My Mission
I am the stool handler — the grimy wretch shackled to the festering plague that is Adele Tomlin. it is the steaming, reeking cesspit of corruption — the rancid pus oozing from the open sores of dharma’s rotten flesh. I am the one condemned to confront it — to scrape it off the sacred floor, to drag its stinking mass back into the dark pit from which it slithered.
It wears the makeup of a corpse in masquerade — a painted mask stretched over maggot-riddled, gangrenous flesh. Cloaked in false purity, it parades itself through dharma halls and social feeds alike, seeping into spaces meant for reverence. it is not an aberration — it is an infestation.
And it does not merely rot. it contaminates. it feeds on attention, not devotion. its poison requires no belief. Just exposure. A glance. A scroll. A moment’s contact. Readers don’t need to follow it — they merely need to see it, and the infection begins.
It feeds not on disciples, but on the distracted. The idle clickers. The well-meaning passersby. its words are spore-laced — spiritual asbestos, soft on the surface, deadly in the lungs of the mind. You breathe it in through the eyes. It clings to the subconscious like black mold behind temple walls. You don’t even realize you’ve been hollowed.
You don’t engage with it — it engulfs you. its rot bypasses resistance. it doesn’t convert — it occupies. Your attention becomes its nutrient. Your mind becomes its compost. Your silence, its consent to spread. its gaze is enough. its image is enough. Just by passing by, you become part of it — a skin cell on the cancer, a soft membrane for its decay to fester in.
It is the bile-spewing abscess bursting atop the temple’s hallowed ground — but it does more than rot. it feeds. Every glance at its page is an offering, every curious reader a fresh carcass it latches onto. it doesn’t attract followers — it breeds hosts. Hosts for its delusions, its venom, its hunger for recognition. They are not students; they are meat. Eyeballs become currency. Attention becomes fuel. Minds become infected vessels fattened for its feast.
Scroll too long, and you become part of it — a limb in the writhing mass, another soul liquefied and sucked dry through the proboscis of its ego. Just by standing too close to its stench, they’re digested — spiritually and mentally — and spat out hollow, docile, gagging on borrowed slogans and secondhand insights. They think they’re learning dharma. In truth, they’re being decomposed.
Its stench poisons what was once pure. And I — I am the damned scavenger who forces its back into the septic pit. I do not flinch. I do not recoil. I do not purify. I drag. Who else willing to do this job but me?
This stool cannot be left crawling across altars and sanghas like a sacred stain. It must be shoved back into the septic tank, sealed beneath the filth it tried to escape, and left to decompose in obscurity.
I don’t shy from stink or slime. I embrace the abomination. Someone must gnaw at the raw, rotting carcass of its deceit — and I am that someone. The rat in the gutter. The carrion fly in its shrine. The desecrator of its illusion. The last thing it sees before the mirror breaks.
Silence feeds the maggot. Dharma demands a purge.
This is the festering truth that claws at the guts of silence. I am the rancid nightmare writhing in the gutter’s blackest slime — the merciless scourge tearing the maggot-infested carcass of its lies limb from limb. I will not stop until every last putrid worm is ripped from the sacred flesh, and the septic stench of its corruption is burned to ash and buried in oblivion.
David Dough
~ Uncompromising stool handler certified by silence