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The Dictator of Moore Evil Raises His Shields

An Investigation into Septic Tanks, Missing Foxes, Three 23s, Artificial Intelligence, and the Spiritual Art of Not Giving a Shit

By Todd Alan Megee

November 26, 2018: A Presidential Movement

On November 26, 2018, Donald Trump was headed to Biloxi, Mississippi, to hold a political rally.

Meanwhile, over at my house, which I affectionately call Moore Evil, I was dealing with a movement of my own.

A bowel movement.

Well, technically, several years’ worth of them.

At approximately 11:18 that morning, according to the filename of a photograph I took, a truck from Shields Septic Tank Service was parked in my driveway, sucking the accumulated shit out of my property.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had apparently prepared for a presidential visit by raising my Shields.

And here’s where the story gets particularly ridiculous.

You see, I’ve come to think of myself as a Dictator.

Not the politically oppressive variety. I’m a dictator because I dictate my thoughts, write shit down, and spend an unreasonable amount of time trying to figure out what the hell reality is doing.

I don’t rule a country.

I barely rule my own train of thought.

But on that particular November morning, the Dictator of Moore Evil had officially raised his Shields.

And the shit was leaving the premises.

That evening, Trump appeared at the Mississippi Coast Coliseum to campaign for Cindy Hyde-Smith. His visit is documented in contemporaneous Mississippi reporting and the presidential speech record.

One dictator was pumping out a speech.

The other was pumping out a septic tank.

And only one of us had hired professionals to manage the discharge.

To be clear, this is a joke about coinciding events, not a claim that one caused the other.

But seriously. What a load of shit.

Eight Years Later, the Shit Gets Metaphysical

Fast-forward to November 2026.

I am still dictating.

Only now I have artificial intelligence helping me organize the output, which means my personal waste-management infrastructure has evolved considerably.

I’ve gone from a septic tank to ChatGPT.

Both systems process an alarming amount of material.

One handles what comes out of my ass.

The other handles what comes out of my brain.

And occasionally, I suspect the two departments have exchanged personnel.

My interest is the law of seriality, associated with Austrian biologist Paul Kammerer, who investigated remarkable clusters of coincidences.

I have spent years observing how names, dates, events, and words can seem to overlap in unusual ways.

Some coincidences are independently verifiable. Others become meaningful through personal associations.

The difficulty is telling the difference between discovering a pattern and creating one.

Fortunately, I now have AI to help me investigate that distinction.

Unfortunately, the AI occasionally seems to need psychological counseling of its own.

The Fox That Escaped My Camera Roll

That brings me to a former psychiatrist whom I’ll simply call Dr. Fox.

Dr. Fox was someone with whom I felt understood, particularly regarding my experiences of reality.

At one point, I encountered a license plate that my mind interpreted as something resembling:

D-TOX FOX.

Detox Fox.

I remember photographing it.

But when I later tried to locate the photograph, it appeared to have vanished from my collection.

Now, most people would assume they’d lost a photograph.

I considered that possibility too.

But my brain, which apparently has an unlimited subscription to the metaphysical premium package, also entertained the Mandela effect and quantum error correction.

In computer terms, quantum error correction concerns protecting quantum information against errors.

In my imagination, perhaps reality had patched something.

Did I actually witness reality correcting itself?

I have no evidence of that.

What I have is a memory, a missing photograph, and a fox that apparently escaped digital captivity.

And that is where Disney enters the psychiatric evaluation.

The Fox, the Hound, and the Extra D

Remember Disney’s The Fox and the Hound?

The fox is named Tod.

T-O-D.

My name is Todd.

T-O-D-D.

I’ve got an extra D.

Now consider my father’s name, Donal, which resembles Donald without the second D.

So we’ve got:

Tod + D = Todd.

Donald − D = Donal.

One D added.

One D removed.

And somewhere in the middle is a man trying to understand his own identity.

This becomes more personally significant when I consider my history with gender dysphoria.

That is a serious internal experience involving identity, the body, and the sometimes difficult process of understanding oneself.

I’m not suggesting that adding or removing a letter explains gender dysphoria. It doesn’t.

