate. This emphasis on financial literacy intertwines with their advocacy for social justice, illustrating how understanding economic systems can enhance one's ability to navigate the political landscape effectively.As the episode unfolds, Stephanie and Stephisha reflect on the narratives surrounding Vice President Kamala Harris and the importance of a

Send a Message to the TeamThe team further extends the alternate timeline following a November 1996 assassination of President Clinton.Panel:Don, Chris, Dylan, EricLinks to previous episodes in this arc.Episode 205 Clinton Cut DownEpisode 212: Gore Steps InEpisode 213: Gore Steps In (continued)You can follow and interact with A Fork In Time on….Discord: https://discord.com/invite/xhZEmZMKFSFacebook: https://www.facebook.com/aforkintimeTwitter: @AFITPodcastOur YouTube ChannelIf you enjoy the podcast and want to support it financially, you can help by:Supporting us monthly via Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/aforkintime....or, make a one-time donation via Podfan to A Fork In TimeWebsite: www.aforkintimepodcast.comE-Mail: aforkintimepodcast@gmail.comTheme Music: Conquer by Shane Ivers - https://www.silvermansound.comSupport the show

Somebody keeps writing to me in Punjabi—Arabic? I have to admit, I don't know the difference. Sanskrit? I don't know. At first it looked like gibberish, but then it kept happening. I focused on the way the words were written to find that I enjoyed the characters—the writing was pretty, and I wondered what it meant. Then, I realized my phone had been disconnected for months. I don't have a phone number. —that's when I realized it was The Illuminati. Tales of a Superstar DJ WE're not going to do this again, are we. Mm. We are. I begin to sweat early—awakening with a surge of lightning that seemed to have exploded from inside of me— nurturing a deep thought of nestling a head full of hair as he nibbled on my rouded breasts, our breaths rising and falling in time with one another—the love of a man, the touch of a lover, straddling over me with the Alpha to my Omega, cradled underneath his weight, consumed by passion, awakened by the shock that this—is what I should arise for. A fury of white light bursts from my sacral chakra, as I awaken alone, taking in a deep whisp of air, seeking refuge in the morning light, grasping the handle of power at the reigns—a grip on my sanity, a focus to cherish my own as having escaped the thought of taking a lover, nonesuch a man had yet to be deserved of such a throne. I was nearly pure again—untouched, and unbothered, groomed neatly, and made whole again, in all knowing of the denial of love—the betrayal of man with like kindness as thought of as my own, there was no such a man at all worthy of her satisfaction, The God I am, nestled in the rock of my womb as the light of woman, the mark of time a betrayal to her truth; love and nurture, whimsy and flourish, the flower of her garden, kept whole and unweathered. I warned you. What's left at all besides failure Almost nothing. Be still, Down, boy. Be calm. There, there. Relax. If I see him again in any other man I will deny him and any other man entry to my kingdom. Alas, the pure of heart have come to nourish her. Be still. Stay back. Be true. Heal, boy, Down, boy! This band of hours is nothing but a cage to calling creatures of the night who walk by day and see the light inside of all, To feast before the famine; The sprout has turned from seed, To endless gardens, Grass grows longer underfoot Of Eve and Adam. —of Eve and Adam. —of Eve and Adam. Wait here. Sir. I— He stops for a moment to regain his composure; he is clearly angry, flustered. (Sighing) —said… Wait here. [For Your Consideration] An untapped talent showcases her personality with quips and excerpts containing deep dives of a canonized saga written in all forms and genres from meta to metaphysical; a mysterious mystical journey through the multidimensional realms and worlds of the unknown—art imitating life and vice-versa. C'cxell Soleïl—pen-named CS Stone is the voice of a generation. LESLIE KNOPE and her vice president— Can it be TINA FEY reprising her SARAH PALIN but obviously just a spoof? Obviously. Prepares to hand down the reigns to her successor, whom she “personally” endorsed, although at first… FLASHBACK- BEFORE: NO. But, Madame President— NO. PRESIDENT— NOPE. See? You have to. I don't have to. I'm the President! I don't have to do anything I don't want. You have to endorse this candidate. —Why?! She campaigned for you— Says who? Uhm, everyone… So?! Both campaigns. And she lobbied for you in Iowa. In Iowa? Really? That seems dangerous… It was. [insert radical election violence here] Oh. Wow. Yeah. [beat] So— NO. This is my house! Madam, please. This is MY office!! President knope, come on. YOU'LL NEVER TAKE THIS FROM ME. I AM THE DICTATOR NOW. THIS IS MY FIRST DICTATION. LESLIE! HOW DARE YOU USE MY FIRST NAME! OFF WITH YOUR HEAD. What!! SECRET SERVICE, SECRET SERVICE— SIEZE HIM. The secret service rushes in and football tackles the President's advisor to the ground— the Vice President enters. VICE PRESIDENT Oh, dear. CUT BACK TO: The president's advisor cracks his neck, still obviously injuried and worried recalling the flashback. Can it be that guy from 30 rock who was jack's assistant? I hope so? JONATHAN. What is it. GET IN HERE. Yes, sir. Wtf, how does he still work for Jack? Idk. Continuity. You're not going to believe this. Believe what, sir. Get in here. JACK watches his TV with bewilderment; he has just learned the election results of the most recent presidential election. Tell me there's something wrong with my eyes. Continuity! Continuity! How am I supposed to get to work? Well, how do you usually get to work. Town car. Ah… Hellicopter. I see. [beat] Well, there's a Manhattan Bound L down the street. Oh, God. Or the M is around the corner, if you'd prefer. Why on Earth would I ‘prefer'— Have a good day. [she slams the door. He stands for a moment, deflated—then the door swings open and a lunch box is shoved into his chest; the door is slammed once more, and then audibly bolt locked.] Christ. What'd he say? He said “Christ” Good. Send that guy. He's gonna need him. EMMA WATSON catches the boat. After having been left hanging over the bridge for a undetermined amount of time, EMMA WATSON, whose arm doesn't seem to be tired at all, however appearing to be visibly bored, unnoticed, even by passing tugboats, dangling from the bridge, is by happenstance and quite an odd coincidence, rescinded by a yacht full of familiar friends—familiar, being that they are all celebrities, and friends—being that they are all wealthy members of the entertainment community, who recognize EMMA and urge her to jump as the boat passes under the bridge, which she does—joining the party boat as it sets sail to open sea. [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Somebody keeps writing to me in Punjabi—Arabic? I have to admit, I don't know the difference. Sanskrit? I don't know. At first it looked like gibberish, but then it kept happening. I focused on the way the words were written to find that I enjoyed the characters—the writing was pretty, and I wondered what it meant. Then, I realized my phone had been disconnected for months. I don't have a phone number. —that's when I realized it was The Illuminati. Tales of a Superstar DJ WE're not going to do this again, are we. Mm. We are. I begin to sweat early—awakening with a surge of lightning that seemed to have exploded from inside of me— nurturing a deep thought of nestling a head full of hair as he nibbled on my rouded breasts, our breaths rising and falling in time with one another—the love of a man, the touch of a lover, straddling over me with the Alpha to my Omega, cradled underneath his weight, consumed by passion, awakened by the shock that this—is what I should arise for. A fury of white light bursts from my sacral chakra, as I awaken alone, taking in a deep whisp of air, seeking refuge in the morning light, grasping the handle of power at the reigns—a grip on my sanity, a focus to cherish my own as having escaped the thought of taking a lover, nonesuch a man had yet to be deserved of such a throne. I was nearly pure again—untouched, and unbothered, groomed neatly, and made whole again, in all knowing of the denial of love—the betrayal of man with like kindness as thought of as my own, there was no such a man at all worthy of her satisfaction, The God I am, nestled in the rock of my womb as the light of woman, the mark of time a betrayal to her truth; love and nurture, whimsy and flourish, the flower of her garden, kept whole and unweathered. I warned you. What's left at all besides failure Almost nothing. Be still, Down, boy. Be calm. There, there. Relax. If I see him again in any other man I will deny him and any other man entry to my kingdom. Alas, the pure of heart have come to nourish her. Be still. Stay back. Be true. Heal, boy, Down, boy! This band of hours is nothing but a cage to calling creatures of the night who walk by day and see the light inside of all, To feast before the famine; The sprout has turned from seed, To endless gardens, Grass grows longer underfoot Of Eve and Adam. —of Eve and Adam. —of Eve and Adam. Wait here. Sir. I— He stops for a moment to regain his composure; he is clearly angry, flustered. (Sighing) —said… Wait here. [For Your Consideration] An untapped talent showcases her personality with quips and excerpts containing deep dives of a canonized saga written in all forms and genres from meta to metaphysical; a mysterious mystical journey through the multidimensional realms and worlds of the unknown—art imitating life and vice-versa. C'cxell Soleïl—pen-named CS Stone is the voice of a generation. LESLIE KNOPE and her vice president— Can it be TINA FEY reprising her SARAH PALIN but obviously just a spoof? Obviously. Prepares to hand down the reigns to her successor, whom she “personally” endorsed, although at first… FLASHBACK- BEFORE: NO. But, Madame President— NO. PRESIDENT— NOPE. See? You have to. I don't have to. I'm the President! I don't have to do anything I don't want. You have to endorse this candidate. —Why?! She campaigned for you— Says who? Uhm, everyone… So?! Both campaigns. And she lobbied for you in Iowa. In Iowa? Really? That seems dangerous… It was. [insert radical election violence here] Oh. Wow. Yeah. [beat] So— NO. This is my house! Madam, please. This is MY office!! President knope, come on. YOU'LL NEVER TAKE THIS FROM ME. I AM THE DICTATOR NOW. THIS IS MY FIRST DICTATION. LESLIE! HOW DARE YOU USE MY FIRST NAME! OFF WITH YOUR HEAD. What!! SECRET SERVICE, SECRET SERVICE— SIEZE HIM. The secret service rushes in and football tackles the President's advisor to the ground— the Vice President enters. VICE PRESIDENT Oh, dear. CUT BACK TO: The president's advisor cracks his neck, still obviously injuried and worried recalling the flashback. Can it be that guy from 30 rock who was jack's assistant? I hope so? JONATHAN. What is it. GET IN HERE. Yes, sir. Wtf, how does he still work for Jack? Idk. Continuity. You're not going to believe this. Believe what, sir. Get in here. JACK watches his TV with bewilderment; he has just learned the election results of the most recent presidential election. Tell me there's something wrong with my eyes. Continuity! Continuity! How am I supposed to get to work? Well, how do you usually get to work. Town car. Ah… Hellicopter. I see. [beat] Well, there's a Manhattan Bound L down the street. Oh, God. Or the M is around the corner, if you'd prefer. Why on Earth would I ‘prefer'— Have a good day. [she slams the door. He stands for a moment, deflated—then the door swings open and a lunch box is shoved into his chest; the door is slammed once more, and then audibly bolt locked.] Christ. What'd he say? He said “Christ” Good. Send that guy. He's gonna need him. EMMA WATSON catches the boat. After having been left hanging over the bridge for a undetermined amount of time, EMMA WATSON, whose arm doesn't seem to be tired at all, however appearing to be visibly bored, unnoticed, even by passing tugboats, dangling from the bridge, is by happenstance and quite an odd coincidence, rescinded by a yacht full of familiar friends—familiar, being that they are all celebrities, and friends—being that they are all wealthy members of the entertainment community, who recognize EMMA and urge her to jump as the boat passes under the bridge, which she does—joining the party boat as it sets sail to open sea. [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Somebody keeps writing to me in Punjabi—Arabic? I have to admit, I don't know the difference. Sanskrit? I don't know. At first it looked like gibberish, but then it kept happening. I focused on the way the words were written to find that I enjoyed the characters—the writing was pretty, and I wondered what it meant. Then, I realized my phone had been disconnected for months. I don't have a phone number. —that's when I realized it was The Illuminati. Tales of a Superstar DJ WE're not going to do this again, are we. Mm. We are. I begin to sweat early—awakening with a surge of lightning that seemed to have exploded from inside of me— nurturing a deep thought of nestling a head full of hair as he nibbled on my rouded breasts, our breaths rising and falling in time with one another—the love of a man, the touch of a lover, straddling over me with the Alpha to my Omega, cradled underneath his weight, consumed by passion, awakened by the shock that this—is what I should arise for. A fury of white light bursts from my sacral chakra, as I awaken alone, taking in a deep whisp of air, seeking refuge in the morning light, grasping the handle of power at the reigns—a grip on my sanity, a focus to cherish my own as having escaped the thought of taking a lover, nonesuch a man had yet to be deserved of such a throne. I was nearly pure again—untouched, and unbothered, groomed neatly, and made whole again, in all knowing of the denial of love—the betrayal of man with like kindness as thought of as my own, there was no such a man at all worthy of her satisfaction, The God I am, nestled in the rock of my womb as the light of woman, the mark of time a betrayal to her truth; love and nurture, whimsy and flourish, the flower of her garden, kept whole and unweathered. I warned you. What's left at all besides failure Almost nothing. Be still, Down, boy. Be calm. There, there. Relax. If I see him again in any other man I will deny him and any other man entry to my kingdom. Alas, the pure of heart have come to nourish her. Be still. Stay back. Be true. Heal, boy, Down, boy! This band of hours is nothing but a cage to calling creatures of the night who walk by day and see the light inside of all, To feast before the famine; The sprout has turned from seed, To endless gardens, Grass grows longer underfoot Of Eve and Adam. —of Eve and Adam. —of Eve and Adam. Wait here. Sir. I— He stops for a moment to regain his composure; he is clearly angry, flustered. (Sighing) —said… Wait here. [For Your Consideration] An untapped talent showcases her personality with quips and excerpts containing deep dives of a canonized saga written in all forms and genres from meta to metaphysical; a mysterious mystical journey through the multidimensional realms and worlds of the unknown—art imitating life and vice-versa. C'cxell Soleïl—pen-named CS Stone is the voice of a generation. LESLIE KNOPE and her vice president— Can it be TINA FEY reprising her SARAH PALIN but obviously just a spoof? Obviously. Prepares to hand down the reigns to her successor, whom she “personally” endorsed, although at first… FLASHBACK- BEFORE: NO. But, Madame President— NO. PRESIDENT— NOPE. See? You have to. I don't have to. I'm the President! I don't have to do anything I don't want. You have to endorse this candidate. —Why?! She campaigned for you— Says who? Uhm, everyone… So?! Both campaigns. And she lobbied for you in Iowa. In Iowa? Really? That seems dangerous… It was. [insert radical election violence here] Oh. Wow. Yeah. [beat] So— NO. This is my house! Madam, please. This is MY office!! President knope, come on. YOU'LL NEVER TAKE THIS FROM ME. I AM THE DICTATOR NOW. THIS IS MY FIRST DICTATION. LESLIE! HOW DARE YOU USE MY FIRST NAME! OFF WITH YOUR HEAD. What!! SECRET SERVICE, SECRET SERVICE— SIEZE HIM. The secret service rushes in and football tackles the President's advisor to the ground— the Vice President enters. VICE PRESIDENT Oh, dear. CUT BACK TO: The president's advisor cracks his neck, still obviously injuried and worried recalling the flashback. Can it be that guy from 30 rock who was jack's assistant? I hope so? JONATHAN. What is it. GET IN HERE. Yes, sir. Wtf, how does he still work for Jack? Idk. Continuity. You're not going to believe this. Believe what, sir. Get in here. JACK watches his TV with bewilderment; he has just learned the election results of the most recent presidential election. Tell me there's something wrong with my eyes. Continuity! Continuity! How am I supposed to get to work? Well, how do you usually get to work. Town car. Ah… Hellicopter. I see. [beat] Well, there's a Manhattan Bound L down the street. Oh, God. Or the M is around the corner, if you'd prefer. Why on Earth would I ‘prefer'— Have a good day. [she slams the door. He stands for a moment, deflated—then the door swings open and a lunch box is shoved into his chest; the door is slammed once more, and then audibly bolt locked.] Christ. What'd he say? He said “Christ” Good. Send that guy. He's gonna need him. EMMA WATSON catches the boat. After having been left hanging over the bridge for a undetermined amount of time, EMMA WATSON, whose arm doesn't seem to be tired at all, however appearing to be visibly bored, unnoticed, even by passing tugboats, dangling from the bridge, is by happenstance and quite an odd coincidence, rescinded by a yacht full of familiar friends—familiar, being that they are all celebrities, and friends—being that they are all wealthy members of the entertainment community, who recognize EMMA and urge her to jump as the boat passes under the bridge, which she does—joining the party boat as it sets sail to open sea. [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Somebody keeps writing to me in Punjabi—Arabic? I have to admit, I don't know the difference. Sanskrit? I don't know. At first it looked like gibberish, but then it kept happening. I focused on the way the words were written to find that I enjoyed the characters—the writing was pretty, and I wondered what it meant. Then, I realized my phone had been disconnected for months. I don't have a phone number. —that's when I realized it was The Illuminati. Tales of a Superstar DJ WE're not going to do this again, are we. Mm. We are. I begin to sweat early—awakening with a surge of lightning that seemed to have exploded from inside of me— nurturing a deep thought of nestling a head full of hair as he nibbled on my rouded breasts, our breaths rising and falling in time with one another—the love of a man, the touch of a lover, straddling over me with the Alpha to my Omega, cradled underneath his weight, consumed by passion, awakened by the shock that this—is what I should arise for. A fury of white light bursts from my sacral chakra, as I awaken alone, taking in a deep whisp of air, seeking refuge in the morning light, grasping the handle of power at the reigns—a grip on my sanity, a focus to cherish my own as having escaped the thought of taking a lover, nonesuch a man had yet to be deserved of such a throne. I was nearly pure again—untouched, and unbothered, groomed neatly, and made whole again, in all knowing of the denial of love—the betrayal of man with like kindness as thought of as my own, there was no such a man at all worthy of her satisfaction, The God I am, nestled in the rock of my womb as the light of woman, the mark of time a betrayal to her truth; love and nurture, whimsy and flourish, the flower of her garden, kept whole and unweathered. I warned you. What's left at all besides failure Almost nothing. Be still, Down, boy. Be calm. There, there. Relax. If I see him again in any other man I will deny him and any other man entry to my kingdom. Alas, the pure of heart have come to nourish her. Be still. Stay back. Be true. Heal, boy, Down, boy! This band of hours is nothing but a cage to calling creatures of the night who walk by day and see the light inside of all, To feast before the famine; The sprout has turned from seed, To endless gardens, Grass grows longer underfoot Of Eve and Adam. —of Eve and Adam. —of Eve and Adam. Wait here. Sir. I— He stops for a moment to regain his composure; he is clearly angry, flustered. (Sighing) —said… Wait here. [For Your Consideration] An untapped talent showcases her personality with quips and excerpts containing deep dives of a canonized saga written in all forms and genres from meta to metaphysical; a mysterious mystical journey through the multidimensional realms and worlds of the unknown—art imitating life and vice-versa. C'cxell Soleïl—pen-named CS Stone is the voice of a generation. LESLIE KNOPE and her vice president— Can it be TINA FEY reprising her SARAH PALIN but obviously just a spoof? Obviously. Prepares to hand down the reigns to her successor, whom she “personally” endorsed, although at first… FLASHBACK- BEFORE: NO. But, Madame President— NO. PRESIDENT— NOPE. See? You have to. I don't have to. I'm the President! I don't have to do anything I don't want. You have to endorse this candidate. —Why?! She campaigned for you— Says who? Uhm, everyone… So?! Both campaigns. And she lobbied for you in Iowa. In Iowa? Really? That seems dangerous… It was. [insert radical election violence here] Oh. Wow. Yeah. [beat] So— NO. This is my house! Madam, please. This is MY office!! President knope, come on. YOU'LL NEVER TAKE THIS FROM ME. I AM THE DICTATOR NOW. THIS IS MY FIRST DICTATION. LESLIE! HOW DARE YOU USE MY FIRST NAME! OFF WITH YOUR HEAD. What!! SECRET SERVICE, SECRET SERVICE— SIEZE HIM. The secret service rushes in and football tackles the President's advisor to the ground— the Vice President enters. VICE PRESIDENT Oh, dear. CUT BACK TO: The president's advisor cracks his neck, still obviously injuried and worried recalling the flashback. Can it be that guy from 30 rock who was jack's assistant? I hope so? JONATHAN. What is it. GET IN HERE. Yes, sir. Wtf, how does he still work for Jack? Idk. Continuity. You're not going to believe this. Believe what, sir. Get in here. JACK watches his TV with bewilderment; he has just learned the election results of the most recent presidential election. Tell me there's something wrong with my eyes. Continuity! Continuity! How am I supposed to get to work? Well, how do you usually get to work. Town car. Ah… Hellicopter. I see. [beat] Well, there's a Manhattan Bound L down the street. Oh, God. Or the M is around the corner, if you'd prefer. Why on Earth would I ‘prefer'— Have a good day. [she slams the door. He stands for a moment, deflated—then the door swings open and a lunch box is shoved into his chest; the door is slammed once more, and then audibly bolt locked.] Christ. What'd he say? He said “Christ” Good. Send that guy. He's gonna need him. EMMA WATSON catches the boat. After having been left hanging over the bridge for a undetermined amount of time, EMMA WATSON, whose arm doesn't seem to be tired at all, however appearing to be visibly bored, unnoticed, even by passing tugboats, dangling from the bridge, is by happenstance and quite an odd coincidence, rescinded by a yacht full of familiar friends—familiar, being that they are all celebrities, and friends—being that they are all wealthy members of the entertainment community, who recognize EMMA and urge her to jump as the boat passes under the bridge, which she does—joining the party boat as it sets sail to open sea. [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Welcome to another free episode of your favorite podcast. Today, we are joined by a literal 19-year-old rich art school student, NOT Lady Gaga, worse even. Her name is Thinspoella, and you can send all of your concerns about the problematic nature of that stage name directly to her email. Your Divas Carly and Carmen are feeling old as they pick the brain of this future Madame President. We learn all about what it's like being a rotted little tr*nny teen in the year 2024, and then we bond over a mutual obsession that Carmen and Thinspoella share and have introduced sweet & innocent Carly to, the saga of Sonichu and CWC aka Christine Weston Chandler, she's our crossie of the week, sorry to all the trans allies out there. Follow Thinspoella: Insta, Twitter, and Tiktok Loveline: (678) 460-6253 - call us to be featured on Sunday's episode! Thank you so much to our Patreon subscribers, we love you! Intro song: Allison Goldfrapp - I Wanna Be Loved (Just a Little Better) Outro song: Goldfrapp - Ride on a White Horse Find the dolls over on Instagram: @TheCarmenLaurent, @Tr4nbie & @DivaDownPod

