Ashton Kutcher's Murderous Twin
And his P Diddy Karma
Ashton Kutcher is coming under fire for his past friendship with Sean Combs, and, as the media savvy Scientologist dude he is, he recently leaked a fake story to Radar Online in which an anonymous person (who doesn’t exist) claimed that Kutcher is afraid Combs might make up lies about his friends to cop a plea deal on his multitude of charges.
This stunt probably cost him a couple of thousand bucks, but to me it’s having the opposite of its intended effect and is making it pretty obvious Kutcher is trying to get out ahead of some incriminating evidence against him.
It’s either that or Kutcher is a totally innocent guy who is close friends with a lot of rapists, including his Scientology buddy Danny Masterson, but that would be awfully bad luck of the type that doesn’t really exist.
There are some things that are too perfect, too justified to not to come to fruition. I don’t believe in fate, I just believe that people will eventually face the consequences of their behavior, even if it’s just a microcosm, just for a day.
For example, I recently attended an Anaheim Angels game with some people who had young children, and part of the promotion that day was that after the game the kids could run the bases on the field, ostensibly because the children would enjoy it, but in reality nobody gave a shit about the wishes of their children and just wanted photo op material for their own IG pages.
I saw at least one crying kid getting forced into it like a lieutenant threatening a court martial for a guy who didn’t volunteer to torch a village.
As this spectacle was to take place directly after the game, families, including the people I was with, were encouraged to begin lining up to enter the field after the seventh inning, snaking through the tunnels of the stadium where the game was not visible.
The score was 7-2. The Angels, the home team, were behind. During the seventh inning stretch everyone began filing down into a very long line.
“I’m going to stay here and watch the end of the game, I’ll catch up later,” I said.
“You don’t want to see the kids run the bases,” my friend retorted.
“No, not really,” I said, “plus this seems to bastardize the point of going to the game. Why didn’t they do this before the game?”
The crazy uncle was left behind in my seat, where I began fanaticizing about how I could rub it in everyone’s face if the Angels staged a remarkable comeback, how much shit I could talk to them about their priorities and the vanity involved in their non-candid photo obsession.
The home team was three up and three down in the eighth inning, and yet, even as a deeply pessimistic person I remained oddly confident. The universe had fucked with me enough, I was owed one. I popped another twenty-dollar tallboy.
The next inning the leadoff batter crushed a homerun. Then a walk and a base hit and all of a sudden, the bases were loaded.
Next, Taylor Ward, the third baseman, stepped up to the plate. I was smirking at the perfection of the situation, not even surprised when the ball jumped off of his bat and sailed over the fence, the confidence of a basketball player who takes a shot and turns his back to the hoop before it goes in, I didn’t even look up from my phone. I knew the result.
The home team won and the crowd went crazy. Everyone except the rubes who were standing in a big line and couldn’t see all of this.
This was me:
Hear me out, but this anecdote relates to the topic of genetic genealogy and the process of solving cold cases through connecting one’s relatives to a coldblooded rapist or murderer. Oh, and, sigh, Ashton Kutcher.
Basically, if there’s an existing DNA sample of an unknown subject, they can be narrowed down through the genetic profiles of their relatives. That’s how the Golden State Killer was caught.
I don’t want to take a genetic test, but that’s because I don’t want the company doing the testing having the information, not because I think it would be discovered that myself or one of my distant relatives raped and killed an eleven-year-old in the 1990s.
But getting your genetic profile is exactly the type of thing that Scientologist weirdos think is an important process of attaining eternal life, even though they can’t articulate why, but it’s because they’ve been indoctrinated to believe in science fiction is real.
Ashton Kutcher has a twin brother. Not an identical twin. Ashton fed on him in the womb like a vampire and so his brother is disabled, although a successful financier.
At some point Ashton Kutcher is going to get a genetic test to prove he has relatives on Venus or Xenu, and it’s going to point to a lot of cold cases, and eventually it will be discovered that Michael Kutcher is a prolific serial killer.
Kutcher, in his arrogant quest for a sense of purpose, is going to unwittingly send his brother to prison for the rest of his life, completing the devouring of the corpse which he began in utero.
There will be evidence that the two brothers may have killed together as accomplices too, but there won’t be enough to convict Ashton, although the finale of this Shakespearian tragedy will finally ruin his career, relegating him to doing a podcast while wearing sunglasses.
Too many strikes, and a lot of suspicion. Sure, he got away with the Diddying thing, but now the stench of guilt will be firmly upon him.
I will sit back in my puffy leather chair with a big cigar in my mouth and laugh when all of this comes out, not surprised in the slightest at the obviousness of the situation, because it’s one of those special instances where it’s just too perfect not to happen: Michael Kutcher, the Kutcher Butcher, and the Children of the Korn Kutcher Butcher Brothers. The Fraternal Finishers. The Beauty and the Beast Killers. I have more.
On a closing note, it’s exceedingly common for major media outlets, including this Substack page, to criticize athletes for being out of shape. Luka Doncic, Joel Embiid, Jon Jones, Charles Barkley, the list goes on.
There’s a big push right now for equality in women’s basketball. Yet, I haven’t heard a single WNBA player criticized for being overweight. Possibly because any journalist walking this plank would be immediately fired and labeled a misogynist?
Doesn’t seem like equality to me.