Encke's April 2020 Elections Tracker (It's back, baby!)

[Southern Senator North Carolina Yankee]

Once upon a time, for our perceptions but a fog of yesteryear's, there was a lonesome boy, longing for a friendly devotion. And there was a forsaken puppy, dreaming of finding a strong arm to protect and care for it. The boy was the industrial revolution and the puppy's name, a proud denomination indeed, was the humanity. But here, in the hallucinatory entity called Atlasia by presumptuous, abortive tongues inhabiting it, we have forsaken the kind boy and moved straight into the icy, grabbing, ever-jealous and proprietorial arms of the merciless computing apparatus. An abominable moloch, feared deity of horrid disagreeability. Yet no Moloch can thrive without its' priests, feeding it's atrocious appetites with bloody offerings. The priest of this dreadful Moloch are the so-called Atlasian politicians, and the offerings are misguided souls, shamelessly swindled into registering. By this they have signed off their yet to be enlightened minds and yet to developed senses of perception, allowing themselves to be swallowed by the appalling beast, instead of pursuing true awakening by drinking from the fountain of historical accuracy. The priest of Moloch's may attempt to murder this message by reporting it, but they cannot dispute the accuracy of enlightenment we offer. That we deny them with scorn and denigration, for they are but rankest compounds of villainous smell, fasting quenchingly on rotten flesh and drinking an odious synthesis of satan's urine and alcoholic shoemaker's sweat.

God delete some crappy TLs or something.

[MASHED POTATOES. VOTE!]

Once upon a time, for our perceptions but a fog of yesteryear's, there was a lonesome boy, longing for a friendly devotion. And there was a forsaken puppy, dreaming of finding a strong arm to protect and care for it. The boy was the industrial revolution and the puppy's name, a proud denomination indeed, was the humanity. But here, in the hallucinatory entity called Atlasia by presumptuous, abortive tongues inhabiting it, we have forsaken the kind boy and moved straight into the icy, grabbing, ever-jealous and proprietorial arms of the merciless computing apparatus. An abominable moloch, feared deity of horrid disagreeability. Yet no Moloch can thrive without its' priests, feeding it's atrocious appetites with bloody offerings. The priest of this dreadful Moloch are the so-called Atlasian politicians, and the offerings are misguided souls, shamelessly swindled into registering. By this they have signed off their yet to be enlightened minds and yet to developed senses of perception, allowing themselves to be swallowed by the appalling beast, instead of pursuing true awakening by drinking from the fountain of historical accuracy. The priest of Moloch's may attempt to murder this message by reporting it, but they cannot dispute the accuracy of enlightenment we offer. That we deny them with scorn and denigration, for they are but rankest compounds of villainous smell, fasting quenchingly on rotten flesh and drinking an odious synthesis of satan's urine and alcoholic shoemaker's sweat.

God delete some crappy TLs or something.

Aimless burlesquing. You can delete a timeline, but you cannot, and shall not, delete time, for it would be like striving to delete the river, where the water flows and laughs at your futile attempts to extinguish it. For time is being written down by the toiling monks for our benefit and learning. And one cannot attain proper stage of enlightenment by remaining idly unschooled in the mysteries of times past. The tales of times past is the very manure upon which the ever-burning tree of historical accuracy flourish. And the tree scorns your untenanted jesting with all the denigration its' magnificent roots can muster at any given time.