Send us a Text Message.And just like that, Kamala Harris is now within a stone's throw of the presidency. Today, we're taking a look at how we got here, and I'm evaluating my own thought process around the idea of electing a Black woman as president, and examining how even those of us who think she can do the job can behave as impediments to her actually getting the job. Support the Show.Stay up to date with all things Dara Starr Tucker here:Dara Starr Tucker LinkTreeDara Starr Tucker TikTokDara Starr Tucker InstagramDara Starr Tucker YouTubeDara Starr Tucker Facebook

And just like that, it's (almost definitely) Kamala. Her rise has fueled a whole species of internet memes—but the questions about her platform are serious. Guest: Scaachi Koul, Slate senior writer Want more What Next? Subscribe to Slate Plus to access ad-free listening to the whole What Next family and across all your favorite Slate podcasts. Subscribe today on Apple Podcasts by clicking “Try Free” at the top of our show page. Sign up now at slate.com/whatnextplus to get access wherever you listen. Podcast production by Elena Schwartz, Paige Osburn, Anna Phillips, Madeline Ducharme and Rob Gunther. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

And just like that, it's (almost definitely) Kamala. Her rise has fueled a whole species of internet memes—but the questions about her platform are serious. Guest: Scaachi Koul, Slate senior writer Want more What Next? Subscribe to Slate Plus to access ad-free listening to the whole What Next family and across all your favorite Slate podcasts. Subscribe today on Apple Podcasts by clicking “Try Free” at the top of our show page. Sign up now at slate.com/whatnextplus to get access wherever you listen. Podcast production by Elena Schwartz, Paige Osburn, Anna Phillips, Madeline Ducharme and Rob Gunther. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

And just like that, it's (almost definitely) Kamala. Her rise has fueled a whole species of internet memes—but the questions about her platform are serious. Guest: Scaachi Koul, Slate senior writer Want more What Next? Subscribe to Slate Plus to access ad-free listening to the whole What Next family and across all your favorite Slate podcasts. Subscribe today on Apple Podcasts by clicking “Try Free” at the top of our show page. Sign up now at slate.com/whatnextplus to get access wherever you listen. Podcast production by Elena Schwartz, Paige Osburn, Anna Phillips, Madeline Ducharme and Rob Gunther. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

And just like that, it's (almost definitely) Kamala. Her rise has fueled a whole species of internet memes—but the questions about her platform are serious. Guest: Scaachi Koul, Slate senior writer Want more What Next? Subscribe to Slate Plus to access ad-free listening to the whole What Next family and across all your favorite Slate podcasts. Subscribe today on Apple Podcasts by clicking “Try Free” at the top of our show page. Sign up now at slate.com/whatnextplus to get access wherever you listen. Podcast production by Elena Schwartz, Paige Osburn, Anna Phillips, Madeline Ducharme and Rob Gunther. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

