I don’t always come for amusement to The Burning Platform, but when I do, I look for the dude with the sword and cross.
My bonefides: I have nevah, evah downvoted you, Stucky.

Stucky!
Oh you bitch! You outed me! Me and the good old boys from Deliverance was jes celebratin’ that thar Gay Pride thang! Come on by fer some of that old banjo music!!!!

No matter how confident & assured the script/director says motivation is, this is the image whose milage only varies if your wheels have come off – no matter how cool the newest, latest, paint-job cosmetics may be:

And the motive with the moistest is just like this:

But why stick in the mud of specialization? More generally, the fair-o’-moans work just like this here Davos-dynamism, Bilderbetterbergerism, Trilateralsexualism, & avuncular Sammy incestualism scene…what’s that smell, again, Lynyrd Skynyrd sang about?:

“Meanwhile the masses on the other side of the barricade were giving themselves over ever more shamelessly to the uncanny rush of emotion that Grenouille’s appearance had unleashed. Those at the start that had merely felt sympathy & compassion were now filled with naked, insatiable desire, & those who had at first admired & desired were now driven to ecstasy. They all regarded the man in the blue frock coat as the most handsome, attractive, & perfect creature they could imagine: to the nuns he appeared to be the Savior in person, to the Satanists as the shining Lord of Darkness, to those who were citizens of the Enlightenment as the Highest Principle, to young maidens as a fairytale prince, to men as their ideal image of themselves. And they all felt as if he had seen through them at their most vulnerablke point, grasped them, touched their erotic core. It was as if the man had ten thousand invisible hands & had laid a hand on the genitals of the ten thousand people surrounding him & fondled them in just the way that each of them, whether man or woman, desired in his or her most secret fantasies.

The result was that the scheduled execution of one of the most abominable criminals of the age degenerated into the largest orgy the world had seen since the second century before Christ. Respectable women ripped open their blouses, bared their breasts, cried out hysterically, threw themselves on the ground with skirts hitched high. The men’s gazes stumbled madly over this landscape of straddling flesh; with quivering fingers they tugged to pull from their trousers their members frozen stiff by some invisible frost; they fell down anywhere with a groan & copulated in the most impossible positions & combinations: grandfather with virgin, odd-jobber with lawyer’s spouse, apprentice with nun, Jesuit with Freemason’s wife – all topsy-turvy, just as opportunity presented. The air was heavy with the sweet odor of sweating lust & filled with loud cries, grunts, & moans from ten thousand human beasts. It was infernal.

Grenouille stood there & smiled. Or rather, it seemed to the people who saw him that he was smiling, the most innocent, loving, enchanting, & at the same time most seductive smile in the world. But in fact it was not a smile, but an ugly, cynical smirk that lay upon his lips, reflecting both his total triumph & his total contempt. He, Jean Baptiste-Grenouille, born with no odor of his own on the most stinking spot in this world, amid garbage, dunf, & putrefaction, raised without love, with no warmth of a human soul, surviving solely on impudence & the power of loathing, small, hunchbacked, lame, ugly, shunned, an abomination within & without – he had managed to make the world admire him. To hell with admire! Love him! Desire him! Idolize him! He had performed a Promethean feat. He had perservered until, with infinite cunning, he had obtained for himself that divine spark, something laid gratis in the cradle of every other human being but withheld from him alone. And not merely that! He had himself actually struck that spark upon himself. He was even greater than Prometheus. He had created an aura more radiant & more effective than any human being had ever possessed before him. And he owed it to no one – not to a father, nor a mother, & least of all to a gracious God – but to *himself* alone. He was in very truth his own God, & a more splendid God than the God that stank of incense & was quartered in churches. A flesh-&-blood bishop was on his knees before him, whimpering with pleasure. The rich & the mighty, proud ladies & gentlemen, were fawning in adoration, while the common folk all around – among them the fathers, mothers, brothers & sisters of his victims – celebrated an orgy in his honor & in his name. A nod of his head & they would all renounce their God & worship him, Grenouille the Great.

Yes, he *was* Grenouille the Great! Now it had become manifest. It was he, just as in his narcissistic fantasies of old, but now in reality. And in that moment he experienced the greatest triumph of his life. And he was terrified.

