About the FLIR monocular: the truth is I didn’t bring it that day, thanks to the “MethEd”

If you want to point fingers, start with me on that one assigment.

And then, pont them right the fuck back at yourself, because as they say, flip me off, and four more right back atcha. Because you and your trusted rat MethEd is kind of full of shit, all of you–and the guy is like an overgrown child, cannot seem to find his asshole when he needs to wipe it, but always manages to leave shit everywhere he goes.

And Josie is always wiping it for him, and then writing good reports, which you stupid fuckers soak up like Maxipads. That stupid bitch is maybe 2% point guard , 90% toilet paper, and the rest is all “The MethEd’s” sycophant. Poor Ethnic boy! Wawawawa! Racism! Classism! Opportunity structure!

Poor, poor MethEd!

Strange feed for a Quantico bitch to have popping discount coupon zingers and spam into her brain but there you go. That is her brain, entirely. Plus her own handler, which is about the same makeup, plus the anger that comes from menopause.

Like I like to say ” Men will DEFINITELY PAUSE, when one of her wafts into a room like an elevator fart that couldn’t evade capture by the ventilation system. That is, provided that the area you are stationed even has ventilation in their elevators, which most “otherworldly” countries do not. I zapped over here on less than an hours notice, flight unnamed until I fucking got there at the airport.

Even then, the ticket was fucked–SAIGON. WHo can write worse comedy? YUp. Then TOKYO.

Seriously–amateur hour at the agency these days, and everyone knows it. Get you fucking flights straight already. Learn to spell (just an idea, girls.) People die in those wee hours between you diversity hires learning to spell basic words, so that you can BOOK A FUCKING FLIGHT CORRECTLY, and actual terrorists bombing school buses–just sayin’.

Maybe eat more sushi “Gwendolyn,” aka “SA Rogers.” Your tastebuds are out of whack, but that is NOT the point of my writing right now. Its your penchant–your abject LUST for odd concoctions that has me worried, and its probably why my flight was delayed for seven hours too.

Just this morning I stepped into some kind of mess. By the elevator button, this spilled sauce, everywhere–on the floor, on the buttons, on the public safety elevator awareness campaign plastered on the stainless steel wall.

While the odor could have been called “faintly enticing, it was drownd=ed by the pee smell of someone’s seafood dinner from last night. Uraic acid, multiplied by fishbone decay. ERotic in some very limited personal contexts, but totally gross in this mornings elevator. And that bag of stink likely hauled out in a large plastic garbage bag, because I saw its imprint on the floor–it had a seam in it. The bag used for the garbage, I mean.

So, that feast, like a lab culture of unsafety, that I am sure could be diagnosed with every strain of the virus so far analyzed or predicted, predicated, patented, or otherwise confirmed, speculated upon, or profited from by major drug companies and Fortune 30 executives with masks to sell and fat board members who could use a little Tae Bo time–was no doubt brought into the building by one of those takeout guys–sweaty, overworked, thinking about how to feed his kid that he hasn’t yet found a woman to marry him, or to have–that takeout guy slopped the juice at the door, scrambled to pick up his package, smeared the sauce and welcome helpings of his own DNA plus fingerprints onto the polished steel wall, and finally delivered it, sauce spalshing, to someone who has no fucking idea what he went through to get their two mini-buckets/takeout dishes of slop–plus bread sticks from a SECOND VENDOR– to their door.

And those bitches don’t even tip the guy. Its the way it is. Working men seldom are recognized for their elevator splashes and drippings.

Neither here nor there, but I am venting. My shoes are recovering in the lobby.

Well, anyways. Venting–because the story of the FLIR is quite interesting, buckle up folks.

To put it simply: today’s FLIR wars aren’t your nephews FLIR wars.So for example, the LS-32 has a distinctly different appeal to folks, than the LS-X, for distinctly different reasons.

I won’t get into that because it is still privileged information, but suffice it to say that The MethED fucked all of that up for me on that one outing. He dropped my monocular into a grab bag. Yup–your guy is EXACTLY THAT STUPID>

More on that later–because you have already seen thr fallout from that.

But beyond a marketing approach problem, or a “high tech” problem, I had a “MethEd problem that wouldn’t go away, and the monocular was a casualty, and it cost me and a few other folk–you included– some dinero, but also, let pigs like these gain a superior advantage at the time. Eat more salad honey! Your HUMINT feeding off of your sow teets could use less calories, even if they starve to death! I will even help them in that endeavour if I can.

It went down like this, and I am forgetting some stuff, but simply–The MethEd was going to a rock show, in Albuquerque. This should perturb any normal person who reads this story, but it particularly perturbs me, because just to tell you this shit, I will have to write fucking “Albuquerque” at least five times. FUCK. Who makes up words like that anyways?

So, let’s just call it “the place” and “the event” an so on for this part of the story, because no fucking way am I going to argue with spellchecker over that each fucking time I have to write it!

“The Place.” “The Event.”

The place had a rock show going on, and MethEd’s task was to frame a Chinese guy for trafficking in artifacts. Easy peezy. Any basic moron could handle that project, get in get out, job accomplished.

With one catch: the Taiwanese do not smell the same as Hong Kong people, or Singaporeans, or mainlanders, all of whom carry the distinctive odors of their own cuisines. But who told MethEd? Bumbling, job-conscious, American bor MethEd compromised everything, and the fallout is still felt today.

No one. EXACTLY NO ONE told METHED that he stinks, and so do his “handlers.” He smells like unspiced pork belly, little different than a Cat person, from the tribe of cat people. Thrt odor is very distinct, and any “normal” person can smell it.

And that caused quite a stink, lol.

You know the rest. That as a centerpiece. Yup-“just that one.”

One botched conversation with the LS-X. I still laugh about it, but that stupid fucker to this day has no idea that he is now called a “soy sauce stinkbug.” And, Mr X blew his fucking face off, minutes before that pig Josie could catch her fish, or scale it.

But we know him by that name, and so does everyone else. And, “national security” is now missing a link that those fucking salda eaters could have easily linked, if they weren’t so damn busy with their infighting ans squabbling.

Word salad–its what they eat for breakfast lunch and dinner, and none the wiser–and certainly none the thinner, lol, except lil’ MethEd, who always seems to find a job somewhere AFTER he pops his rock show ballooon.

Honestly, its a nothingburger, but stick with him, right? And all of those nothinburgers might just lead to some real food right?

Now: ask that cunt about my monocular. But especially, ask that cunt about my FLIR-X. Marks the spot, ay?

Maybe in your internet fantasy life it does. But elsewhere? That search language is “on the list,” and you too, now searching it.

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