YES. Oh yes indeed. It must be something about this beast inside— Even my first boyfriend— My first real boyfriend. Was— Seriously? Incredibly gifted. Jesus Christ. Right. Jesus fucking Christ. (That can happen.) Well. Well. I've— Wait a second. How would you even write something like this. My dissuasion from black men has never prevented me from being pleasured by— Oh no. Some of the world's finest dicks. How's that. Perfect. I can't even, (But just did) “9 inch pie crust How's “9 inches? That'll work. Just don't dislodge my IUD. Dammit. Really less than 9? I mean— I'll take A 6 Yes! Really? Or a 7 Nice. But only to play with. What. Ok. What! I'm not keepin it. I just like sucking dick. Really? Yes. AHA, —the right dick. Well, well, well— And if the last bitch left her stink on you— Even if you wash it 6 fucking times— I'll smell it in my eyelids. What. Your aura sucks. What. Why. I don't like her. What?! Who?! The last one. Vibe check. Man, you gotta stop fuckin these white bitches White bitches: LalalalalLalalalala Lalalalal No. What?! Why?! She sucks, bro. Yeah but Comfort, luxury, style— Utility. You can take this girl anywhere Just shapeshift into a basic white bitch For what Just do it Those are the ones that're around! These rich ass fuckin hoes. EASY. What. White girl wasted. Have another shot. Ooh, dad bod. Yes. SUNNI BLU You thought I forgot I did not DADBOD. Mmm. Yes but also NO, JAKE GYLLENHALL PUT YOUR WEDDING BAND BACK ON BUT-/ WE ARE FINISHED. DONE. YESSSSSS. I'm off the CLOCK. Look, marriage is work. However— DEEZ HOEZ GOT BALLZ FUCK. Nasty ass trick. BODIES. BODIES BODIES. What is all this fucking hotness even for if you can't work those fuckin muscles— what do they call them? “Intercostals” Yo— your intercostals are not the fuck muscles Wait, they're not? No. Aw. But you can use them to fuck if you want Where's that one nigga at?! [Skrillex] Under some blonde slut SLUTZ. Nice. Fine. Wait. What. You really want that?! Vibe check. Vampires: He was such a nice kid Feeding time. SUCKED HIM DRY DEAD ON. Man, I kind of want to watch that one movie where— It was a box office flop. Monsters; Ohh. A weak one. BREAK THE SEAL. BREAK THE SEAL. You can shapeshift into a s— Okay, listen, I am NOT going back To The Rock for any reason. Just—- be ugly. I am ugly. You really think I'm trying to ILLUMINATI: Watch this. DOLLARS. WHAT. RYAN REYNOLDS FUCK YOU. GET OFF MY ISLAND! I'm a DAD. Where's the bathroom? SLUTZ MODELS ACTRESSES: see. These bitchez is interchangeable. I love that. Look, you walk into one of these events with anything darker than a paper bag— Well, It depends on who manufactured the brown paper bag… [Whole Foods Market] Still too dark. —She had better be the most perfect looking broad anyone could ever want. Where's the bra straps? You want bra straps? Uh, yeah?! Oh *snickers* Sorry. Look, I don't want to even think about that scene where— FUCK YOU, DILLON FRANCIS FUCK YOU IN THE ASS. DILLON FRANCIS oh damn. That kid did look like Dillon Francis. Like a lot. GET BACK HERE. I liked him. Did you tell him that? No way. After that John dude broke my heart. DO YOU REMEMBER ME?! I'M A BIRD. Someone find Tim. Agh. Whatever. Find that Smith kid I went to high school with. For what? I wanna bone him. Goddamn, Madame President. Shut up. Damn, so. So the president basically has an errand boy to go round up all the dick she missed out on being groomed to be the first Black female president? Yes. HHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH [KILL THE BITCH.] WHY?! I'm the most conservative bitch you will EVER find on this side of the brown paper bag test Why is that? AYAYAYAYAYAYAY you understand even the Mexicans are racist against blacks— And?! STAY DOWN, BITCH. Si. Okay. You see this kid? [The Mexican Skrillex] Find him. Aye aye captain. And make sure whatever he does... LISTEN TO ME. ¡AY¡ NO HABLA INGLES! ¡NO TENGO DINERO! CAN IT. I KNOW YOU SPEAK ENGLISH. IDIOT. Okay. Fuck it, I'm in. You're in. I'm in. You sonofabitch. Look. I got mad love for the Mexican people. I promise. [Puerto Rico] Huh. What. You're in. Fuck. Now we gotta change the flag. We should do that anyway, it's soaked in the blood of enslaved African Americans and slain indigenous! “I live on the stolen lands of the Chippewa people.” Woah. A self-aware white woman. See, they exist. Bag that bitch. Seriously. Meanwhile— I AM FRIGHTENED. By what? YOUR BLACKNESS. . I can't protect you from this. YOU CANT PROTECT ME FROM SHIT, Without your DICK. Are you serious. I'm done with this. You can have him. Are you serious. Yes. I was born rich. That's frigening. Not as frightening as your blackness. I get itz THE NIGGAZ HAVE DECENDED UPON US. Oh no. Oh yes. And worse— What's this? THEY BROUGHT THE HOOTRATZ. NO. YES. (I love these ghetto ass bitches.) YO BLACKMERICANS. What's up, CROCS. ARE. NOT. SHOES. We know that. Wait, what This is a silent protest against the hostile and corrupt corporate slavery of the sneaker industry aimed at Americans living in poverty which promotes materialism and greed in the current socio political industrial complex of the white supremacy movement. No Dillon, you have to marry a pretty little white girl like the rest of us. But WHY, Grandmaster Freemason? Because— Why is that? I don't know. I think it's so— I swear to god, He looks just like him. Would you believe if I told you, That this [Exact replica of Dillon Francis] Wow. Is a tiny black man? Are you insane? I like his dick. He must be nuts. ITS LIKE 10 FEET LONG. What?! This guy [Skrillex] White bitches: You promise? Yeah. GET OFF OF HIM HE'S MINE That's a designer ass fuckin broad right there... trip. *i wish* DUDE IN COWBOY HAT yeup. You mean Diplo ?! Sure. This is all in your head. I know. You want a dose of reality? No. I don't. Sure. GO FUCK YOURSELF. I should but—- No. What? Why not? Look, everytime I even get close to orgasm. HELLO. NO. I'm still paranoid that a helicopter is going to hover outside of my window. VO I became less paranoid after that moment lol white supremacist robot people They exist. I know. I'm the one programming them. BEFORE: HELICOPTER: [hovering outside of window as I masturbate furiously] “Furiously” SERIOUSLY. That's what she's doing in there?! ITS BEEN YEARS. EVERYTHING LOOKS LIKE A— the biggest penises I've ever seen in my life were on the literally scrawniest, skinniest white dudes I've ever loved— Been friends with— And trusted. Oh dear God —To demolish my pussy. THAT IS GOOOOOOOOD. What the fuck. Take that, black supremacy! Seriously, tho. Niggaz is niggas. ‍♀️ It's fair to say that you also have too much power. WHAT. Seriously. VO Now I knew someone extremely rich HELLICOPTER (But hovering) Fff-fr-ff-ff Hm. That sounds close. Was watching me. OH DEAR GOD WHAT. I'm BUSY. I think it's fair to say The only safety in this country Is in being a white woman. AHEM. WHAT. A *frail white woman. What?! I'm strong?! A skinny woman. Where'd the white go? I don't know. Bring it back. I need some of that. God, she's just so free, and fun loving, careless— She's just so— Perfect. God, Are you still busy? kind of, Why? Make me perfect. I already did that. I mean, like this *Vogue Magazine* I mean like this. What is that? That's a model. What. It means she's perfect. I don't know him. That's a girl. Where's her breasts? *Vogue cover Breasts, unpictured— Pg. 11 Leave me alone, Satan. But it's important. Is this fast over? No. It all started with apple pie… Look. I am an American, Okay? A patriot. Do you know why other countries hate us? Because we sold the world a dream, And it ended up as a cheap, Made in China Piece of Crap. [robot people] Did you figure out how to program humans yet? Kind of. CHINA Oh. That's funny— We have. Before: No more babies. What. You get ONE. One?! ONE. Ok, well I hope it's a boy. GOD a boy, for what?! To carry on my family's name! GOD. But you family sucks… What? Why would you say that, It's a GIRL. THROW IT AWAY: What. Seriously, does nobody remember that? Okay, you can have more kids now. Why?! It's over populated. As fuck. We need more soldiers. American men tend to frtishize Asian women. Why is this. Great. More subordinates. My spell worked. So like. Wait, They OWN LAND HERE? …Excurricating debt. Had to give them something. MAKE MORE MASKS. Oh? That's good. I like that. Okay. What is the true evil that seems to lie Deeply inside every blue eyed— I can't feel shiiiieeeeeeet. Are you sure it's just Blue eyes. It's a mutation. For what? You realize that this DONT BRING THAT SHIT OVER HERE you're a psychopath. Fuck these bitches I love vamps. LOOK AT ME. why. BECAUSE I DONT MAKE MY OWN ENERGY. i'M NOT ORIGINALLY FROM THIS PLANET WELL I AM. Great. Give me your light what? I don't have any. So wait this is Yes. This is actually an extraterrestrial war. WE'RE IN SPACE WARS?! I told you that. Great. It's a mutation We'll call it “an adaptation” GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME. Okay. I like thighs now. What. Why don't you have thighs?! Men are uselesss. Sssriosussss. They never know what they want. They want ussssss. Children!!? Mostly. I swear, she's all used up. All used up. At 26. Yep. Wow. I should just kill myself. You should. I've been replaced! {First Wives Club} Best movie ever. By what A fucking toddler. Okay. I love her. {White women} (The actually self aware ones are also most often the most famous) Which one? All of them. The whole cast?! Star-studded. I thought this was Star Wars. Well, it was. I'll be damned! GEORGE LUCAS I thought I was. BUY! BUY! SELL! SELL. So this is automatic writing. Yep. I didn't get that knee injury from running. I got it sitting on the New York subway with my leg at a 90 degree angle. Oh really? Really. These boots are made for walkin, And that's just what they'll do; One of these days, these boots are gonna walk All over you. Is that code for something Walk on my back. What? Are you sure. Yes. Okay. In these: Uhhhh. That might hurt. I know. Woah. Just do it, okay? I'll pay you. Pay me in what?! Rupees. What about this one? No. No brown dudes. Why?! He's mad rich. I don't care. Not even me? No. No rappers. Why not?! He's mad rich. Roaches. Video hoes. [Beyoncé's Jolene is hilarious.] Dolly's asking you; Begging, actually… BEYONCÉ IS WARNING YOU. Really, bro? Men. A light skin, And a dark skin. A skinny one, And a thick one. A white one, And a black one. Men Have No Loyalty. SOME DO. Yeah. The ugly ones with short dicks *I AM OFFENDED* No, you're just ugly. It's a lot harder to be offended when you have everything. You have everything! Why are you crying! I want LOVE. YOU HAVE LOVE [MADONNA IS RUNNING A MARATHON] Gotta burn off all this energy What is it?! Love! Gotta take a nap… (Dark skinned women—the strongest women, being sucked dry of their— {Infinite Wisdom} [A fortress.] It does replenish, eventually… I promise WHERE THE LOVE IS With the women and children! Look, if this whole bitch is the titanic, (the United States of America) Then we should run it like the titanic and just TITANIC Women and children! WOMEN AND CHILDREN. Why, Cause the men are responsible for this war in the first place. Secret President Deathwish Enter The Multiverse The Legend of S Ū P C Я E E™ The Secret Life of Sunnï Blū Ascension L E G E N D S The Seven Souls Saga OWSLA CONFIDENTIAL, LTD.The infinite Skrillifiles: Next Generation— Quantum Force [The door is kicked in.] What the FUCK. I'M THE FUCK I get that. Whatever, move. [he begins to rifle through the cabinets] Now where is it? What the fuck are you looking for? Shut UP. WHY ARE YOU IN MY HOUSE. You call this a house? Dammit. Where would she keep something like this—? If by “she” you mean ME. I don't mean “you.” I'm the only one who lives here. NOBODY lives here. What. Right. What?! Right what?! You really don't know, do you? Don't know what? You are not who you think you are. Who do I think I am? What?! Who do you think I AM? That's right. Now shut up. Get out of my house. This is not a HOUSE. And even if it was a HOUSE, it's not YOUR house. What! SHUT UP. You're making a mess! I am a mess. STOP IT. That's alright—I know you'll clean it up. I thought I'm not who I thought I am. Yeah. But I know who you are. Tsh. Are you going somewhere with this? Eventually, but right now I need my back rubbed. Fine. PREVIOUSLY ON… Whatever Just— “Tidbits” Points: Jennifer Lopez in the 90's enters immidiate superstardom and fame, as The Illuminati, which has been tracking her every move for quite some time, conspicuously gifts her with a handful of large, rare, and uncut diamonds—she becomes a Kingpin and near overnight success, keeping the secret of the diamonds to herself—however, as she is skyrocketed to success and fame, strange and mystical things begin happening all around—and even more strange and mysterious, mystical people—besides the usually strange and magical celebrities and otherwise unworldly weirdos within the Illuminati's ranks— begin to appear, acting as guiding forces between the multidimensional realms which within the various portals a hidden world — infinity and beyond— has been kept, only exposed through the stories, shows, and — Wait a second — a montage— montage— I'm being intercepted. What? What about a montage?? I love a good montage. Everybody