video: The Virus Afflicted Zombies Who Walk Amongst Us — TDS is Real

Welcome to the Trump Derangement Disco, where YMCA blares at all hours of the nightie the heads of these NPC zombies afflicted with Trump Derangement Syndrome. It’s a Walking Dead audition for the sanctimonious and brain dead.
You know the type—decent folks in the wild, but mention the orange guy? Boom! Instant glitch, eyes roll back, and out comes the programmed script: “34 felonies! Pedo! Con man! Russia if by land, Russia by sea!”
It’s like they’ve got a chip in their brain that auto-plays MSNBC reruns every time “Trump” pings the radar.
They rant on social media or in person about Trump’s supposed lies, so toss ’em a softball from the gods of logic itself. “Hey, Tish James—that paragon of virtue, the one who upheld her campaign promise to go after Orange Man, the beacon of aerobic fitness—swore under oath that Mar-a-Lago’s worth 18 million bucks. Eighteen!

Meanwhile, a one-acre weed patch next door’s fetching that much, although they probably toss in a fruit basket, and I did some research, a 4.76 acre lot with a house in West Palm? Two hundred five million!
Mar-a-Lago? Seventeen acres of pure Palm Beach poetry—ocean breezes that whisper sweet nothings to your wallet, a mansion that screams Monopoly hotel on Park Place and Boardwalk, and a club with multi-millions in revenue yearly, where the martinis come with a side of history.
A five-year-old eating a crayon could look at the evidence, and safely declare Tish James lied about Maralago’s worth, but these NPCs lack the same level of intelligence.
Deflect mode activated! “It’s complicated! There’s a club on it!” A club? Oh, you mean the VIP lounge for exiled billionaires swapping tips on dodging witch hunts? My guess is that those multi-millions in revenue yearly make the property worth … something.

And when pressed with the evidence stated back too them, the response—“I’m not an appraiser!” It’s Ketanji not being a biologist.

“What’s Mar-a-Lago worth? Why not ask me “what is a woman,” hell if I know.

But they again pivot to the greatest hits: “But Trump! Pedo alert! Con man supreme! Russiagate encore—Russia, Russia, sedition!” As if yelling “felonies!” louder erases Letitia James Stalinizing our courts. “You kept your grain comrade.”

It’s lawfare so sloppy, it makes a toddler’s finger-painting look like a Da Vinci blueprint. Kid spots it in two seconds: Mic drop. Case closed. But these bots? Nada. Zilch. Just more firmware updates: “You’re the cult! Orange bad! Virtue shield up!”

See, that’s the genius of the TDS trance—the media-Democrat overlords hooked ’em on that sweet, sweet elixir: “Hate Trump = Instant Good Person Points!” It’s vampiric virtue-signaling, folks—suck the blood from reason, one deflection at a time. One sliver of sunlight hits—like, “Hey, if they lowballed that obvious scam in open court, maybe the other fairy tales got a few plot holes?”—and poof! System error. Fangs out, holy water hisses, back to the pile-on: Epstein fanfic, Steele dossier sequels, “pedo” chants like it’s a halftime show at the Hate-a-Tron 3000. These NPCs are so padded in their bubble-wrap bunker, you’d need Excalibur to stab a doubt through. Lost? Honey, they’re legendarily lost—roaming the fog, scripting their outrage like extras in a glitchy Matrix reboot. “Engage auto-hate: beep boop, felonies incoming!”

the problem is, these vampires want to spread the cult, to infuse you with their derangement, so they mindlessly echo the cacophony of the media spinning these lies, and they would slaughter you before allowing sunlight into to their dark cult. There’s not much hope for these people.