Timothy and the shadow ban

Timothy: I’ve been shadowbanned!
CF: The urban fantasy RPG?
Timothy: get with the times you failed Gen-X wannabe. I’m talking CENSORSHIP!The SJW controlled media silencing alternate voices on the right!
CF: You not still mad about that whole Hillary VP thing are you?
Timothy: No you gamma-addled pant spoiler. I’ve been shadow banned on Twitter.
CF: ah -your followers not getting your messages. Look, it’s a very buggy platform. Stuff happens.
Timothy: Stuff? My followers have not got a SINGLE message from me.
CF: Today?
Timothy: Not a single one EVER.
CF: Well, let’s look at this calmly. How many tweets have you written?
Timothy: Tweets?
CF: Timothy, have you even got a Twitter account?
Timothy: I’m not stupid enough to let the NSA spy on my intimate thoughts!
CF: And yet I’m stupid enough to listen to them. If it’s OK with you I might just talk to
this house plant instead.
Timothy: Look. It’s all here in Brietbart. You can’t deny what Twitter are up to.
CF: This is just a print out from a web page and you’ve scribbled out ‘Brian Niemmeier’ and written your name instead.
Timothy: I have high hopes of winning a Campbell.
House plant: Masons are hacking my facebook page



  1. JJ

    Oh wow, Niemeier is really having delusions of grandeur, isn’t he? If Twitter actually were selecting conservatives to “shadowban”, he’d probably be about 8-millionth down on the list. 😆


  2. Mark

    I can confirm I don’t get any of Niemeier’s tweets in my timeline either!

    This really needs treating to the Occam’s Razor of conspiracy theories: why would X even care about you, and why would they do Y to you at this particular time?
    JJ nails the first part, and the second asks why would they jump on Neimeier for being puppy-ish now, rather than around nomination or award time?


  3. KR


    Finally, the end of another tedious summer spent with his witless relatives at Felapton Towers arrived for our hero, young Timothy the Talking Cat. He looked forward to escaping from the long days and even longer nights of listening to Camestros yammering on about whatever “blah blah social justice” or “rah rah reading” thing was currently occupying his puny human-sized brain. Truthfully, Timothy wasn’t actually paying attention, but he greatly resented the implication that he should be. It was enough to drive a madman even madder and to make him mad too.
    Indeed, it was long past time for Timothy to rejoin his chums at Trump University, Barrow-in-Furness campus where he would continue his studies in nuclear submarine technology and high-pressure deceptive marketing sales tactics. Thinking of some unfortunate classmates who had been thrown out at term’s end for being insufficiently ruthless, Timothy gloated inside. “Babies,” he sneered.
    But the road back to Ye Olde Lancashire was strewn with danger, the primary one being that the route was oceanic and thus there was no actual road. This unfortunate geographic reality required that Timothy once again take himself down to the cantina into order to avail himself of the services of Straw Puppy, a notorious transport broker and the only one cunning enough to get him safely through the waters patrolled by the pirate Bright Bart. Straw Puppy was the Keeper of the Puppy Kerfuffle Map, the King of Kings, a Jedi, and He-Who-Has Already-Been Named-And-Thus-Not-Actually-So Mysterious.
    They told no one and set out under cover of darkness. The route was difficult, passing through sharknadoes and tweetstorms, while dodging drones that were attempting to drop fair-trade coffee and BLM t-shirts at every turn. After many hours, precisely as they reached the point of no-return – the Lost Floating Island of WorldCon equidistant from all land masses – Bright Bart and his ship the HMS Ya-know-it-all-polis unsubtly barged onto view, accompanied by 182 phantoms. Their megaphones were dialed up to 11 and spouting the outrageous fact-free insinuations that were his outfit’s trademark.
    In a flash, everything became clear. Timothy, despite being a cat, instantly recognized these dogwhistles and knew in his gut that Bright Bart was, like himself, a Trumpian. They were brothers, members of the same fraternity, grifters of the same grift. Soulmates, albeit soulless ones. He certainly liked the cut of this Bright Bart’s jib more than he liked that of Straw Puppy. What had he been so afraid of? Why had he listened to Camestros, who was never right about anything? And those stupid houseplants with their feverish rantings about Hiram and the Sun and other Enlightenment rational nonsense. He had failed his masters and forgotten that pyramids were for schemers, not for Age of Reason dreamers.
    So Timothy and Bright Bart pulled out their flamethrowers, joined forces and incinerated the Millenium Condor and took Straw Puppy prisoner. They sailed far to the right, promising to hold him captive until all conservatives were released from the jail of political correctness and allowed to speak freely once again. Unfortunately, that jail does not exist anywhere on earth thus rendering their hues and cries very lame indeed.

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