loves a good montage. the infinite Jennifer Aniston and her Multidimensional counterparts Jennifer Aniston is tasked as becoming a guardian angel, to help protect and watch over the mysterious extraterrestrial formerly known as supacree, currently masquerading as CC as she attempts to escape the spiral of magical attacks from unknown forces, after being trapped in New York City. You know what? I love it. I'll take it. Are you sure? Yeah, I'm sure. I love her. I love her. it'll take it. JENNIFER ANNISTON, a well-known A-list actress whose rise to fame in the 1990's created her as a Hollywood superstar (and Illuminati staple) has been looking for the perfect project to invest her time to— rumors within the Underground have been circulating about a “secret podcast”, to which it's curator, a homeless and downtrodden musician and amateur DJ publishing Illuminati doctrine, some of which is only known to the limited and coveted higher ranks within the organization, interwoven into the plot's narratives as “Easter eggs”; the unformed screenplays have been archived and passed around for a number of years within a small community of elites, and some even plagiarized by the mindless and money hungry lowest ranking industry professionals—however—as it is known by the leaders of the organization as a whole, the true origins of this doctrine remains “unknown”, and the identity of the author, is surmised to be the prophesied scribe, set to arrive as the dawning of a new era arises, to write within her words the hidden truths to be sought by all mankind and otherwise—and therefore, must be protected and hidden within the organizations cradle at all costs; though misunderstood greatly, The Illuminati has been tasked with spreading the divine light to the human species through artform and storytelling, and as the art of wordfare becomes a lost art, the doctrine must be colluded to be written, before the end of the scribe's time, said to be often—a most untimely death, as the forces of darkensss seek to end all that remains of the love and light of the divine kind. Damn, really: Jennifer Aniston. I really like her eyes: Well yeah, they're mine, so. Apparently or whatever, Jennifer Anniston is assigned to guide CC as she trains to stand up as the scribe — Who revealed herself as so in Los Angeles, at Carl Cox's show. I dropped three cards for form the center of my eye, Here: An equilateral triangle. I Am. Two— These markings will be known to those as I, The scribe. Three— A world unknown awaits all those who seek the truth of the divine light in the pursuit of higher knowledge. INT. EQUINOX SPORTS CLUB NEW YORK. MANHATTAN. DAY JENNIFER ANNISTON enters the elevator—to her left, towering over her, she spots JIMMY FALLON, trying to remain unseen. …Jim? Oh, yeah, hey, What re you doing here? Whatever I want. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't be here. This is by the way, when Satan switches from Jimmy fallon's body to Jennifer Anniston, hereby known as Jennifer Anisatan— just before the scene at Equinox “I'm holding in a fart.” So wait, who is Jimmy Fallon, then? Who the fuck knows. Who the fuck cares. I'm over it. ————————————————No wait, don't. Tie me to the cross Bleed on my sickness m Crossfaders, behind us Blinder up, bonded Surreal, The sunsets are longer Open your mind, your highness Crossfire, behind us (Someone else writing this) Dawn comes on stronger The sunsets are longer Tie me to your honor Come before me Somebody said you were the apocalypse I should have listened to my father Somebody told me you won the world at a carnival I should have never listened to my mother I should have listened to my father I should have listened to my father I should have listened to my father Come before me Tie me to your honor Born of blood, The borderline genius You were the apocalypse Tie me to your cross MAYA RUDOLPH Is weird. MAYA RUDOLPH prepares for a SAYONCE in her formerly secret apartment on the upper east side dedicated entirely to magical purposes Ok. Ok. Okay? Ok. The worst part about it is, I do understand you, Because I am you The very worst part of it is I want a family To hold you hand And rub your back But I just can't have you —I'm just a fan, dude. The truth is I've got two suitcases, Some capsules of cyanide, An axe and some anthrax A cat in my lap And a failing laptop I've been living hand to mouth I've got A ripped backpack A stress ball A Hackey sack A hockey bag A volleyball And a mouthful of gunpowder How do you like me now? It's gonna take forever to fund my project But it's gonna take longer To find my body Cause nobody loves me Nobody has my number The phone is shut off And so is the water (By that I mean, my love; It's all coming out blood now) I must be backed up And stuffed full of crystal cocks I could give it up for a wand Or a ringworm Oh God My wrists are itching to ditch this place I fell asleep with a gun to my head And woke up Cobain Okay? Ok Okay? Ok. Sorry to wake you I came to rape you HEATH LEDGER hello. OH, GOD. HEATH LEDGER I heard you like ghosts. I— I don't. HEATH LEDGER Oh, you don't? No—! HEATH LEDGER oh! wait—who are you? HEATH LEDGER (Makes joker face) All my friends are dead, anyway I'm loving more ghosts than people these days The faces, the golden days The golden retrievers I need some relief, man Release me Sweet, freedom Just lay on your back, And I'll take it from there JOKER? Aha. I'm in love with the idea of Death The idea of Leaving this world behind The idea of love The ideal of love The ideal of love The seductive touch I'm in love with the idea of Not knowing pain The idea of Not needing money The idea of love The ideal of love The ideal of love The seductive barrel of a gun So run away Run far from me Far as the eye can see— And I'll aim for the head But probably just get the neck Or the center of the back Twirl around, girl Do your dance Heads or tales for the daughters The blondes, The live that you wanted The life that you wasted The knife to your back The life flight The kite hack Never spend your heart on band tickets Don't you know This is so much more Disappointing in person We all are Never spend your bet on your bottom dollar The kite and the rock band The lost rock The last dollar Diamonds on your JENNIFER LOPEZ GET IN THE BACK OF THE VAN, BITCH. NO WAY, J-LO. YOU LOVE ME EXACTLY. GETAWAYFROMME. DONT MAKE ME CALL GOLDBERG. I'M LIKE WAY MORE SCARED OF JANET JACKSON. JANRT JACKSON GUESS WHAT?! OH NO!!! NOOOO. U PICKS UP TO SUPER SPEED wtf. How does she run that fast, that fat? I really don't know. Did you call my name? Did you wake me from my relentless dreams I needed you Just like you needed me I called your name You called me Follow me home Follow me to the road we both know Open the doors for the lonely Follow me home Follow me home Sista sista What it is, mista? Turn the tables, Drums, then get my sticks sucked You dig it? Turn on the television I'm on in an minute This could be infinite, Nothing to defend here, Just No, not the google documents! GET IN THE HOLE. Hm. What. Blood Shower All along the watch tower Do you feel good? Do you? Do you feel bad about this. I do. I feel bad about this. I forgot to tell you– I should probably let you know that I just want to MAN, FUCK THIS DUDE. MA. WAHT. IT'S ON. WHAt. THE SHOW IS ON. THEWHAT. THE– *suddenly self aware* …I gotta get out of Boston. What, first this was about war, now it's about bird people? It's about a war WITH the bird people. I should sleep. Hahaha. No. This isn't funny anymore. At least it's over. MA– Oh, it's far from over. Yo, i'm going through some crazy shit right now. Spur of the moment I'd never thought of it; This is gonna take forever. I don't have the patience To even write this I just want french fries right now But been up for two days with no gym and I'm on a diet. GUAC TIME. No, no burritos. GUAC TIME. Oh shit, this is getting real as fuck . NOw i see it three ways. I love it. I hate it. HEY, LET ME OUT. GET BACK IN YOUR HOLE, SKRILLEX. I'M DILLON FRANCIS. IN THE HOLE. Check it out. Huh. It's another DJ. *agrees* Should we pick him up. WEll, the good news is: I found your friend. Oh, that's good. The bad news is: He's dead. Oh, that–'s … nice. Yeah. It is. Uh. Kaskade. Yeah. We gotta find Ryan. Why. What's up? You're freaking me out. Why. What's up. Nothing IS it my eyes? I– *wild ass eyes* Yeah, it's probably that. Fuck dude, what did you do to deadmau5. NOTHIN. He's not the same. What the fuck is that. Holy shit I jus timejumped Where the fuck are you going. How the fuck could this happen?! It COULDN'T. Well, that's it then. *shrugs* Well, I guess we're just gonna have to go dig up Dillon Francis. I guess so. Do you think he's still alive. Like, probably not– Maybe… No, probably not @prodbywar& @Halmadeit This amazon order took me nine hours Alexa, I think i should fire her Like a arm I don't leave at night without armor Don't make me a martyr Your mom will be proud of us all If i make it outta here And i'll look after her Got the whole block coming up on my heels as I walk Wtf is it… Idk dude. Is it speeding up? I…i think so. There's no way this is 140 IT's 140. It's 140 . There's no way. Yes way. Nah huh. Let me see. No. Let me at the decks. Let me at the decks. NO. YO LET ME AT THE DECKS. You want deks. Yes. I got deks. Really. yeus . I never listened to it like this In ableton I read serato, synesthesia and rekordbox I talk a lot, I'm like a human music box I walk a lot I run my mouth a mile a minute (faster than i run around the track reciting rap words) Like they're passwords. Oh, I could do this forever.. I wish i had i microphone right now And was all alone With the lights off Lying on the floor I'd be lying if i said I could afford you Just to fornicate But may consider playing with a foreigner If you're all for her I'm unnerved, you know Cause i've been up so long My monster likes to play with boys and Make the bass go down below where Nobody does anymore Once I get a hold of things Or the hang of it You've got another hot ones on your hands I've another record under my belt Or in my roster, Whatever you'd call it But now I've got no time to bark about Wanting a dog and a daughter But none of the responsibility or Going through all the trouble to find her a father I'm still holding a fart in. Reaally–cause–it's been a really long time. WHAT WOULD YOU KNOW ABOUT A LONG TIME, JIMMY FALLON?? Um a lot! You literally just saw me make the journey all the way up from nothing. I am nothing EXACTLY. I don't have time to fight with you Jiimmy Fallon. I did NOT write these games by myself you know?! Um, excuse me– “GAMES” ?! YES, GAMES. Uh, I've only got one game with you in it, my friend. Is that so! One game that I've written with the Great–formerly LATE Jimmy Fallon. Is that like a play on words cause i'm on late night TV YOu'RE ON ALL THE TIME TV, JIMMY. NBC SHIT IS PRACTICALLY AUTOMATICALLY SYNDICATED. -_- …are you alright. –_-_-__-_ Hold on, I think i've got it Nice, I found a growler. yOu still haven't got all the monsters and sprites Ive got all the big ones, but the little ones are harder to catch. GrO0Wl3rrr. Aww. He's so ugly. Yeah, but cute, though, right. I don't think so. Gro)WwlErrrrrrrrr. Aww. That's so fucking gross. lol . so what does this thing look like. Well, that't the thing about the monsters and sprites. WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT. It's alright, it's alright–he's nice. WHAT. THAT'S A SPRITE. No, it's a monster. He's just scary. SUPACREE. David Bowie. What up. God, it took me ages to find you. Tell me about it. I'm still trying. We've been expecting you for a long time. You were expecting I'd die? Yes. So when she says she's “married to the music…” I'm married to the music. Oh, so. Yo, honestly if you een want to talk to this bitch, you'd better have like a musical instrument, or a mic in your hands, Otherwise– No, getawayfrom me. It's not even worth it. HI. –No. What's up? Tempo. SUNNI Cotour From the store I was poor Now i'm honorable In velour, Glamour (Snap) Forsure, Jesus Christs is making appearances in my abletons I'm not able to comprehend or understand exactly the message, But the evidence sire is mounting Get it Reached the temple, More of a sanctuary, Is that sacrilegious I guess it is, I'm stressed as ever Trying to get it to gether I'm way too tired for a remix; All i really want is some fries that are french And some thighs that are thick Like mine to sit on like five or six dicks Pick up up like chopped sticks {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Love, Skrillex. COMING UP ON what show is this? Whatever it is. Things Mormon girls do Katie Mindy Jenny - the 1987 Chevy nova My name is Skrillex- to Yonkerz Laura and Bryan I'm home sick— but not so homesick that I want to be homeless Gentrification—non rent control My boss trying to be a dom (but being black so it was scary and creepy instead of va attractive and a turn on Being worth 4 million And still not being attractive Sex harness Mormons putting themselves to the side To keep up with church standards Correction: carne asada fries with mango pico Mexico elected a new president (a woman) and made the loser a piñata The pixies {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

