It’s 3:10 p.m. British Summer Time on September 8, 2022 and her exaltedness, Matriarch of the Reptilian Replacement Race from Space, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II is pronounced dead. Ireland has lost their favorite enemy. The actors who played the gang of punk rockers in John Goodman’s 1991 classic, King Ralph, now pensioners, recommit to their characters and mourn a royal death once again. And Canadians, in their benign melancholy, dedicate every other bite of poutine to her memory, chewing solemnly through their grief. Twenty dollar notes are said to weep value one loonie at a time until they bear the $10 purpled visage of John A. Macdonald, the country’s first prime minister, and — get this — the guy who started the residential school programs that murdered all those First Nations’ children, making this the most reviled denomination in all of Canadian currency. Yes, the Queen Mother has left her maple-flavored subjects behind. Or has she? At the furthest point from Buckingham Palace, on Victoria Island, British Columbia, in the words of Master Yoda: There is another. The self-proclaimed TRUE Queen of Canada — Romana Didulo. Perhaps you’ve never heard of Romana Didulo, the woman replacing the crown with a bedazzled toque. Neither have most of the people she asserts sovereignty over, a fairly glaring issue when it comes to administering national decree. But Didulo is a woman born of give’r and obscurity is merely a shadow she must dispel with the glorious light granted her by both birthright and intergalactic entities. Born in 1974, she was an emigre and orphan from the Philippines raised by her grandparents in Vancouver, BC. Her childhood was, No. 125 evidently, unremarkable. History has no account of it. And it would be fucking weird if there were. We can assume it bore the usual trappings of a Canadian upbringing: skating, trapping, whittling canoes, sharing a night of untold passions while tripping balls with Sasquatch. Watching Degrassi. Crushing on Drake. The usual. And then it came time to put away childish things and fulfill the first part of her quest for the throne. Now relocated into a roommate situation on Victoria Island, she was doing her best daytime Dolly from 9 to 5. All the while spending her nights metamorphosed into her best Fox Mulder, she would secretly meet with the mysterious David J Carlson, Commander-In-Chief of the United States Air Force Academy Civilian Command of Military Operations, a definitely not fully fictional person with an equally fictional title. He was also, of course, the secret King of America. See you in hell, Declaration of Independence. Being imaginary didn’t stop Didulo’s Deep State darling from shouldering her with one of the most important Missions with a capital M the world would ever not know about: The excision of the Chinese communist military factions mobilizing in the secret tunnels running from Canada to Mexico, awaiting orders from Beijing to launch a sneak attack on the American people, igniting World War III. You’d think that’d be reason enough, but guess what. These tunnels were also being used to sex traffic children, harvest their organs and produce adrenochrome to feed the vampiric Democrats and other globalists, satanists and eugenicists who constitute the New World Order. Never have I wished that I’d invented something wholecloth more than those last few sentences but, alas, this is the accepted
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