Who the Hell are “They”?

Listen up, you drooling, flag-humping cretins! I’m Spider Thompson, your friendly neighbourhood truth-slinger, and I’m here to shove a red-hot poker up the ass of your collective delusion. The festering subhuman scum on GBNews and Twitter are getting worse by the day now. The far-right have lost the fucking plot. “They banned her!” “They rigged the game!” “They’re coming for us!” Oh, boo-fucking-hoo, you whining sacks of meat. Who the hell are “They”? I’ve been wading through the rancid sewers of this planet’s underbelly since before you learned to wipe your own asses, and I’m done—DONE—with this vague, conspiracy-soaked diarrhoea you call a worldview.

Let’s play a game, you brain-dead lemmings. Is “They” your limp-dick Labour Party, choking on their own red-tape fetish? Maybe it’s the WEF—those smug, suit-wearing pricks jerking each other off at their globalist orgy-fest? Or how about the Illuminati, sipping blood cocktails in some underground lair while they laugh at your misspelled protest signs? No, no, wait—I’ve got it! It’s the Muslim Council, right? Because you racist, mouth-breathing troglodytes can’t resist a good brown-skinned scapegoat. Or—here’s a fun one—maybe it’s Putin, that bare-chested bastard, tweaking your tiny little minds with his army of vodka-swilling trolls.

Hell, why stop there? Maybe it’s the goddamn lizard overlords, flicking their tongues from the molten core of the Earth, beaming mind-control rays into your empty skulls! You don’t even know, do you? You just shriek “They” like it’s a magic word, a get-out-of-thinking-free card, because actually naming names and digging up evidence is too hard for your soft, pudding-filled heads. It’s a cheap, filthy trick—vague enough to keep you pissed, scared, and marching in lockstep like the obedient little drones you are. And you lap it up, don’t you? You gorge on this steaming pile of horseshit like it’s caviar, instead of the rancid slop it really is.

Who’s this “They” they’re pinning it all on? A ghost. A shadow. A big, fat nothing with no face, no name, no proof—just a bogeyman to keep you frothing at the mouth while they dodge the real questions. It’s the oldest grift in the book, and you’re buying it wholesale because you’re too lazy, too gutless, to demand a straight answer. “They” is whoever they need it to be that day—pick a villain, any villain—to keep you clutching your pitchforks and howling about “freedom” while you cheer for some crooked harpy who got her grubby mitts caught in the EU’s piggy bank.

You’re clowns, every last one of you—parading around, waving your dumbass flags, screaming about “democracy” while you prop up a con artist who’d sell you out for a pound and a pat on the head. Wake up, you miserable bastards! I’m Spider Thompson, and I’m sick of your paranoid, spineless, vague-as-fuck excuses for a brain. Get some goddamn specifics or shut your traps—I’ve got better things to do than babysit your delusions.

Next time you ridiculous bastard want to blame “they” for anything, try using a fucking name instead, and who knows, maybe add a bit of fucking proof to your fantasies?