YES. Oh yes indeed. It must be something about this beast inside— Even my first boyfriend— My first real boyfriend. Was— Seriously? Incredibly gifted. Jesus Christ. Right. Jesus fucking Christ. (That can happen.) Well. Well. I've— Wait a second. How would you even write something like this. My dissuasion from black men has never prevented me from being pleasured by— Oh no. Some of the world's finest dicks. How's that. Perfect. I can't even, (But just did) “9 inch pie crust How's “9 inches? That'll work. Just don't dislodge my IUD. Dammit. Really less than 9? I mean— I'll take A 6 Yes! Really? Or a 7 Nice. But only to play with. What. Ok. What! I'm not keepin it. I just like sucking dick. Really? Yes. AHA, —the right dick. Well, well, well— And if the last bitch left her stink on you— Even if you wash it 6 fucking times— I'll smell it in my eyelids. What. Your aura sucks. What. Why. I don't like her. What?! Who?! The last one. Vibe check. Man, you gotta stop fuckin these white bitches White bitches: LalalalalLalalalala Lalalalal No. What?! Why?! She sucks, bro. Yeah but Comfort, luxury, style— Utility. You can take this girl anywhere Just shapeshift into a basic white bitch For what Just do it Those are the ones that're around! These rich ass fuckin hoes. EASY. What. White girl wasted. Have another shot. Ooh, dad bod. Yes. SUNNI BLU You thought I forgot I did not DADBOD. Mmm. Yes but also NO, JAKE GYLLENHALL PUT YOUR WEDDING BAND BACK ON BUT-/ WE ARE FINISHED. DONE. YESSSSSS. I'm off the CLOCK. Look, marriage is work. However— DEEZ HOEZ GOT BALLZ FUCK. Nasty ass trick. BODIES. BODIES BODIES. What is all this fucking hotness even for if you can't work those fuckin muscles— what do they call them? “Intercostals” Yo— your intercostals are not the fuck muscles Wait, they're not? No. Aw. But you can use them to fuck if you want Where's that one nigga at?! [Skrillex] Under some blonde slut SLUTZ. Nice. Fine. Wait. What. You really want that?! Vibe check. Vampires: He was such a nice kid Feeding time. SUCKED HIM DRY DEAD ON. Man, I kind of want to watch that one movie where— It was a box office flop. Monsters; Ohh. A weak one. BREAK THE SEAL. BREAK THE SEAL. You can shapeshift into a s— Okay, listen, I am NOT going back To The Rock for any reason. Just—- be ugly. I am ugly. You really think I'm trying to ILLUMINATI: Watch this. DOLLARS. WHAT. RYAN REYNOLDS FUCK YOU. GET OFF MY ISLAND! I'm a DAD. Where's the bathroom? SLUTZ MODELS ACTRESSES: see. These bitchez is interchangeable. I love that. Look, you walk into one of these events with anything darker than a paper bag— Well, It depends on who manufactured the brown paper bag… [Whole Foods Market] Still too dark. —She had better be the most perfect looking broad anyone could ever want. Where's the bra straps? You want bra straps? Uh, yeah?! Oh *snickers* Sorry. Look, I don't want to even think about that scene where— FUCK YOU, DILLON FRANCIS FUCK YOU IN THE ASS. DILLON FRANCIS oh damn. That kid did look like Dillon Francis. Like a lot. GET BACK HERE. I liked him. Did you tell him that? No way. After that John dude broke my heart. DO YOU REMEMBER ME?! I'M A BIRD. Someone find Tim. Agh. Whatever. Find that Smith kid I went to high school with. For what? I wanna bone him. Goddamn, Madame President. Shut up. Damn, so. So the president basically has an errand boy to go round up all the dick she missed out on being groomed to be the first Black female president? Yes. HHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH [KILL THE BITCH.] WHY?! I'm the most conservative bitch you will EVER find on this side of the brown paper bag test Why is that? AYAYAYAYAYAYAY you understand even the Mexicans are racist against blacks— And?! STAY DOWN, BITCH. Si. Okay. You see this kid? [The Mexican Skrillex] Find him. Aye aye captain. And make sure whatever he does... LISTEN TO ME. ¡AY¡ NO HABLA INGLES! ¡NO TENGO DINERO! CAN IT. I KNOW YOU SPEAK ENGLISH. IDIOT. Okay. Fuck it, I'm in. You're in. I'm in. You sonofabitch. Look. I got mad love for the Mexican people. I promise. [Puerto Rico] Huh. What. You're in. Fuck. Now we gotta change the flag. We should do that anyway, it's soaked in the blood of enslaved African Americans and slain indigenous! “I live on the stolen lands of the Chippewa people.” Woah. A self-aware white woman. See, they exist. Bag that bitch. Seriously. Meanwhile— I AM FRIGHTENED. By what? YOUR BLACKNESS. . I can't protect you from this. YOU CANT PROTECT ME FROM SHIT, Without your DICK. Are you serious. I'm done with this. You can have him. Are you serious. Yes. I was born rich. That's frigening. Not as frightening as your blackness. I get itz THE NIGGAZ HAVE DECENDED UPON US. Oh no. Oh yes. And worse— What's this? THEY BROUGHT THE HOOTRATZ. NO. YES. (I love these ghetto ass bitches.) YO BLACKMERICANS. What's up, CROCS. ARE. NOT. SHOES. We know that. Wait, what This is a silent protest against the hostile and corrupt corporate slavery of the sneaker industry aimed at Americans living in poverty which promotes materialism and greed in the current socio political industrial complex of the white supremacy movement. No Dillon, you have to marry a pretty little white girl like the rest of us. But WHY, Grandmaster Freemason? Because— Why is that? I don't know. I think it's so— I swear to god, He looks just like him. Would you believe if I told you, That this [Exact replica of Dillon Francis] Wow. Is a tiny black man? Are you insane? I like his dick. He must be nuts. ITS LIKE 10 FEET LONG. What?! This guy [Skrillex] White bitches: You promise? Yeah. GET OFF OF HIM HE'S MINE That's a designer ass fuckin broad right there... trip. *i wish* DUDE IN COWBOY HAT yeup. You mean Diplo ?! Sure. This is all in your head. I know. You want a dose of reality? No. I don't. Sure. GO FUCK YOURSELF. I should but—- No. What? Why not? Look, everytime I even get close to orgasm. HELLO. NO. I'm still paranoid that a helicopter is going to hover outside of my window. VO I became less paranoid after that moment lol white supremacist robot people They exist. I know. I'm the one programming them. BEFORE: HELICOPTER: [hovering outside of window as I masturbate furiously] “Furiously” SERIOUSLY. That's what she's doing in there?! ITS BEEN YEARS. EVERYTHING LOOKS LIKE A— the biggest penises I've ever seen in my life were on the literally scrawniest, skinniest white dudes I've ever loved— Been friends with— And trusted. Oh dear God —To demolish my pussy. THAT IS GOOOOOOOOD. What the fuck. Take that, black supremacy! Seriously, tho. Niggaz is niggas. ‍♀️ It's fair to say that you also have too much power. WHAT. Seriously. VO Now I knew someone extremely rich HELLICOPTER (But hovering) Fff-fr-ff-ff Hm. That sounds close. Was watching me. OH DEAR GOD WHAT. I'm BUSY. I think it's fair to say The only safety in this country Is in being a white woman. AHEM. WHAT. A *frail white woman. What?! I'm strong?! A skinny woman. Where'd the white go? I don't know. Bring it back. I need some of that. God, she's just so free, and fun loving, careless— She's just so— Perfect. God, Are you still busy? kind of, Why? Make me perfect. I already did that. I mean, like this *Vogue Magazine* I mean like this. What is that? That's a model. What. It means she's perfect. I don't know him. That's a girl. Where's her breasts? *Vogue cover Breasts, unpictured— Pg. 11 Leave me alone, Satan. But it's important. Is this fast over? No. It all started with apple pie… Look. I am an American, Okay? A patriot. Do you know why other countries hate us? Because we sold the world a dream, And it ended up as a cheap, Made in China Piece of Crap. [robot people] Did you figure out how to program humans yet? Kind of. CHINA Oh. That's funny— We have. Before: No more babies. What. You get ONE. One?! ONE. Ok, well I hope it's a boy. GOD a boy, for what?! To carry on my family's name! GOD. But you family sucks… What? Why would you say that, It's a GIRL. THROW IT AWAY: What. Seriously, does nobody remember that? Okay, you can have more kids now. Why?! It's over populated. As fuck. We need more soldiers. American men tend to frtishize Asian women. Why is this. Great. More subordinates. My spell worked. So like. Wait, They OWN LAND HERE? …Excurricating debt. Had to give them something. MAKE MORE MASKS. Oh? That's good. I like that. Okay. What is the true evil that seems to lie Deeply inside every blue eyed— I can't feel shiiiieeeeeeet. Are you sure it's just Blue eyes. It's a mutation. For what? You realize that this DONT BRING THAT SHIT OVER HERE you're a psychopath. Fuck these bitches I love vamps. LOOK AT ME. why. BECAUSE I DONT MAKE MY OWN ENERGY. i'M NOT ORIGINALLY FROM THIS PLANET WELL I AM. Great. Give me your light what? I don't have any. So wait this is Yes. This is actually an extraterrestrial war. WE'RE IN SPACE WARS?! I told you that. Great. It's a mutation We'll call it “an adaptation” GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME. Okay. I like thighs now. What. Why don't you have thighs?! Men are uselesss. Sssriosussss. They never know what they want. They want ussssss. Children!!? Mostly. I swear, she's all used up. All used up. At 26. Yep. Wow. I should just kill myself. You should. I've been replaced! {First Wives Club} Best movie ever. By what A fucking toddler. Okay. I love her. {White women} (The actually self aware ones are also most often the most famous) Which one? All of them. The whole cast?! Star-studded. I thought this was Star Wars. Well, it was. I'll be damned! GEORGE LUCAS I thought I was. BUY! BUY! SELL! SELL. So this is automatic writing. Yep. I didn't get that knee injury from running. I got it sitting on the New York subway with my leg at a 90 degree angle. Oh really? Really. These boots are made for walkin, And that's just what they'll do; One of these days, these boots are gonna walk All over you. Is that code for something Walk on my back. What? Are you sure. Yes. Okay. In these: Uhhhh. That might hurt. I know. Woah. Just do it, okay? I'll pay you. Pay me in what?! Rupees. What about this one? No. No brown dudes. Why?! He's mad rich. I don't care. Not even me? No. No rappers. Why not?! He's mad rich. Roaches. Video hoes. [Beyoncé's Jolene is hilarious.] Dolly's asking you; Begging, actually… BEYONCÉ IS WARNING YOU. Really, bro? Men. A light skin, And a dark skin. A skinny one, And a thick one. A white one, And a black one. Men Have No Loyalty. SOME DO. Yeah. The ugly ones with short dicks *I AM OFFENDED* No, you're just ugly. It's a lot harder to be offended when you have everything. You have everything! Why are you crying! I want LOVE. YOU HAVE LOVE [MADONNA IS RUNNING A MARATHON] Gotta burn off all this energy What is it?! Love! Gotta take a nap… (Dark skinned women—the strongest women, being sucked dry of their— {Infinite Wisdom} [A fortress.] It does replenish, eventually… I promise WHERE THE LOVE IS With the women and children! Look, if this whole bitch is the titanic, (the United States of America) Then we should run it like the titanic and just TITANIC Women and children! WOMEN AND CHILDREN. Why, Cause the men are responsible for this war in the first place. Secret President Deathwish Enter The Multiverse The Legend of S Ū P C Я E E™ The Secret Life of Sunnï Blū Ascension L E G E N D S The Seven Souls Saga OWSLA CONFIDENTIAL, LTD.The infinite Skrillifiles: Next Generation— Quantum Force [The door is kicked in.] What the FUCK. I'M THE FUCK I get that. Whatever, move. [he begins to rifle through the cabinets] Now where is it? What the fuck are you looking for? Shut UP. WHY ARE YOU IN MY HOUSE. You call this a house? Dammit. Where would she keep something like this—? If by “she” you mean ME. I don't mean “you.” I'm the only one who lives here. NOBODY lives here. What. Right. What?! Right what?! You really don't know, do you? Don't know what? You are not who you think you are. Who do I think I am? What?! Who do you think I AM? That's right. Now shut up. Get out of my house. This is not a HOUSE. And even if it was a HOUSE, it's not YOUR house. What! SHUT UP. You're making a mess! I am a mess. STOP IT. That's alright—I know you'll clean it up. I thought I'm not who I thought I am. Yeah. But I know who you are. Tsh. Are you going somewhere with this? Eventually, but right now I need my back rubbed. Fine. PREVIOUSLY ON… Whatever Just— “Tidbits” Points: Jennifer Lopez in the 90's enters immidiate superstardom and fame, as The Illuminati, which has been tracking her every move for quite some time, conspicuously gifts her with a handful of large, rare, and uncut diamonds—she becomes a Kingpin and near overnight success, keeping the secret of the diamonds to herself—however, as she is skyrocketed to success and fame, strange and mystical things begin happening all around—and even more strange and mysterious, mystical people—besides the usually strange and magical celebrities and otherwise unworldly weirdos within the Illuminati's ranks— begin to appear, acting as guiding forces between the multidimensional realms which within the various portals a hidden world — infinity and beyond— has been kept, only exposed through the stories, shows, and — Wait a second — a montage— montage— I'm being intercepted. What? What about a montage?? I love a good montage. Everybody