Fuck Extreme Greed and Power Hoarding

When Will People Decide To Flip The Fucking Table?

It’s pretty simple to rattle off the same exclusive club of, at most, a half dozen eye socket-fucking billionaires and focus all our hatred and loathing on them.

It’s easy. Comforting, even because after awhile you run out of fingernails that they can yank out with their pliars.

But blaming billionaires for your life’s shit misery is like blaming a single cockroach for an infestation.

It’s not about a few ravenous, greedy pigs, kids.

This is about a fundamental change in the way of we are being fucked.

Corporate interests are no longer inviting us to dinner, trying to get us drunk so they can feel us up on the cab ride home.

They are no longer wooing us or sweet-talking us.

They are not even overtaking and raping us.

They are gagging and clamping us first, imprisoning us in their system and then violently raping us in a way that is almost unimaginably vicious and brutal. We might be left beaten, bloody, and, in the most extreme cases, dead by the all-encompassing singular obsession with profit at the expense of others.

Their goal is to break us before the violence against us even starts.

The modern economy doesn’t take—it pre-extracts.
It hollows you out before you even know what’s missing.

I sat in a decaying Moldovan bus station bathroom stall at 2 in the morning last week, trying to piece together the last 50 years of economic decay while a massive, unidentifiable insect that ate and laid its eggs in the stomachs of cockroaches stared at me from the urinal.

It was then that I wondered:

Who gulps down human decency the fastest?
The rapist?
Or the algorithm?

Who is the champion of ripping away at the basic fabric of civilization faster than we can reach the cosmological horizon of our doom?

A rapist wants control over one person—to dominate, to break, to assert power in a single, sickening moment.

The algorithm?

It doesn’t just break one person. It breaks millions. Simultaneously.

It doesn’t need power—it is power.

It gulps down human decency without even tasting it—an industrialized, automated, effortless form of obliteration.

The rapist acts in darkness.
The algorithm operates in broad daylight, and nobody blinks.

A human billionaire still sleeps, eats, and occasionally wonders if their children will hate them.

The algorithm never stops.
It doesn’t worry about PR.
It doesn’t fear a recession.
It doesn’t care if it causes mass suicides or collapses entire industries.

It just executes.

So I’m not interested in giving you the same tired boogeyman—the Billionaire wearing the Elon Musk face mask, Sieg Heiling with a chainsaw and a handful of designer neurotoxins.

That’s the fuck monkey puppet show they want you to see.

The real horror? Not Captain Farty on the Shit Gibberish Express.
It’s the machine running underneath.

It’s a cabal of Wall Street mutant reptiles in $500,000 suits made of human baby flesh, gulping down the last drops of human decency like a pack of methamphetamine and cocaine-fueled clubbers on a quest for connection in a fractured world.

And they don’t even realize they’re not in control anymore.

The rich aren’t even running the machine anymore—it’s running itself.

Hyper-capitalism no longer requires individual greed to function.

It has evolved into something worse—
An autonomous, self-replicating organism that only knows how to extract and consume.

You might say this is capitalism divorced from its own fucking humanity—
A shit-sea of optimization that no longer serves anyone, not even the rich.

Money isn’t even the goal anymore.

Power is.
Control is.

And so the final question you must ask yourself, as you lay face-first on the dirty concrete of the prison cell floor while your stratified squamous epithelium, caked in dried blood and foreign bodly fluids, throbs and waits for morning to come, wondering what’s left of your dignity, isn’t:

"Is this happening?"

You already know it is.

The question is:

“Can anything be done to stop it before the last scraps of human decency are bled out into a confluence of pain, dyspnoea and delirium like the final stages of a black lung cancer?”

Because look, kids, let’s rip the bandage off and pour a toxic slurry of malignant narcissism into this wound.

Human decency? Ha! Forget it. It’s a shriveled corpse, gutted and left to rot in the sun-bleached desert of our collective shitshow. Value? Sure, if you’re into sentimental knick knacks—like a cracked skull on a mantle, a memento of a time when we weren’t all clawing each other’s throats out for the last scraps of relevance. We are not just undervalued; we are being fed into the meat grinder of this late-stage hierarchical world fuck, our souls extreme chewed by rabid influencers and power-drunk trillionaire shit monkeys. The world reeks of it—acrid, sulfurous, a cocktail of greed and desperation so thick you choke on every breath like a handful of tiny chicken bones.

You are watching it all unfold, aren’t you?

You pretend to be horrified but yes, it is thrilling to see the nuclear reactor core of civility melt, releasing the radioactive vapors of this new humanity, turning us all into mewling little fuck pillows, all the while pretending it’s still “the same old everyday” while the Geiger counter screams. There is no bystander guilt’s —we’re all mutants now, irradiated by the blast of our own cowardice, slurping down the runoff of a world we’d rather livestream the collapse of, than fix. In fact we are too far gone to fix anything. Decency’s a ghost, a flickering shadow in the corner of your eye, snuffed out by the next dopamine hit or knife-twist outrage.

So what’s the play? Keep shuffling the deck in this rigged game, knowing the house always wins and your soul’s just collateral damage? You’re fucked either way—every step’s a slog through blood and bile, every handshake a claw to the jugular.

Or do you grab the table, splinter it over your knee, and swing the jagged edge like a lunatic? Take down the dealers, the players, the whole goddamn casino—screaming, spitting, a one-man hurricane of rage and ruin. No redemption, no heroics, just the raw, wet crunch of defiance before the lights go out. If nothing can be done, why not make the rubble bounce? What’s your move, kids? Fold or fight?

Do you keep playing the game, knowing you are fucked?

Or do you flip the goddamn table and take down as many as you can?