In 2023, South Dakota governor Kristi Noem opened a hotline, allowing snitches to call in whenever they catch a whiff of drag shows near South Dakota colleges—along with an open letter, writing: “On campuses across the country, students have been taught the importance of diversity and equity and given access to ‘safe spaces’ instead of learning to tolerate the disagreement, discomfort, and dissent that they will experience in the real world.”
Krsti Noem wanted to remove the people who wanted safe spaces away from people who wish to remove them.
The world is goofy.
Down the hall, her husband, Bryon, the insurance magnate, Danaerys Targarean’s bridegroom—directing personal drag shows for sex workers.
That poor dog has no support system.
Kristi Noem sending the Gestapo to drag abuelas out of Stop & Shop—from her office—her chair, Corey Lewandowski’s face—downstairs, Bryon Noem throwing on the plastic Ava Devines, snapping selfies for his weird group chat.
The woman responsible for the deaths of countless in a Texas natural disaster, unable to sign off on FEMA funds, too busy tying cherry strings into a knot with her tongue, seducing a man who looks like his great-great-grandfather founded the Christmas Adventurers, at a hotel bar, waiting for the suite to open up, running up the DHS credit card Mad Men cosplaying—her husband, hogtied from the chandiler, spinning, high off all the helium, trading cleavage pics with OnlyFans models.
Two dead in Minnesota, ICE agents hacky-sacking their skulls live on Rumble—Kristi Soprano swiping over $200 million of sweet, delicious, free tax dollars, dishing it out to her friends at a local South Dakota agency.
Bryon Noem, searching for bras strong enough to hold the two bowling balls fresh off the Amazon truck.
Kristi the Great, empress of racial profiling, shirking duty, pleasure trumping business.
Sitting atop billions, divvying gold dablooms to her pals, riding an obnoxious social climber on expensive jets—throwing a couple dollars to her husband’s bosom budget.
Do not feel bad for Bryon Noem
No interest in Bryon Noem working himself into a shoot.
I don’t recommend politicians’ husbands follow the white rabbit down the fetish hole into Bimbo Land—but I also don’t recommend vaping, while always keeping one in arm’s reach.
If any bimbos are reading this, thank you, keep doing your thing, if it’s healthy and safe, or whatever.
But no empathy for the architects.
Kristi’s son-in-law, Kyle Peters, married to her daughter, sued by A1 Development, a company that helps clients in South Dakota with development, construction, permitting and government relations.
They accuse Peters of joining their company to steal clients away to start his own independent business.
Scumbag shit.
The Noems are a crime family.
We elect foreverteens, ducking and dodging consequences—desperation oozes through all their self-serving decisions—granting them permission to recklessly steer the country into the median, thoughts and prayers walking away from car crashes they cause.
Andrew Cuomo killed a ton of old people, took a vacation, and just thought he was owed the mayor position.
A government comprised of pickpockets, stripping copper wires out of the White House walls—our lives an afterthought to the ghouls who rule.
The Mongols only take breaks devouring our corpses to sick their hounds on their next feast—participating or coming home to the same sins they condemned on the election trail.
But onto the most important question…
Did Bryon Noem pull off the look?
Keeping it a buck?
It’s giving hag.
Honestly, if I were a bimbo, I’d be insulted.
Paul George Game 7 off the side of the backboard.
If you listen to this picture closely, you can almost hear another man banging his wife in the other room.
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