loves a good montage. the infinite Jennifer Aniston and her Multidimensional counterparts Jennifer Aniston is tasked as becoming a guardian angel, to help protect and watch over the mysterious extraterrestrial formerly known as supacree, currently masquerading as CC as she attempts to escape the spiral of magical attacks from unknown forces, after being trapped in New York City. You know what? I love it. I'll take it. Are you sure? Yeah, I'm sure. I love her. I love her. it'll take it. JENNIFER ANNISTON, a well-known A-list actress whose rise to fame in the 1990's created her as a Hollywood superstar (and Illuminati staple) has been looking for the perfect project to invest her time to— rumors within the Underground have been circulating about a “secret podcast”, to which it's curator, a homeless and downtrodden musician and amateur DJ publishing Illuminati doctrine, some of which is only known to the limited and coveted higher ranks within the organization, interwoven into the plot's narratives as “Easter eggs”; the unformed screenplays have been archived and passed around for a number of years within a small community of elites, and some even plagiarized by the mindless and money hungry lowest ranking industry professionals—however—as it is known by the leaders of the organization as a whole, the true origins of this doctrine remains “unknown”, and the identity of the author, is surmised to be the prophesied scribe, set to arrive as the dawning of a new era arises, to write within her words the hidden truths to be sought by all mankind and otherwise—and therefore, must be protected and hidden within the organizations cradle at all costs; though misunderstood greatly, The Illuminati has been tasked with spreading the divine light to the human species through artform and storytelling, and as the art of wordfare becomes a lost art, the doctrine must be colluded to be written, before the end of the scribe's time, said to be often—a most untimely death, as the forces of darkensss seek to end all that remains of the love and light of the divine kind. Damn, really: Jennifer Aniston. I really like her eyes: Well yeah, they're mine, so. Apparently or whatever, Jennifer Anniston is assigned to guide CC as she trains to stand up as the scribe — Who revealed herself as so in Los Angeles, at Carl Cox's show. I dropped three cards for form the center of my eye, Here: An equilateral triangle. I Am. Two— These markings will be known to those as I, The scribe. Three— A world unknown awaits all those who seek the truth of the divine light in the pursuit of higher knowledge. INT. EQUINOX SPORTS CLUB NEW YORK. MANHATTAN. DAY JENNIFER ANNISTON enters the elevator—to her left, towering over her, she spots JIMMY FALLON, trying to remain unseen. …Jim? Oh, yeah, hey, What re you doing here? Whatever I want. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't be here. This is by the way, when Satan switches from Jimmy fallon's body to Jennifer Anniston, hereby known as Jennifer Anisatan— just before the scene at Equinox “I'm holding in a fart.” So wait, who is Jimmy Fallon, then? Who the fuck knows. Who the fuck cares. I'm over it. ————————————————No wait, don't. Tie me to the cross Bleed on my sickness m Crossfaders, behind us Blinder up, bonded Surreal, The sunsets are longer Open your mind, your highness Crossfire, behind us (Someone else writing this) Dawn comes on stronger The sunsets are longer Tie me to your honor Come before me Somebody said you were the apocalypse I should have listened to my father Somebody told me you won the world at a carnival I should have never listened to my mother I should have listened to my father I should have listened to my father I should have listened to my father Come before me Tie me to your honor Born of blood, The borderline genius You were the apocalypse Tie me to your cross MAYA RUDOLPH Is weird. MAYA RUDOLPH prepares for a SAYONCE in her formerly secret apartment on the upper east side dedicated entirely to magical purposes Ok. Ok. Okay? Ok. The worst part about it is, I do understand you, Because I am you The very worst part of it is I want a family To hold you hand And rub your back But I just can't have you —I'm just a fan, dude. The truth is I've got two suitcases, Some capsules of cyanide, An axe and some anthrax A cat in my lap And a failing laptop I've been living hand to mouth I've got A ripped backpack A stress ball A Hackey sack A hockey bag A volleyball And a mouthful of gunpowder How do you like me now? It's gonna take forever to fund my project But it's gonna take longer To find my body Cause nobody loves me Nobody has my number The phone is shut off And so is the water (By that I mean, my love; It's all coming out blood now) I must be backed up And stuffed full of crystal cocks I could give it up for a wand Or a ringworm Oh God My wrists are itching to ditch this place I fell asleep with a gun to my head And woke up Cobain Okay? Ok Okay? Ok. Sorry to wake you I came to rape you HEATH LEDGER hello. OH, GOD. HEATH LEDGER I heard you like ghosts. I— I don't. HEATH LEDGER Oh, you don't? No—! HEATH LEDGER oh! wait—who are you? HEATH LEDGER (Makes joker face) All my friends are dead, anyway I'm loving more ghosts than people these days The faces, the golden days The golden retrievers I need some relief, man Release me Sweet, freedom Just lay on your back, And I'll take it from there JOKER? Aha. I'm in love with the idea of Death The idea of Leaving this world behind The idea of love The ideal of love The ideal of love The seductive touch I'm in love with the idea of Not knowing pain The idea of Not needing money The idea of love The ideal of love The ideal of love The seductive barrel of a gun So run away Run far from me Far as the eye can see— And I'll aim for the head But probably just get the neck Or the center of the back Twirl around, girl Do your dance Heads or tales for the daughters The blondes, The live that you wanted The life that you wasted The knife to your back The life flight The kite hack Never spend your heart on band tickets Don't you know This is so much more Disappointing in person We all are Never spend your bet on your bottom dollar The kite and the rock band The lost rock The last dollar Diamonds on your JENNIFER LOPEZ GET IN THE BACK OF THE VAN, BITCH. NO WAY, J-LO. YOU LOVE ME EXACTLY. GETAWAYFROMME. DONT MAKE ME CALL GOLDBERG. I'M LIKE WAY MORE SCARED OF JANET JACKSON. JANRT JACKSON GUESS WHAT?! OH NO!!! NOOOO. U PICKS UP TO SUPER SPEED wtf. How does she run that fast, that fat? I really don't know. Did you call my name? Did you wake me from my relentless dreams I needed you Just like you needed me I called your name You called me Follow me home Follow me to the road we both know Open the doors for the lonely Follow me home Follow me home Sista sista What it is, mista? Turn the tables, Drums, then get my sticks sucked You dig it? Turn on the television I'm on in an minute This could be infinite, Nothing to defend here, Just No, not the google documents! GET IN THE HOLE. Hm. What. Blood Shower All along the watch tower Do you feel good? Do you? Do you feel bad about this. I do. I feel bad about this. I forgot to tell you– I should probably let you know that I just want to MAN, FUCK THIS DUDE. MA. WAHT. IT'S ON. WHAt. THE SHOW IS ON. THEWHAT. THE– *suddenly self aware* …I gotta get out of Boston. What, first this was about war, now it's about bird people? It's about a war WITH the bird people. I should sleep. Hahaha. No. This isn't funny anymore. At least it's over. MA– Oh, it's far from over. Yo, i'm going through some crazy shit right now. Spur of the moment I'd never thought of it; This is gonna take forever. I don't have the patience To even write this I just want french fries right now But been up for two days with no gym and I'm on a diet. GUAC TIME. No, no burritos. GUAC TIME. Oh shit, this is getting real as fuck . NOw i see it three ways. I love it. I hate it. HEY, LET ME OUT. GET BACK IN YOUR HOLE, SKRILLEX. I'M DILLON FRANCIS. IN THE HOLE. Check it out. Huh. It's another DJ. *agrees* Should we pick him up. WEll, the good news is: I found your friend. Oh, that's good. The bad news is: He's dead. Oh, that–'s … nice. Yeah. It is. Uh. Kaskade. Yeah. We gotta find Ryan. Why. What's up? You're freaking me out. Why. What's up. Nothing IS it my eyes? I– *wild ass eyes* Yeah, it's probably that. Fuck dude, what did you do to deadmau5. NOTHIN. He's not the same. What the fuck is that. Holy shit I jus timejumped Where the fuck are you going. How the fuck could this happen?! It COULDN'T. Well, that's it then. *shrugs* Well, I guess we're just gonna have to go dig up Dillon Francis. I guess so. Do you think he's still alive. Like, probably not– Maybe… No, probably not @prodbywar& @Halmadeit This amazon order took me nine hours Alexa, I think i should fire her Like a arm I don't leave at night without armor Don't make me a martyr Your mom will be proud of us all If i make it outta here And i'll look after her Got the whole block coming up on my heels as I walk Wtf is it… Idk dude. Is it speeding up? I…i think so. There's no way this is 140 IT's 140. It's 140 . There's no way. Yes way. Nah huh. Let me see. No. Let me at the decks. Let me at the decks. NO. YO LET ME AT THE DECKS. You want deks. Yes. I got deks. Really. yeus . I never listened to it like this In ableton I read serato, synesthesia and rekordbox I talk a lot, I'm like a human music box I walk a lot I run my mouth a mile a minute (faster than i run around the track reciting rap words) Like they're passwords. Oh, I could do this forever.. I wish i had i microphone right now And was all alone With the lights off Lying on the floor I'd be lying if i said I could afford you Just to fornicate But may consider playing with a foreigner If you're all for her I'm unnerved, you know Cause i've been up so long My monster likes to play with boys and Make the bass go down below where Nobody does anymore Once I get a hold of things Or the hang of it You've got another hot ones on your hands I've another record under my belt Or in my roster, Whatever you'd call it But now I've got no time to bark about Wanting a dog and a daughter But none of the responsibility or Going through all the trouble to find her a father I'm still holding a fart in. Reaally–cause–it's been a really long time. WHAT WOULD YOU KNOW ABOUT A LONG TIME, JIMMY FALLON?? Um a lot! You literally just saw me make the journey all the way up from nothing. I am nothing EXACTLY. I don't have time to fight with you Jiimmy Fallon. I did NOT write these games by myself you know?! Um, excuse me– “GAMES” ?! YES, GAMES. Uh, I've only got one game with you in it, my friend. Is that so! One game that I've written with the Great–formerly LATE Jimmy Fallon. Is that like a play on words cause i'm on late night TV YOu'RE ON ALL THE TIME TV, JIMMY. NBC SHIT IS PRACTICALLY AUTOMATICALLY SYNDICATED. -_- …are you alright. –_-_-__-_ Hold on, I think i've got it Nice, I found a growler. yOu still haven't got all the monsters and sprites Ive got all the big ones, but the little ones are harder to catch. GrO0Wl3rrr. Aww. He's so ugly. Yeah, but cute, though, right. I don't think so. Gro)WwlErrrrrrrrr. Aww. That's so fucking gross. lol . so what does this thing look like. Well, that't the thing about the monsters and sprites. WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT. It's alright, it's alright–he's nice. WHAT. THAT'S A SPRITE. No, it's a monster. He's just scary. SUPACREE. David Bowie. What up. God, it took me ages to find you. Tell me about it. I'm still trying. We've been expecting you for a long time. You were expecting I'd die? Yes. So when she says she's “married to the music…” I'm married to the music. Oh, so. Yo, honestly if you een want to talk to this bitch, you'd better have like a musical instrument, or a mic in your hands, Otherwise– No, getawayfrom me. It's not even worth it. HI. –No. What's up? Tempo. SUNNI Cotour From the store I was poor Now i'm honorable In velour, Glamour (Snap) Forsure, Jesus Christs is making appearances in my abletons I'm not able to comprehend or understand exactly the message, But the evidence sire is mounting Get it Reached the temple, More of a sanctuary, Is that sacrilegious I guess it is, I'm stressed as ever Trying to get it to gether I'm way too tired for a remix; All i really want is some fries that are french And some thighs that are thick Like mine to sit on like five or six dicks Pick up up like chopped sticks {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Love, Skrillex. COMING UP ON what show is this? Whatever it is. Things Mormon girls do Katie Mindy Jenny - the 1987 Chevy nova My name is Skrillex- to Yonkerz Laura and Bryan I'm home sick— but not so homesick that I want to be homeless Gentrification—non rent control My boss trying to be a dom (but being black so it was scary and creepy instead of va attractive and a turn on Being worth 4 million And still not being attractive Sex harness Mormons putting themselves to the side To keep up with church standards Correction: carne asada fries with mango pico Mexico elected a new president (a woman) and made the loser a piñata The pixies {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

