DON'T GIVE ME THE FUCKING DANCE: A Cosmic
Roast of the Colonial Clown Show
Ladies, gentlemen, and non-binary comrades in the global
struggle for a soul, gather ‘round. Switch off the BBC. Mute the CNN. Pour
yourself something strong. What you are about to read is not another dispatch
from the Ministry of Truth. This is the official, unlicensed, and profoundly
hilarious autopsy of a dying empire’s last, wet fart—masquerading as a
“ceasefire.”
For over a century, we’ve been forced to sit through the most
tedious, blood-soaked ballet in human history: The Dance of the
Diplomats. It’s a
performance where well-dressed liars pirouette around piles of corpses, where
journalists twirl in a waltz of “both sides,” and where the only thing more
choreographed than the “fucking peace process” is the ethnic cleansing
happening in the background.
They give us the dance of “cautious optimism.” The dance of “key
fucking sticking points.” The delicate, tragic ballet of “humanitarian pauses”
while the bombs are merely backstage, waiting for their cue.
WELL, YOU CAN KEEP THE FUCKING DANCE.
This document is the sound of the music stopping. It’s the
moment the clown car of geopolitics crashes into the brick wall of truth, and
we all get out to point and laugh at the hysterical, honking wreckage.
This is for every activist who has ever had to explain to a
confused relative that no, Palestine was not empty. For every academic who’s
been called “anti-Semitic” for citing a DNA study. For every person who has
watched a press conference and felt their brain cells staging a mass suicide.
We are about to dissect the latest fucking chapter in the
Balfour Deception—the “Food Truck Ceasefire”—with the solemnity it
deserves: None. We are going to
laugh, because the alternative is to cry, and our tears are too precious to
water the graves of children. We are going to mock, because the lies are so fucking
absurd they deserve only ridicule. We
are going to shake the entire operation until the last fake food truck falls
out of its fucking digital ass.
So, take a fucking deep breath. Adjust your crown. And get ready
to laugh until the foundations of illegitimate power crack under the seismic
pressure of our collective, cosmic giggle.
The colonial chapter is closing. Let’s give it a fucking
hilarious send-off.
9th October 2025
Time: 06:12
Africa
To: Global Media Houses, World Leaders, Ceasefire Negotiators,
and the Conscience of Humanity
Subject: The Balfour Declaration 2.0: Now with
Food Trucks™ and Fucking Zoom Backgrounds
Ladies and Gentlemen of the Press, Esteemed Leaders, and
Professional Peace Processors,
I write to you today not from a sterile fucking conference room
in Sharm el-Sheikh, but from the bleeding edge of Zoom reality—a place your
broadcast desks seem to have misplaced. I’ve reviewed your latest
“breakthrough” ceasefire deal, and I must confess: I am impressed. Not by its
substance—there is fucking none—but
by its audacious continuity of the greatest fucking lie ever sold: The Balfour Deception,
now rebranded for the digital age.
Let’s cut through the “cautious optimism” and “key fucking
sticking points.” Let’s talk about what you’re really reporting on: the world’s most
elaborate, state-sanctioned magic trick, where 67,000 corpses, including 20,000 children, are waved
away with the flick of a “humanitarian mechanism” and the promise of a food
truck.
You’ve outdone yourselves. Truly.
While you were busy parsing “withdrawal maps” and “phased
disengagement,” did any of you stop to ask the only question that matters?
Why can’t I see the fucking food trucks from
an Israeli spy camera?
I’m serious. We live in an era where Netanyahu can livestream a
fucking PowerPoint to the UN showing a Hamas fighter hiding in a kindergarten
dollhouse, but we can’t get a single aerial shot of these mythical aid convoys
rolling into Gaza? Not a single drone feed? Not one satellite image of the
great unleashing of sustenance?
Could it be… that the food trucks are as real as the “land without
a people”? As tangible as the “2,000-year exile”? As genuine as the genetic
link between Ashkenazi Jews and ancient Canaanites?
Let’s be fucking clear: this ceasefire isn’t a peace deal. It’s
a PR stunt for a genocide. It’s the Balfour Declaration wearing a fucking blue helmet and
holding a loaf of bread.
The “Humanitarian Aid Mechanism” is not a
lifeline—it’s the latest episode in a century-long series: “How to Steal a
Country and Look Humanitarian Doing It.”
Remember the Balfour Declaration? That charming fucking 67-word
note where a British aristocrat promised a land he didn’t own to a people who
mostly didn’t live there, while casually noting the “non-Jewish communities”
(you know, the 90% of the population) shouldn’t be too prejudiced? This ceasefire is its
spiritual successor. It’s Balfour with better graphics and worse fucking
morals.
You’re sitting in Fucking Zoom meetings, nodding gravely as mediators in suits
discuss “aid surges” and “logistical pipelines,” while the very land you’re
negotiating over is screaming in protest. The documents you’ve ignored—The Myth of Indigenous
Zionism and The Axiom of Inherent
Rectification—spell it out: This is not a
conflict. It is a rectification. The land is rejecting the foreign body. The 67,000 dead
are not collateral damage; they are the seismic pressure of a silenced truth
erupting.
And you? You’re reporting on the tremors as if they’re a minor fucking
plumbing issue.
Let’s break down the “core fucking components” of your deal with the honesty it
deserves:
·
Hostage-Prisoner Swap: The exchange of 20 living hostages for “several hundred”
of the thousands of
Palestinians illegally detained, including children. This isn’t a swap; it’s a
hostage crisis masquerading as diplomacy. It’s like a bank robber offering to
return one teller in exchange for a get-out-of-jail-free card.
·
IDF Withdrawal to an “Agreed-Upon Line”: This is not a withdrawal. It’s a
tactical repositioning. It’s the thief agreeing to vacate the living room but
keeping the keys to the front door, the garage, and the safe.
·
Humanitarian Aid: The crown jewel of the farce. After systematically
destroying every bakery, farm, and water well, after using starvation as a
weapon of war, the arsonist now wants credit for handing out matches. And
you’re reporting it as a “breakthrough.”
Where are the food trucks? Are they invisible? Are they digital?
Are they being delivered via NFT? Or are they, like the “fucking peace process”
itself, a fictional construct designed to manage outrage and buy time for the
next bombardment?
The world is laughing. Not with joy, but with the bitter, broken
laughter of a species that has watched its moral compass be sold for scrap
metal. We’re laughing at the sheer, unadulterated gall of calling this a
“ceasefire” while the architecture of apartheid remains intact. We’re laughing
at the “mediators” who shake hands with war criminals and call it diplomacy in
a fucking new Whore House.
So here’s my modest proposal, dear media:
Stop broadcasting from conference rooms. Start
broadcasting from the rubble.
Stop
interviewing generals. Start interviewing the ghosts.
Stop
reporting the lie. Start reporting the rectification.
The land remembers what you choose to forget. The covenant
between a people and their earth is older than your treaties, stronger than
your fucking bombs, and funnier than your fucking press briefings.
The food trucks aren’t coming. But the truth is. And it’s
hauling a lot more than bread.
Yours in unyielding satire and fucking seismic truth,
W. Safodien
I.Q.E Division