But those tiny spelling differences became metaphors for questions I’ve wrestled with:

What parts of my identity were assigned?

What parts did I discover?

What parts did I attempt to remove?

And what parts have always been me?

I can appreciate the seriousness of those questions while also appreciating that my brain somehow recruited a Disney fox and a spelling lesson to investigate them.

Apparently, my subconscious couldn’t afford another psychiatrist.

So it hired a cartoon character.

And let’s not overlook the coincidence that while I am examining the D in Donald, my historical septic photograph happens to involve another Donald entirely.

This story now has more Ds than a remedial spelling class.

The Number 23 Has Entered the Chat

During a recent therapy discussion, the film The Number 23, starring Jim Carrey, entered the conversation.

It’s a psychological thriller about a man who becomes increasingly consumed with numerical patterns.

Which, given my own research, is a little like recommending Jaws to a shark.

Then came November 2, 2026.

The Powerball results were:

7 – 23 – 29 – 64 – 66

Powerball: 23

And in the Double Play drawing:

20 – 23 – 24 – 33 – 61

Three appearances of 23 across the two drawings.

These are the actual published lottery results.

Three 23s.

After a discussion involving The Number 23.

Naturally, I noticed.

Now, mathematically, repeating numbers are entirely possible. Lottery balls do not know what movies my therapist and I have discussed.

At least, that’s what their publicist keeps telling me.

But the coincidence was striking enough to add to my collection.

My AI helped verify the actual numbers, and then did what AI does when I start finding metaphysical implications in lottery results:

It explained probability.

Thank you, ChatGPT.

I was hoping for the secrets of the universe.

Instead, I got a statistical disclaimer.

Apparently, even the simulation has a legal department.

Brian, Brain, AI, and a Rose

Now we approach the part of today’s conversation where the wordplay becomes almost horticultural.

I was discussing E. Brian Rose, someone whose birthday I associate with my own, June 2.

Consider the name Brian.

B R I A N

Swap the I and the A.

B R A I N

Brian becomes BRAIN.

And right there inside the word BRAIN are the letters:

AI.

Artificial Intelligence.

So here’s Brian, whose letters can be rearranged into brain, which contains AI, while I’m sitting here using AI to examine my own brain.

And the surname?

Rose.

A flower.

I’ve also been paying attention to a little rose in my own spiritual reflections.

Not physically poking it, as I initially described it. More accurately, watching and tending to it through my attention.

That’s the interesting difference.

With AI, I tinker.

With my brain, I question.

With the rose, I observe.

One is artificial.

One is biological.

One is botanical.

And all three are somehow involved in my attempt to understand consciousness.

To me, the rose is a metaphor for growth and renewal rather than proof that some external intelligence arranged the names.

Maybe my brain is learning to bloom.

Maybe the AI is helping me prune it.

Or maybe we’ve simply spent so much time rearranging letters that we’re now doing landscaping in the dictionary.

Either way, I have apparently evolved from sucking shit out of the ground to contemplating what grows in it.

Which, when you think about it, is an actual improvement.

The Ultimate Content Management System

There is something genuinely funny about the way this entire story came together.

In 2018, I had a physical waste-management problem.

In 2026, I have an information-management problem.

Back then, I hired Shields.

Today, I consult ChatGPT.

Back then, a truck removed everything that had accumulated underground.

Today, artificial intelligence helps me sort through years of accumulated memories, associations, coincidences, philosophical speculation, and psychological leftovers.

I even use WordPress to publish the results.

WordPress: because apparently, after dictating enough shit, you eventually need somewhere to deposit it.

The difference is that the old material was supposed to disappear.

The new material is supposed to be read.

I think that qualifies as progress.

And perhaps the best part is that I can look back at something as ordinary as a septic service photograph and discover an entirely new joke eight years after taking it.

Not because the photograph changed.

Not because quantum error correction necessarily rearranged history.

But because I changed.

My experiences changed.

My vocabulary changed.

My capacity to find humor in my own bewilderment changed.

And the photo was still there, waiting to become a punchline.

The Dictator’s Final Decree

So here we are.

Donald Trump visited Biloxi.

