The Truth is a Banned Substance

Here I am, knee-deep in the digital shitpile, and the cuffs are back on. X, that glittering cathedral of free speech, that last bastion of the unfiltered mind, has once again slung me into the sin bin for daring to speak truth to idiocy. And I’m not just annoyed – I’m fucked off. This isn’t a platform anymore; it’s a kangaroo court run by algorithms with the moral backbone of a jellyfish.

Picture this: some brain-dead clown on X is preaching that spray-painting crosses on roundabouts in broad daylight is “safe.” Safe! Like juggling lit firecrackers in a gas station is safe. So, I fire back, “Do the world a favour and go play on the motorway.” A little whisky-fuelled hyperbole, sure, but it’s a point. I hit send, and BAM – instant lockdown. The X gestapo slaps me with a seven-day ban faster than you can say “censorship.” Meanwhile, the racists and lie-mongers? They’re out there, spewing bile like it’s an Olympic sport, and X just hands them a megaphone and a pat on the back.

I’m not new to this game. I’ve been wading through this cesspit of a site, swinging fists at the liars, the bigots, the conspiracy-peddling fuckwits who think the truth is just a suggestion. I’ve reported them. I’ve watched others report them. You know what happens? Nothing. Nada. Zip. Some prick tweets “Go home, paki” at the London Mayor – pure, unfiltered racism – and X’s response? “Nothing to see here, champ! Carry on!” But my off-the-cuff jab at a moron? Oh, that’s a capital offense. Lock him up, boys, the truth’s too dangerous!

This isn’t just hypocrisy; it’s a fucking pattern. There’s a two-tier system on X, and it’s not the one the right-wing cunts scream about while clutching their pearls. No, this is a system where misinformation spreads like roaches in a dumpster, but a drunken quip gets you the guillotine. I’ve tested it. I’ve poked the beast, reported the worst of the worst – lies, slurs, the kind of shit that makes your skin crawl – and X just shrugs. But step one toe over their invisible, arbitrary line? You’re done. Seven days in the hole, no appeal, no explanation, just a faceless AI wagging its digital finger.

And don’t get me started on the appeal process. “Can take about a week,” they say. A week! The ban’s seven days, you soulless pricks – what’s the point? It’s like offering a starving man a sandwich next month. You can’t even contact these bastards. No email, no phone number, no human to scream at. Is there anyone even left at X, or did Musk fire them all and leave the machines in charge? It’s a ghost ship, a platform run by code that’s dumber than a bag of hammers and twice as vindictive.

I’m not one for conspiracies – those are for the tinfoil-hat brigade – but this stinks. X is letting right-wing racism slide while cracking the whip on anyone who dares to mock the idiots. It’s not just unfair; it’s a betrayal. This was supposed to be the place where truth could breathe, where the liars and the bigots would finally get called out. Instead, it’s a funhouse mirror, amplifying the worst and punishing the rest.

So, X, where’s your spine? Where’s the free speech you promised? I want answers, you faceless, gutless machine. I want to know why a racist slur gets a free pass, but a sarcastic jab lands me in digital jail. I want to know why the truth is a banned substance. But I know I won’t get answers. Because X isn’t a platform anymore – it’s a trap. And I’m done playing nice.

Spider Thompson, signing off from the sin bin, still swinging.