You know, I saw this photo of Margaret Thatcher at the beach, and I got to wondering: is it possible that this photo was altered using AI?

Don’t laugh, it’s feasible. It’s layers inside layers. You don’t want to know who’s behind this sort of thing. For example, as you all know, the moon landings were faked. It’s also a known fact that legions of toothless rednecks are probed each year, and not always by each other. Occasionally it’s aliens. But trust me, the lizard people control everything, including those spaceships with racks of adult toys inside. If you check the Bilderberg filing cabinets, you’ll find a 100-year lease they took out on Area 51, written in Klingon.

George Bush controls the weather, I get that, mostly because Al Gore was too busy inventing the internet to stop him., The beings who look like iguanas if you scratch their latex skins off cover the rest of the waterfront. They’ll probe you, and keep you from finding out about their probe ships. No mean trick, that. You’d think you’d remember something along those lines. Just the bill for a colonoscopy sticks in one’s mind. But they could hide out on the far side of the moon, and we’d never know. Until we get there. You know, if they let us, eventually.

I urge my fellow internauts to be careful about what they see online, like this picture. The average person really has to become more discerning these days. There are four Trumps, everyone knows this, except Melania, I guess, or maybe she’s in on it. Most everyone is. Anyway, you don’t want to waste your time with some civnat on Rumble who thinks there’s only one. The only important thing is to determine which fake one is currently bombing Iran, or Yemen, or one end of the White House. It’s common knowledge among amateur geneticists that  the original one is in the freezer next to Ted Williams’ head.

I’m hip to these shenanigans, though. When I see a picture like Maggie at the beach, I don’t take it at face value. I do a deep dive. I’m no sheeple, people. I use my encyclopedic knowledge, gleaned from lord knows how many memes and comic books, to analyze a thing before I trust it. I’ll share some inside info with you fine folks, so you won’t be taken for a rube, and start voting Libertarian and stuff:

For starters, Margaret Thatcher is dead. The freezer with Ted and the third Trump from the left isn’t infinitely large you know, and I’m sure the secret cabal that decides such things, in between making Tom Cruise have sex with anyone but Nicole Kidman, would look at the size of Meg’s bouffant and figure, “She’s one of us, but we really can’t spare two cryogenic slots for one person?” So she might be really dead, not Epstein dead. If so, what’s she doing at the beach?

This might make a shallow thinker revert to: Hey, maybe that picture was taken before she died. Or, she’s obviously not alive, but propped up in a chair, like Biden was. Oh, you sweet, summer child. You can tell she’s really laying down some fat beats with the accurate position of those delicate fingers of hers. And since there aren’t six fingers on each hand, it may be an old Polaroid, but it can’t be an AI fabrication. The fellow in the left background has his left arm on his right shoulder, but that doesn’t mean anything. Lots of guys are like that. I went to school with a guy like that. My uncle has left-rightedness. True story.

You have to learn to dig deeper. Let’s zoom in on the bottom right corner. Do you see it?

Do you see it yet? No? Sheesh, OK, I’ll zoom in more for all the slow learners:

It’s dispositive. I know from years of looking at Bigfoot photos how to decipher these sorts of images. That’s a UL listing. Maggie was English, or British, or UKrasian or something like that. That equipment should have a British Standards compliance logo. If it was a product designed to meet standards issued by the British Standards Institution (BSI) for electronics, it would have a BS 415 for safety of mains-operated electronic equipment. It doesn’t.

The last picture is proof that the image was taken in the US or outlying islands, not the UK. I rest my case. It’s confirmation that Margaret Thatcher didn’t really die, and was whisked off for monkey gland treatments in the Bermuda Triangle, and now spends her time spinning remixes of Gerry and the Pacemaker records at parties for her Rosicrucian masters.

QED, I think.