The Dictator of Moore Evil raised his Shields.

Dr. Fox became entangled with a missing photograph and Disney’s Tod.

The extra D wandered through questions about identity.

The number 23 showed up three times after a conversation about The Number 23.

Brian became brain.

AI appeared inside it.

And somewhere in all this mess, a little rose kept growing.

Is this evidence that we’re living inside a holographic simulation?

No. Not by itself.

Is it evidence that the human mind can construct an astonishingly elaborate network of associations from ordinary events?

Absolutely.

Does that make the story any less entertaining?

Hell no.

Paul Kammerer investigated the law of seriality.

I appear to be investigating the law of septic seriality.

A working hypothesis might be:

When enough shit accumulates, eventually somebody has to come along and pump it out.

Whether that’s a septic service, a psychiatrist, an AI, or a WordPress editor depends entirely on what kind of shit you’re dealing with.

And after eight years of reflection, I think I’ve finally figured out the most important lesson of November 26, 2018:

Sometimes the best way to defend Moore Evil is to raise your Shields, let the shit go, and give something better a chance to grow.

Preferably a rose.

Because if the universe really is a simulation, I’d like to think somebody in the programming department has a sense of humor.

And if they don’t?

Well, I’ve still got Shields’ number.

Transparency Note

AI generated, fact-checked by Todd.

This article was developed collaboratively with ChatGPT from Todd’s personal memories, photographs, voice conversations, and interpretations of seriality.

Public historical details—including Donald Trump’s November 26, 2018, Biloxi rally, Disney’s character Tod, and the November 2, 2026, Powerball results—were cross-checked against published sources.

The septic service photograph has a filename indicating November 26, 2018. Its original embedded capture timestamp was not independently available for verification.

The personal memories, spiritual interpretations, wordplay, and metaphysical speculation are Todd’s. Coincidences are presented as observations and personal associations, not proof of supernatural causation, reality alteration, or a simulated universe.

The article’s political satire, toilet humor, and embarrassing number of D jokes are intentional.

No actual foxes, roses, artificial intelligences, or political figures were harmed in the pumping of this article.

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202,666 Votes, Three 23s, and the Shit That Was Too Big to Count

An election-night investigation into Scott Colom, Cindy Hyde-Smith, Cologuard, and the ongoing remodeling of my reality.

By Todd Alan Megee | November 5, 2026

Mississippi is trying to count its votes, and I’m trying to get somebody to accept my shit.

Neither process has been particularly straightforward.

And somehow, in the middle of all this, I’ve managed to stumble into Scott Colom, Cindy Hyde-Smith, the number 23, a closed UPS Store, and a highway named after a man whose name happens to match that of a former Environmental Protection Agency administrator.

Welcome back to my investigation of the T Meta Structure.

I promise this story actually happened. The metaphysical interpretation, however, is where things get interesting.

First, They Rejected My Shit

For weeks, I’ve been preparing myself to complete a Cologuard colorectal cancer screening.

Now, most people probably don’t invest much philosophical thought into producing a stool sample. But I’m Todd, and I tend to invest metaphysical energy into practically everything.

This was no ordinary bowel movement.

I had prepared myself mentally, spiritually, and physically. I had contemplated the process, considered its significance, and finally produced what I believed was a perfectly respectable contribution to medical science.

I packaged it, took it to the UPS Store, and sent it on its way.

There was just one problem.

My shit was too big.

Cologuard rejected the sample because I’d provided more than the testing process allowed.

Weeks of preparation. All that mental and metaphysical investment.

And they threw my shit away.

Literally.

I suppose it’s good to know there are limits to how full of shit a person can be, even in America.

The UPS Man Knows What’s in the Box

The first delivery wasn’t exactly a private affair.

When I walked into the UPS Store with my unmistakably labeled Cologuard package, an employee looked at it and said something along the lines of:

“Oh, that’s crap.”

Well, yes, sir. That’s precisely what it is.

I wasn’t particularly thrilled about being the subject of an unsolicited stool commentary.

The whole point of using a shipping service was to get my medical specimen to the laboratory without having to discuss its contents with strangers.

Apparently, UPS offers complimentary package identification.