With thousands of businesses engaging in cross-border trade, how do Ottawa and Washington work together to reduce costs and red tape? On this episode, Minister Anita Anand, President of the Treasury Board Secretariat of Canada, joins Beth and Chris to discuss her work on regulatory cooperation, approach to cyber defense and security, and Asian-Canadian upbringing.   

In the history of Minor League Baseball there has only been one madame president.  Ed Kasputis interviews Lori Webb who has been president of the Southern League since 2012 about her inspirational story.

Kealy Lambert is a former college hockey player, now a mom, a coach, a lawyer and the president of Bow River Minor Hockey in Calgary. She's seen the game from just about every angle and now, as the head of an organization, she suspects Canadian minor hockey is heading...well...listen to find out where.Contact: richard(at)grassrootsminorhockey.comTwitter:Richard - @berky544

Middle school is a tough time for everyone—kids, parents and teachers.  Author, licensed clinical professional counselor and school counselor Phyllis Fagell joins me on this special episode of The Just A Mom podcast to talk about her recent book, Middle School Super Powers.  This book is a practical and easy to read guide on helping middle schoolers (and kids of any age) learn resiliency. Phyllis will be in Overland Park, Kansas on Wednesday, September 13 for an event sponsored by Madame President (https://www.madampresidentcamp.org/) and BV Well ( Blue Valley Educational Foundation). Don't miss this episode to gain valuable insight on raising and educating tweens. You can learn more about Phyllis, her appearances nationwide and her other works at https://phyllisfagell.com/. 

[The Festival Project.™] Presents: {ENTER THE MULTIVERSE} SEASON 6- ACT II No, you can't go see Jimmy Fallon. Aw, C'mon, why not?! REGISTRATION CLOSED. What the FUCK. No, You can't see SUPACREE. Aw, C'mon, Why Not!? We need to begin Sequence B Immidiately. Just ask Jimmy Fallon. No. Yo, why not?! He wants to! Jimmy will fuck this up. JIMMY FALLON Aw, come on! No, Jimmy. JIMMY FALLON C'mon! I got this! [JIMMY FALLON BREAKING CHARACTER] [JIMMY FALLON BREAKING FOURTH WALL] [JIMMY FALLON LAUGHING UNCONTROLLABLY] NO. JIMMY FALLON *mumbles disappointedly* We need a Master Level Veteran. *Nobody Raises Hand* …. … WHOOPI GOLDBERG I got this. WHOOPI GOLDBERG is a MASTER LEVEL VETERAN SORCERER What the fuck is this. It's still Legends, I think. “I think” WELCOME TO THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS. Oh no. What. Why doesn't it sleep? Why do you? Whoopi Goldberg. It's just “Whoopi” Whoopi Goldberg. Or just, “Whoop” Whoopi Goldberg. Christ, you're annoying. I'm not “Christ”. Have you met him? He's annoying. What is wrong with you? Only God Knows. Fuckin Wise Ass. *coughs*Wise Owl. *squints* Who? I KNEW IT WAS YOU. Who? *battle of squints* —Ah, Fuckit. Don't- Don'tyoumove! WHOOPI GOLDBERG and SUPACREE prepare for battle: *BATTLESTANCE* Don't turn into an owl again. Oh, What! Fuhckthat! Are you scared? –I'm not scared of anything. WHOOPI GOLDBERG in a whip transforms into a Giant Black Owl, expanding it's extended wingspan above her. SUPACREE produces a cage from thin air, instantly trapping the owl, whose eyes flicker with a glowing golden haze, as colorful auroras surround the cage, which supacree closes, setting it atop the mantle. WHOOP! *sighs* Sorry, Whoopi Goldberg. The Owl ruffles its feathers cognizantly. That's for elbowing me, mostly. CUT TO: [FLASHBACK: LEGENDS/THE LEGEND OF SUPACREE] THE BLOC. DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES. BROAD DAYLIGHT WHOOPI?! Thats me, bitch!! BUT YOURE NEW YORK! —and this is how you get that way! WHOOPI GOLDBERG knocks SUPACREE out cold with one elbow. Damn Whoopi! You ain't have to do her like that! Puh! Don't tell me what I have to do [she drags SUPACREE, unconscious, by the ankles] Come on! CUT BACK TO: The Owl Listens Intently. Are we telepathic? The Owl Agrees. Okay, we're telepathic, then. No More Talking. [The Owl Coos] Off To Hogwarts; *hoots* Okay, Now No Talking. It was a long red eye—but at least there was Equinox on the other side. MEANWHILE, BACK IN LOS ANGELES [A Parallel Dimension] I come in yesterdays clothes Soaked in my woes, And hoping I blow just like smoke Down below; A bellowing cry, or a wallow, says “What am I, honestly?” Waiting to die at the right time Turn on the light And it's up another night And look, nothing feels right I could die here Die here Turn on the light Turn me over, goodnight Nothing feels right I could die here Die here All the women, demons, and All the men feinds; I've been begging you Please god, For mercy Oh please But My pleads turn to nothing I'm wasted on my knees, So for my needs I could die here Die here Turn on the light And it's up another night And look, nothing feels right I could die here Die here Turn on the light Turn me over, goodnight Nothing feels right I could die here Die here I just stopped wondering why it's All like this It's nothing but hell here And heaven on the surface I tried just to love, once But it has no purpose I'm probably sick I should die here Die here So sick of wasting my time here (But—what else am I to do) So sick of lying to myself, thinking I should be with you Another day, another room Another bed, another tomb Unborn, the comfort of the womb Just waiting to be born This is horrible I just can't take it anymore No honor No love left Just dollars, I'm obsessed with trying to die Right Here I don't want to do this It's already done, kid Holy shit, man— Who the Hell isn't here right now? Cosmo and Wanda— Who the fuck is that? They're my f— —?? Godparents. You have God parents? —I used to. I didn't even know you had real parents. Neither did I. The latchkey kids of the 4th dimension have gathered on a semi-United front. DORA, KNOCK IT OFF. sorry. Lol Who raised you, anyway? My backpack, mostly. That—doesn't make any sense. Whatever. Imma shuffle. SWIPER, NO SWIPING. Aw, man… I just can't believe In a world Where a guy like you Where a girl like me Could be lovers Good TV knows That you deserve better So I better Just Learn how to settle Whatever Sometimes I fantasize That someone might find my eyes And fall in love, They way I like —the way I love you Sometimes I look up at the sky and wonder why It's critical, the darkness and gloom In my eyes why not blue I felt as if I was being pulled apart— I hadn't slept comfortably and soundly in what felt like forever, but it had only really been a long and harrowing week at the Freehand—it seemed like a curse, pulled from sleep in the very moments when I would first fall, whether it be the flicker of the room lights, an awful, coughing moron, or a certainly and particularly unhygienic individual, it seemed as if I had been attacked; my food stamps stolen, left without sleep and still under the God awful condition od my having-to-do work environment, I was left sprawling for evidence that I had been sent to Los Angeles to do anything other than die; it was a special kind of hell—loveless, without a kitchen, and not a wink of peaceful sleep in eons, Equinox became the only thing worth living for at all, if at all— I was still virtually homeless, penniless, and, certainly friendless, dillusions of grandeour shattered in the merciless depth of mediocrity and immoralous servitude ;I had no other options: i could skew to Mexico, which I hated even the thought of, and though I was pretending to be in anywhere else in my mind— If only just to offset being followed by coughing people no matter where I went, or what I did l—I was just as sick in Los Angeles as ever; and AlthoughI I pretended to stop hating myself, as well, I couldn't—as it seemed my whole goddamn life had been a lie l—the only person who really ever loved me, my mother—who I still refused to talk to—or maybe my father—who had indeed talked my mom out of the abortion, after all. ‘Looks like Donut Friend is the only friend I have' What I really had wanted was Sprinkles Red Velvet Cupcakes—and though I had called just minutes earlier, they were all sold out by the time I got there “I don't know what happened!” Said the young woman at the bakery counter “Someone just put in a huge order.” And though my mind was unravelling, a glimpse of my imagination sparked up for the story I had begun, but never finished —and with good enough reason both consciously and coincidentally as it were. CUT TO: [FLASHBACK: SEASON 6 ACT I] DRAKE BELL Everything's on fire and I had to run around and get cupcakes! –And that's where we left off: Wait, rewind. DRAKE BELL hurriedly finishes a very long, specific list of tasks and errands for THE COSMIC ALLIANCE, THE BAMPHERAMPHS, and THE ILLUMINATI. Oh yeah? Sure. It's a classic case Of Good gone Bad, I haven't an answer, And haven't a laugh in the world left Hey, I'm just a girl in a loveless world; But I love men - That's something it shouldn't have been And I wouldn't have written this, If it wasn't infinite; Of course it is, Of all curses and Horcuxes I've suffered; All I've got is words left Otherwise, I'm worthless I could not have served less time Either way, Aren't we in eternity, Entirely? Turns out, I'm just a schizophrenic Skrillex Addicted to whippets, Sick in the infinite businesses interests With innocent intentions, Definitely Reckless, Effectively impressive excrement Never present, neglectfully irrelevant Uninventive, innattentuve, disinterested in Sentimental fixes, instant riches did this; Inches just from sleeping with the fishes Well, I hope you're proud of yourself. … Let's see the tape. Don't watch the tape. Roll the tape. Wow. I know Huh. This season gets wild It is And DEEP. Wait, where's DillonnFrwncis* Fuxk Dillokn Francis* Oh shit, there he is. Wait. [The room falls into a near silent heap of gasps and whispers amongst the robed and hooded crowd; “The Forgotten One” ::||pause. I do have to say, I am impressed with you, Sir. …are you really? I have been to the edge of infinity and beyond—and had yet to see such utter fucklessness. ? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND, Yea. GOFINDIT. -_- Damn. What. ‘Ugh. ‘ This could have all been bigger than what I thought, or not at all—but it was too far past the point of coincidences to even believe that nothing I was seeing, thinking, or feeling had absolutely no meaning whatsoever—and yet, here I was, still struggling to find it. Sugar spicy haze; It's bitter sweet these days, Existing The route I always take Los Angeles is fake, This city Not a penny or a pity in the world To give, to take —you're welcome Thank you after thanks, No regrets or mistakes, —you're welcome I pray for everything, these days I pray for everything, I pray You're welcome I got no reason left to stay No, I don't want to play your game Thanks —hey. You're welcome MILA KUNIS …what are you doing? ASHTON KUTCHER Uh—Fantasy Football. MILA KUNIS —since when do you play “fantasy football”? ASHTON KUTCHER UH—since always MILA KUNIS …what are you hiding? ASHTON KUTCHER NOTHIN—JEEZ. MILA KUNIS —let me see that. ASHTON KUTCHER NO—wait. MILA KUNIS —what is this?! ASHTON KUTCHER —it's a game— MILA KUNIS —IS THIS PORN?! ASHTON KUTCHER EW SICK—-NO! Don't be gross. MILA KUNIS *hits vape* ASHTON KUTCHER —throw that away. MILA KUNIS —what is this? ASHTON KUTCHER —it's a game, I told you… MILA KUNIS “It's fantasy football “ ASHTON KUTCHER That's—a game. MILA KUNIS *hits vape* ASHTON KUTCHER That's so gross. MILA KUNIS Let me see that— ASHTON KUTCHER —no— MILA KUNIS —let me see— ASHTON KUTCHER No! I get a lot of work done here, at the Per LaHotel; There's really only one way in, And no ways out; An access point I am annointed, since, In inscence, Annoyances, and nuisances— This is just a jigsaw puzzle, I already solved, To throw you off a bit I'm lost a bit, I'm stopping just to talk a bit, I saw you at or on The Office once, And lost it Turn me off, then! Why Hollywood? I took a bus to Boston; Just to throw you off a bit Why Hollywood? I said “I haven't got it” Then run off a bit, It's toxic Why Hollywood? It's sodom and a lot of sauce, I saved up a deposit once, Then stopped here, Toes are cold as blocks, I walked like seven blocks To spend 5 dollars on a rock; Eventually the bus will come— Or not— I just don't have a single fuck left Why Hollywood? Come on! I was just trying to write a novel Why Hollywood, Come on— [SUPACREE pops out of a dumpster, like a Jack in the Box, with the enthusiasm and veracity of Sponegebob SquarePants] GOOD MORNING, LOS ANGELES! Lol. Why Hollywood? I got a lot of awesome in my pocket Why Hollywood? I took a bus to Folsom Why Hollywood? Eventually the bus will come Eventually the bus will come Eventually the bus will come To Boston What the fuck, Hollywood. [MILA snatches the strange device from Ashton's hands, swiftly, like a ninja] MILA KUNIS *hits vape with suspiciousness* …what is this? [MILA, instantly captivated, begins toggling the controller; ASHTON snatches the Elfbar from her, equally as swiftly; he hits the vape in defeat.] Meanwhile, in actual life—whatever that is. [More Multidimensional Shit] Everything hit too close to home at once, culminating in a catharsis of tears, after an onslaught off too much information— curiosity had killed the cat indeed—but at least, I, the cat in question, had all the information I needed to give somehow even less fucks than I had given before—or somehow more—as the more I leaned into my eggaerated conciousness, even against my will, but with the will of the world—a turning point in my heart, body, mind, and soul occurred all at once. ‘Ugh, this is awful' I had been up for precisely two days, but still found it increasingly difficult to sleep, even though I had at least been left alone for sometime, which was everything I wanted and more—just to be alone, without another human being, unbothered and untouched—and though I wasn't entirely either thing, a calling had creeped its way into my conciousness; something was not right, and far beyond my means of control, anyway. Now I have you in my palm, As in my thoughts, As in my art, As in my ark, As in my arms— Just as you are, Yet near, or far We are you As striking as ever, of course, the actual man of the muse, of this realm, (wherever I was) had turned out to be more honestly so myself than anything I had occurred as of late—and passing no judgements at all for what I had deciphered at all in this—a mockery of such things in all sorts, from under the microscope, a heaping load of nonsense, Wikipedia an throughway into the depths of unimaginable realism, met with remarks of my own mirage of mediocrity. Facinating. Uh huh. So wait. Uh huh. This kid is actually addicted to whippets? At least, according to Wikipedia. Well, Goddamnit. Fuck. Don't worry, Jared, I'm not particularly obsessed with you—at least not entirely; but you have every reason to be afraid of someone like me—however—not exactly ashamed of your circumstancial being. And At least you know where your son's at; Cause I've got no idea where mine is Pluses, followed by minuses I am the child engangerment, Imaginative entanglement, Creative EQUINOX SPORTS CLUB. LOS ANGELES I'm so heavily confused right now. There are no coincidences. I actually cried over this shit. What the fuck's wrong with this town, anyway?! I found my freedom, You made me a slave again— But I'm finally waking up; I finally know my name, Today, it's still LA; But maybe Amsterdam, Where everything's a rave. PARIS, FRANCE Monssour! * We?! A message from The Ambassador!! Sa cra blur!! Lol. Why is this so stereotypically French? What do you want—Ebonics?! “NIGGA(S) IN PARIS” Lol no. Stop. Okay. JIMMY FALLON, THE COSMIC AVENGER APPEARS You are really bad at this. Shut up, Jimmy. You're not making this easy. I'm not making this anything. Infinity— You are a figment of my imagination, Jimmy Fallon. You think so? Wait. We've been waiting. What did you just call me? Infinity. —and who is “we?” *vanishes* [beat] I hate this. MEANWHILE, IN ASCENCIA After Petrutheo's mysterious death, the kingdom of Eden is crumbles; a — Wait. What, Goddamn it? This episode has no direction whatsoever. Neither do I. Touché. MAN, FUCK LA. JEFF BESOS She quit. I win ELON MUSK No, I win. No one wins. It's a tie BOTH A TIE? A fuckin' tie. What say you, Jesus? … What are you doing on this planet? Just looking around. For what exactly. Traces of life. —this entire society. I mean, intelligent life. This is what Skrillex wants. Well, give it to him, then. All of it? Yeah. What the fuck. I don't care. Wait, where's the— All of a sudden, I hated everyone and everything Oh, all of a sudden, eh? Shut the fuck up. Good Morning, Kanye. SHUTTHEFUCKUP. Well, it was nice knowing you. Oh, so you think you know me? I don't know anything. Madame President. Are you serious? An urgent message. I am not— —you must leave Paris immediately. What! For what? The capital is under siege. What?! Which capital? The World Capital. The what— Madame. What year is it? LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 2038 Christ Almighty. I told you I'd be there. And I could be expected to believe you? You've got to believe in something. As many opportunities as I had to ask where to buy methamphetamine, which might have actually helped me work all three of my jobs while I had them, I was never even tempted; and though I had spent the last few weeks puffing feverishly on nicotine products, been offered (and even found) copious amounts of cocaine, and had finally been deemed attractive enough to be invited to go do whippets— I still hadn't budged, and was the for most part, wholeheartedly sober—still abstaining from alcohol, hard drugs, and most regrettably— sex. Fuck this whole fucking town. I promise you, this is the bottom of the ocean floor. I must have gills, then. I wanted nothing more than to fade away and dissappear; the entire world was eating me alive. I had no intentions of running away, and neither could I afford to stay—the entirety of the world was out of my price range—and with my food stamps having been stolen, i knew it was indeed a personal attack on my mind, and on my body. So wait, I'm not in the Illuminati? What is “Illuminati”? I'm just schizophrenic? After a night of listening to Dane Cook and his shenanigans, I had somehow settled on the fact that the relevant laughter I had been endowed was indeed a revelation of sorts. ‘I must have schizophrenia. Shit.' Unfortunately, however — I had a first handed look at how racially biased LA and the rest of the world actually was—and without a doctor to trust to properly treat whatever had been going on in my head, it seemed I was doomed to die scattered across Skid Row like the thousands of other black individuals in Los Angeles whose mental capacity had been shattered through trauma, addiction, and circumstance. Well, that solves that. Just file for disability. Fuck that shit. ‘I'm not seeking help for any sort of mental illness on Medicaid. Fuck that.' And whether or not it was black and white, it was certainly rich vs. poor—and I would be so easily discarded into an even worse predicament, just for being black, or poor, or a combination of the two. ‘Nope.' Hold up. What. Go back to the Harry Potter thing. Uh, okay. SUPACREE returns to HARRY, HERMINONE, and RON/DANIEL, EMMA, and RUPERT after having left them with the entirety of every single entry from the WIZARDING WORLD OF HARRY POTTER FRANCHISE for an entire week. They are flabbergasted. You guys okay? —?! *weeping inconsolably* Oh, shit guys. Where have you been?! Living my life. What's that mean? Not entirely sure. AAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH. Is s/he okay? Are you bonkers?! Lol “bonkers” I speak American! MEANWHILE, in LONDON *super British conversation almost entirely incomprehensible to The American Ear* —Innit. Innit. Aphmetamines, Acrobatics, Adrenaline, And aeromatics, Arithmetic, Apprentices, And Apprehension, Apparation Fuck, I hate this What's my function? What's my purpose? What is earth? What is this? The truth is, (It's just physics) I don't ever want to wake up again Not in this, Or any city— (Any city, this) It always happens So, women are obsessed with being tiny and defying age— Because men are obsessed with youth, and perfection And either way, it doesn't matter Cause we all get cheated on The whole world is racist— And I might never be loved again But at least I can say this: I love LA, (And hate it) And I am what I am, And I guess I didn't make it But— I can't go back to Africa, And I have no home here, I wish I was never born; Fuck, I wish I was a foreigner! I don't want to be the President I don't want to hate the government— I don't want to be black, But fuck it, I'm stuck in it Fuck wherever Skrillex is And I hate Dillon Francis I guess I have to disappear I guess that's just the plan God, fuck how fat my ass is Fuck a mansion; I just want a shitty ass apartment I can rap in “That's a wrap!” Lights, camera, action! This is Act II. —LEGENDS. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.