He was terrified because he could not enjoy one second of it. In that mpment as he stepped out of the carriage into the bright sunlight of the parade grounds, clad in the perfume that made people love him, the perfume on which he had worked for two years, the perfume that he had thirsted to possess his whole life long… in that moment, as he saw & smelled how irresistible its effect was & how with lightning speed it spread & made captives of the people all around him – in that moment his whole disgust for humankind rose up again within him & completely soured his triumph, so that he felt not only no joy, but not even the least bit of satisfaction. What he had always longed for – that other people should love him – became at the moment of its achievement unbearable, because he did not love them himself, he hated them. And suddenly he knew that he had never found gratification in love, but always only in hatred – in hating & in being hated.

But the hate he felt for people remained without an echo. The more he hated them at this moment, the more they worshiped him, for they perceived only his counterfeit aura, his fragrant disguise, his stolen perfume, & it was indeed a scent to be worshiped.

He would have loved right now to have exterminated these people from the earth, every stupid, stinking, eroticized one of them, just as he had once exterminated alien odors from the worl of his raven-black soul. And he wanted them to realize how much he hated them & for them, realizing that it was the only emotion that he had ever truly felt, to return that hate & exterminate him just as they had originally intended. For once in his life, he wanted to empty himself. For once in his life, he wanted to be like other people & empty himself of what was inside him – what they did with their love & their stupid adoration, he would do with his hate. For once, just for once, he wanted to be apprehended in his true being, for other human beings to respond with an answer to his only true emotion, hatred.

But nothing came of that. Nothing could ever come of it. And most certainly not on this day. For after all, he was masked with the best perfume in the world, & beneath his mask there was no face, but only his total odorlessness. Suddenly he was sick to his stomach, for he felt the fog rising again.

Just as it had back then in his cave, in his dream, in his sleep, in his heart, in his fantasy, all at once fog was rising, the dreadful fog from his own odor, which he could not smell, because he was odorless. And just as then, he was filled with boundless fear & terror, felt as if he were going to suffocate. But this time it was different, this was no dream, no sleep, but naked reality. And different, too, because he was not lying alone in a cave, but standing in a public place before ten thousand people. And different because here no scream would help to wake & free him, no flight would rescue him & bring him into the good, warm world. For here & now, this *was* the world, & this, here & now, was his dream come true. And he had wanted it thus….

The people of Grasse awoke with a terrible hangover. Even those who had not drunk had heads as heavy as lead & were wretchedly sick to their stomachs & wretchedly sick at heart. Out on the parade grounds, by bright sunlight, simple peasants searched for the clothes they had flung off in the excesses of their orgy; respectable women searched for their husbands & children; total strangers unwound themselves in horror from intimate embraces; acquaintances, neighbors, spouses were suddenly standing opposite each other painfully embarrassed by their public nakedness.

For many of them the experience was so ghastly, so completely inexplicable & incompatible with their genuine moral precepts that they had literally erased it from their memories the moment it happened & as a result truly could not recall any of it later. Others, who were not in such sovereign control of their faculties of perception, tried to shut their eyes, their ears, their minds to it – which was not all that easy, for the shame of it was too obvious & too universal. As soon as someone had found his effects & his kin, he beat a hasty & as inconspicuous retreat as possible. By noon the grounds were as good as swept clean.

The townspeople did not emerge from their houses until evening, if at all, to pursue their most pressing errands. Their greetings, when they met, were of the most cursory sort; they made nothing but smalltalk. Not a word was said about the events of the morning & the previous night. They were as modest now as they had been uninhibited & brash yesterday. And they were all like that, for they were all guilty. Never was there greater harmony among the citizens of Grasse than on that day – people lived packed in cotton.” ~ Perfume: The Story of a Murderer, Patrick Suskind

Mo’s, Psychotic Gender Pretenders , tootie fruity bi-hump anything skin sacks
That BS Doesn’t fly here.

The Sodomite Flag? 😂😂
Lets say, I hear some ended up dislodged from there place of flying already in these parts.

And Thanx to a Savy Boss, we dont hire the Sex Identity Cult. Afew have tried😂😂..
Seems they just cant help there perversions online. 🧐🧐