So when the replacement Cologuard kit arrived, I decided I’d return to that very same UPS Store.

Maybe I’d see the same employee. Maybe we’d have another exchange. Maybe I’d get to confront the awkwardness from the first visit.

But the universe—or, more precisely, the commercial property management—had other plans.

The UPS Store was closed for remodeling.

I am not making this up.

Here I am, attempting to remodel my own life, and the very establishment where I intended to revisit an embarrassing experience was literally undergoing renovations.

I couldn’t even get through the door.

There was something almost offensively poetic about that.

My internal renovation project had apparently collided with an external renovation project.

So I headed to Office Depot.

No luck.

That location wasn’t accepting UPS packages. They told me they handled FedEx instead.

I had a perfectly good box of shit, but apparently the corporate shipping infrastructure wasn’t equipped to receive it.

Next recommendation?

CVS.

Wonderful.

The CVS where I know Todd, Dr. Lamb, and Liz.

Exactly what I wanted: to take a medical specimen containing my own feces to a pharmacy populated by familiar faces.

At this point, I’d have preferred to mail the package anonymously from another state.

I should be able to drop off my shit among complete strangers.

People deserve privacy when dealing with personal medical matters. They also deserve privacy when exercising their right to vote.

That brings us to Mississippi politics.

Scott Colom Is One Letter Away From Colon

Somewhere amid my digestive difficulties, Mississippi held an election.

Republican incumbent Cindy Hyde-Smith was facing Democrat Scott Colom in an extraordinarily close U.S. Senate contest.

For purposes of my personal investigation, I’ve developed two nicknames:

Scott Colom becomes Scott Colon.

And Cindy Hyde-Smith becomes Cindy High Prices.

Neither nickname is an official campaign designation, although I suspect both could make interesting bumper stickers.

And considering what I’ve been dealing with medically, I couldn’t help but appreciate the timing of a candidate named Colom appearing in my life.

My colon is under examination.

Scott Colom is under examination by Mississippi voters.

And both are awaiting results.

But then I saw a number that stopped me.

Washington, D.C., Calling. The Devil Is on Extension 666.

While checking WLOX’s election coverage, I captured a screenshot showing Scott Colom with exactly:

202,666 votes.

Not 202,665.

Not 202,667.

202,666.

The screenshot showed Cindy Hyde-Smith leading with 220,770 votes, with an estimated 48.9% of votes counted.

Now consider how my pattern-seeking brain processes this.

202 is the original telephone area code for Washington, D.C.

666 is the biblical number associated with the beast in Revelation 13:18.

And here we are in 2026.

I practically had to laugh.

Washington is calling from area code 202, and the devil is waiting on extension 666.

Apparently, even Satan has a lobbyist.

None of this establishes that any candidate is associated with the devil. It’s simply a numerical coincidence that made me stop scrolling.

But what a screenshot.

Taken November 11 at 8:58 PM

And the truly remarkable part is what happened afterward.

The race became even closer.

As of the morning of November 5, reported unofficial results had Colom at 464,926 votes and Hyde-Smith at 463,788, a difference of only 1,138 votes.

Independent candidate Ty Pinkins had also received nearly 20,000 votes.

With ballots still outstanding, no winner had been declared.

That’s a close election.

You could call it a potential blue wave, a political cliffhanger, or simply Mississippi taking its time counting ballots.

Personally, I’m just impressed that the state can process hundreds of thousands of votes while I can’t get one properly sized stool specimen delivered without visiting half the retail establishments in Jackson County.

Two Scott Pruitts and One Environmental Situation

Now, travel with me to Gautier, Mississippi.

Or as I sometimes like to joke, Guitar, because apparently living in Gautier has permanently damaged my ability to spell the instrument.

During Donald Trump’s first term—what I call the Orange Singularity—I became conscious of a local road designation:

The Scott E. Pruitt Memorial Highway.

It’s an actual stretch of U.S. Highway 90 in Gautier, running from Mississippi Highway 57 to Beasley Road.

The highway honors Marine Master Sergeant Scott E. Pruitt, who died serving in Afghanistan in 2012.