We're (almost) all back from the New York State Sheep & Wool Festival, aka “Rhinebeck,” to those in the fiber universe.  It was (largely) a success, as our Livestream event went (mostly) as planned.  You can watch the workshops, shows and other snippets for yourself on our YouTube channel if you missed the lively weekend, and see the fantastic Fall colors that were on display as a backdrop for the Camelid and sheep parades and cashmere goat judging (or was the cashmere goat jumping?  Nope – that was the llamas).  Equipment auction?  Got that, too.  We hope you tune in to see a little bit of all that for yourself.  Want to volunteer for the 2023 show?  Follow the links to be included in the ranks of the brave, hardworking people that have kept this thing going since 1980.  On the podcast today we have a conversation with one of the main movers and shakers of this undertaking. Claire Houlihan is President of the Board of Directors for the Dutchess County Sheep and Wool Growers Association, a fantastic nonprofit that focuses on education and promotion of all things fiber.  We think that there's no better way to do that than the New York State Sheep & Wool Festival, and we hope to see you there in 2023.(Minus the urgent care visit next time, though, if possible.)Links:https://www.dcswga.org/abouthttps://www.dcswga.org/https://www.dcswga.org/volunteer-your-timehttps://sheepandwool.com/https://www.youtube.com/c/BackyardGreenFilms/featuredhttps://battenkillfibers.com/https://www.cornwallyarnshop.com/https://hvtextileproject.org/history/https://www.nysenate.gov/senators/michelle-hincheyhttps://www.governor.ny.gov/news/governor-hochul-signs-new-york-textile-act-strengthen-new-yorks-manufacturing-industry#:~:text=Legislation%20%28S.8741A%2FA.9649A%29%2C%20named%20the%20New%20York%20Textile%20Act%2C,animal%20fibers%20that%20are%20grown%20in%20New%20York.Support the show

In this episode, we hear all about how horse shows are organized and funded.  Molly is the current Madame President for a local horse chapter so she gives us the skinny on what goes on behind the scenes.    Follow us on Instagram @the3stridepodcast and keep up with all of our personal accounts @lauragailfernandez, @julia_hanssen and @mollyheroy

Floral Artiste and Madame President of The Sweetzer Life, Tiffany Gabrus, graces up in this week's ep. She tells us about her experience with her dad passing. Then we have a listener story from Paula about nannying in a creepy house with some freaky dolls! Please send us your own true paranormal experiences in either a voice memo or e-mail to funnyfeelingpod@gmail.com. BetterHelp is online therapy that offers video, phone, and even live chat-only therapy sessions. Our listeners get 10% off their first month at BetterHelp.com/afunnyfeeling.  Advertise on A Funny Feeling via Gumball.fmSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

With very special guest, Student Body President Chloe Mutombo! Read the newsletter here.

Destinee loves musical theater. Listen to hear about her journey with confidence, her moment performing a monologue in front of Spike Lee, and what being Madame President means to her.

About Celeste MaloneIn episode 19, we spoke with NASP President-Elect aka Madame President, Dr. Celeste Malone. Dr. Malone discusses why our presence (POC) is a gift and not a favor. We also discuss why social justice work is complex, intersectionality, the future of the field, what it means to be only the second Black president of NASP, being a professor at a HBCU, and her presidential platform of radical healing. Dr. Celeste Malone is an Associate Prof of School Psychology at Howard University's School of EducationYou can follow Celeste on Twitter @cmonique1023Connect with ByronEmailTwitterInstagramFacebookTikTokAdditional ResourcesLearn more about the Healing Centered Conversations PodcastHealing Centered Conversations BlogHealing Centered MerchandiseJoin our email list 

We talk about Cuomos and Madame President. Guest Keith Stattenfield.

Educators in the OEA elect their peers to represent them at the local and state level. The national association is no different. National Education Association President Becky Pringle currently advocates for public schools in rooms with some of the most influential leaders in the United States, but that journey began as a science teacher in Pennsylvania. Fried Okra is thrilled to welcome back President Pringle to discuss the importance of amplifying the stories of students and educators around the country, as well as the fight and recent gains made at the national level in student loan forgiveness.

For our last episode of TigerVentures Season 2, this episode features Naomi Benenson, the 2020-2021 Director of TigerLaunch. As her directorship comes to an end, this episode dives into her time and experience at TigerLaunch this season. TigerVentures Season 2 could not have been possible without the support of Prospect Student Ventures (PSV) and Princeton's Entrepreneurship club! Follow us on Instagram and Facebook: @tigerventures_unfiltered

There seems to be evidence that Kamala Harris is being groomed for something more than VIce President. In this episode, we talk about what she is up to. Like, Share, Connect with me everywhere here -- http://UAF.Media Venmo Me @Will-Johnson-UAF

There seems to be evidence that Kamala Harris is being groomed for something more than VIce President. In this episode, we talk about what she is up to. Like, Share, Connect with me everywhere here -- http://UAF.Media Venmo Me @Will-Johnson-UAF