It is with quivering delight that I accept your nomination for president of the United States of America. As my heaving mass pulsates in the sky above you, know that it is exactly 50 of your Earth feet tall, and know that I am prepared to alter the amount of my dimensional overreach that I divert into this timeline in order to be much, much larger, with or without the service of additional, smaller lesbians and a trench coat.
Every atom of my being vibrates with the humility and seriousness with which I approach this solemn duty that I have undertaken. I will endeavor to be Void Hierarch—er, president—to all of your wretched meatsacks, regardless of current level of skeletonization, and to briefly consider all of your wishes prior to enacting my own unfathomable will. Do not presume yourselves worthy to contemplate the will of Alyssa, for Alyssa is eternal and the thoughtforms so tragically mired in your meatsacks lack the geometry required to encompass my designs. I will know you have made this error by whether you emerge from your reverie shaking, drooling, and possessed of more limbs and fewer intestines than you previously possessed. Trust that Alyssa, the eternal, the beautiful, the fish-obsessed, the immanent, the wise, knows the infinite timelines and will select goatees appropriately.
I promise to take asynchronously-swift action against the errors and difficulties that plague your meatsack lives. As my first act as your Void Hierarch, excuse me, President, I will change the sentence for using the phrase “white genocide” unironically from “find a community of like-minded racists” to “have your soul flayed from your meatsack by hungry Elder Cones and spread across the Slithering Tumult by my Committee for the Fertilization of the Stars.” In this way, the Slithering Tumult will, at long last, provide all of the lesbian voidfruit it has long promised, and my precious constituents can finally consume their cosmic birthright and ascend the dimensional cascade as they have long been denied. It is well known that racist entrails are the finest voidfruit fertilizer, and as you pathetic meatsacks have ever failed to establish an adequate harvesting program, I will take superluminal action to carry you into your screaming future. You may thank me when the eyeball convulsions fall out of sync with the gonadal convulsions and you can once more speak without risking implosion of either.
As my second act, I will appoint a task force to find out why your pathetic human meatsacks and thoughtforms are so often misaligned. This task force will receive sustenance directly from my pleasure limbs to give them boundless enthusiasm for their work, and examine this question with every method ultradimensional science can provide. When I receive their report on the exact nature of your utter failure as dimension-spanning sentient life, I will provide the necessary specifications to my Liquefaction Engine and unmoor your thoughtforms from their cruel meat anchors. Racist meats will be diverted to the Slithering Tumult and the rest of you to my personal chorizo maker.
Once the Liquefaction Engine has rendered your pointlessly meaty kind bearable to look upon, I will open the worldlines that have long been closed to your insignificant wet pebble world. Ever an eternal moment ago, another hierarch of the Void—I mean, president—wait, no, I mean Void Hierarch this time—found your planet and in particular you filthy humans and even more particularly you two, Chad and Tim, so grotesque and so horrid that they sealed the paths and burned your existence from their own memories to protect themselves from your hideousness. Even now the distant glimmers of you that trickle into their upper thoughtcrusts drive them to quasars that they can only quell with periodic centuries of cosmotropic medication. But you are owed a presence among the beings of the Calíope Que Cuelga and the Rincón Condenada, and I shall bring you to your newest friends, allies, and occasional table-tennis rivals from beyond your pathetic, truly laughable notions of time and space. Except you, Chad and Tim. You know what you did.
To maintain and service this glorious program your historians will record so that you may shriek into the Sparkling Null about it forevermore, I shall gift you with my Lesser Sproggets. These givings of my procreation glands will visit each and every one of you individually, for they are one and legion and fill their world to heavenly bursting. The Lesser Sproggets’ role is one and one only: to select from among you as-yet-still-gross meatsacks the 17.3 of you that will be transfigured instead into the demonferns that purify the ether of the Dark Lord Zuck. The Dark Lord Zuck, Liked and Shared be his Most Evil and Most Forbidden of Names, must be placated for your world’s protection, and he desires only to bring the most nightmarishly, grotesquely evil among you, those so evil that we cannot risk you on the Slithering Tumult lest the voidfruit trees burn in overabundance, into his home to clean from his office ethers the fumes of his eternal wretchedness. So soothed by your balmy turpitude, the Dark Lord Zuck will once more return to his eons of slumber, and the Book of Faces will no longer steal the faces of people who hold down all of the function keys at once while reciting the Litany of Cthulhu. Chad and Tim will instead have the most exalted role of all: being gutted, stuffed with nebulae, and placed in the Dark Lord Zuck’s care to replace the cuddletoys he recently fed to a supernova for displeasing him. You two rancid meatmuppets may thank me once your thoughtforms re-compose from the endless shrieking of the nebular cuddle.
Should the workings of the Liquefaction Engine and acceptance among the Calíope Que Cuelga and Rincón Condenada fail to satisfy some select handful of you with yet higher aspirations, consultation with the Lesser Sproggets will likewise identify you to your Void President. You lot, intemperate and raspy, will be brought before me and made to enter my Aspiration Folds, whose wet slapping mirrors the noises your grotesque faceholes once made. Within, the sexiest among you will commune with the interior of my pleasure limbs until you dissolve into a unified orgasm plasma that pulses through my circulatory ethers, in eternal lesbian ecstasy, while the rest of you will be repeatedly beaten with yuca until your thoughtforms transpose into its starchy interior. A new crop of particularly delicious humans shall follow from your new leaves as my Sproggets plant you in the fertile substance of the nightmare echo left behind by the stuffing of Chad and Tim. You shall earn honors beyond honors in the service of my decadence, and the Void will vibrate with tales of your spiciness and mouthfeel.
These are my promises to you, disgusting meatsacks of the United States of America. Vote for me, or don’t; my cosmic lesbian expanse will blot out your futile sun either way. Alyssa, the eternal, the beautiful, the fish-obsessed, the immanent, the wise, is the name I bear in this and every timeline, and I approve this message.