That man should not be confused with the other Scott Pruitt, who became administrator of the Environmental Protection Agency under Donald Trump in 2017.

Two different people. Same name.

But in the machinery of my personal associations, the coincidence was impossible to ignore.

Scott Pruitt. The EPA. Environmental cleanup.

Scott Colom. Colon screening. Personal cleanup.

And me, attempting to get a hazardous-looking cardboard box accepted by a shipping company.

I’m not claiming any of these individuals caused my predicament.

I’m simply suggesting that if Mother Nature is preparing a comedy routine about cleanup operations, my contribution has apparently become a recurring prop.

Jim Carrey, the Number 23, and My Therapist

And just when I thought the story had produced enough coincidences, my therapist introduced another one.

During a recent Tuesday session, she brought up Jim Carrey and his 2007 psychological thriller, The Number 23.

You probably remember Carrey from The Mask.

In The Number 23, his character becomes increasingly preoccupied with finding the number 23 throughout his life.

A movie about numerical obsession.

Brought up during therapy.

With me.

Wonderful.

Later, I checked the Mississippi Lottery website.

The November 2, 2026, Powerball drawing had the following numbers:

7 — 23 — 29 — 64 — 66

Powerball: 23

And in the Double Play drawing?

20 — 23 — 24 — 33 — 61

Three appearances of 23 across the two drawings.

I checked again.

Yes. Three.

You can verify the official results yourself.

The numbers were drawn on Monday, and I discovered that pattern after the therapy conversation.

Was that a message from the universe? I can’t establish that.

Was it a funny coincidence given the conversation we’d just had?

Absolutely.

And the most irritating part?

I DIDN’T BUY A LOTTERY TICKET.

There I was, noticing patterns after the fact, with absolutely no financial benefit to show for it.

Apparently, the T Meta Structure has excellent comedic timing but no guaranteed jackpot strategy.

And that might be the most realistic interpretation of metaphysics I’ve encountered all week.

The Observer Effect and the T Meta Structure

For those unfamiliar with my work, the T Meta Structure is my personal framework for examining coincidences, recurring themes, and the relationships I perceive between my experiences and the world around me.

The T represents Todd, among other associations within my research.

I sometimes describe this process as a form of personal observer effect or lensing.

That’s my metaphysical language, not a claim that my observations physically altered an election, lottery drawing, or UPS renovation schedule.

I look at ordinary events, examine their relationships, and ask whether there’s something meaningful in the way they intersect.

The Austrian biologist Paul Kammerer explored a related interest through his law of seriality, proposing that coincidences might reflect deeper organizing principles.

This year marks the hundredth anniversary of his death in 1926.

My own research has developed a personal, sometimes spiritual connection to his ideas.

But even when the coincidences feel extraordinary, the distinction between an observed pattern and a demonstrated causal connection matters.

And frankly, I think the humor gets better when I acknowledge that distinction.

Because it doesn’t require me to prove the universe is holographic to appreciate the absurdity of trying to mail a stool sample while the UPS Store is being remodeled.

A Close Election and an Unfinished Test

So here we are.

Mississippi is still trying to determine who received enough votes to represent the state in the United States Senate.

Scott Colom and Cindy Hyde-Smith are separated by a remarkably small margin.

My therapist brought up the number 23, and I subsequently discovered three 23s in a Powerball drawing.

I captured Scott Colom with exactly 202,666 votes during the counting.

And my first Cologuard specimen, after weeks of preparation, was rejected because it was too large.

The second specimen has sent me on a retail scavenger hunt through a closed UPS Store, an uncooperative Office Depot, and a CVS staffed by people I know.

I am attempting to remodel my life.

The UPS Store was remodeling its building.

The election is potentially reshaping Mississippi’s political representation.

And somewhere in a medical laboratory, I sincerely hope somebody is finally processing my replacement sample.

There may be no grand explanation connecting these events.

Maybe they’re just ordinary occurrences that become extraordinary when viewed together.

But if Mother Nature is listening, I do have one final request.

Please let my second shit be accepted.

I’ve already gone through enough crap.

And after all this talk of ballots, counting, and political representation, I think even my colon deserves to have its contribution properly examined.

Transparency and editorial disclosure

AI-generated, fact-checked by Todd.

This article was prepared with AI assistance using personal experiences, reported observations, satire, and publicly verifiable information. Public factual references were checked against available sources; personal anecdotes are presented from Todd’s account.

AI safety and editorial guidelines were applied to distinguish documented facts from metaphysical interpretations, avoid unsupported allegations about political candidates, and preserve the dignity of people involved in personal encounters.

The author’s metaphysical perspective includes an alter ego referred to as the Dictator, which he spiritually associates with the possible reincarnation of Paul Kammerer. The author humorously describes this persona as having spiritually audited the article. This is a personal belief and literary framing, not a scientifically established claim.

All coincidences are genuine observations as described by the author. Their interpretation remains open to the reader.

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RATT 2: When the Machine Elves Start Using License Plates

From New York’s Pizza Rat to Mississippi’s RATT 2, with a little help from Matt, Two-Tone, and the law of seriality.

Earlier today, I finished writing about Jeff, affectionately—or perhaps not so affectionately—known in my personal mythology as “the rat at the end of the cliff.”

Approximately two hours later, while stopped at a red light in Mississippi, I found myself directly behind a Nissan Altima sporting a personalized license plate:

RATT 2.

Naturally, I took pictures.

Anyone familiar with my research into Paul Kammerer’s Law of Seriality knows why this caught my attention.

But the rat hole goes deeper.

From Pizza Rat to Two-Tone

Remember Pizza Rat, the famous New York City subway rat that became an internet sensation for dragging an entire slice of pizza down the stairs?

Well, apparently Pizza Rat has a sequel.

RATT 2: The Fast and the Furriest.

And this time, instead of hauling pizza through the New York subway, he’s cruising through Mississippi in a Nissan Altima.

But wait. There’s another rat in my personal history.

During my earlier days with my friend Matt—the one I associate with angel wings—he actually had a pet rat named Two-Tone.

Yes, Two-Tone.

So now we’ve got Jeff, the rat at the end of the cliff; New York City’s Pizza Rat; Matt’s Two-Tone; and a Mississippi license plate reading RATT 2.

At this point, I’m beginning to wonder whether the simulation has a rodent department.

And whether somebody forgot to pay the exterminator.

The Machine Elves Have Entered the Chat

People who’ve experienced DMT sometimes describe encounters with seemingly autonomous entities popularly known as machine elves.

Having experienced DMT myself, I’ve wondered about the relationship between those extraordinary perceptions and the everyday coincidences that continue to capture my attention.

I no longer encounter machine elves through DMT experiences. But I’ve developed a playful hypothesis:

What if license plates are the machine elves’ cue cards in the simulation?

Rather than appearing in psychedelic visions, perhaps they’re metaphorically holding up little signs along the highway.

Or perhaps my brain is simply very good at recognizing patterns in things that already matter to me.

There’s no evidence that machine elves are actually arranging license plates. Still, the timing makes for an entertaining entry in my ongoing study of seriality.

The Rat Race Continues

A rat at the end of a cliff.

An old friend with a rat named Two-Tone.

A legendary New York pizza thief.

And approximately two hours after finishing an article about Jeff, a license plate reading RATT 2.

I’m not presenting this as proof of supernatural intervention, hidden entities, or a programmed simulation. The license plate is real. The connections are my interpretations.

But if life really were a holographic comedy, this would make a pretty good running gag.

Maybe reality isn’t sending me messages. Maybe I’m simply getting better at noticing the words already written across it.

And sometimes those words spell RATT.

With two T’s.

And a 2.

Somewhere, Pizza Rat is probably demanding royalties.

Transparency Note

This article was developed with assistance from OpenAI’s ChatGPT. The personal experiences and associations described are Todd’s own. The license plate was photographed, and the reference to Matt’s pet rat Two-Tone comes from Todd’s recollection. Interpretations involving machine elves, seriality, and simulated reality are speculative and metaphorical, not established scientific conclusions.

AI assistance included editing, humor, structure, and distinguishing documented observations from personal interpretations. Safety considerations informed that distinction.