“Every time you see a glass ceiling, there’s an iron woman underneath it!”
-Elizabeth Holmes aka some man-voiced loser, womansplaining her transcendence as a tech-prostitute whose Theranos fraud was funded entirely by various Harvey Weinsteins of government & Silicon Valley—all of whom had hoped that, by their chivalrous shekel shifting, Holmes would be willing to watch them masturbate into a technological houseplant.
It was a time when every listless, list-laden mistress of one slithering spiritually-silicone Zionist or another could be seen saying whatever sold, to whichever would-be wannabes were trading their retirement funds for tickets to the newest industrial lottery—and a chance to brush up emotionally against transvisionary Elizabeth Holmes, with carefully corporate, playfully exaggerated flirtations about how “lovely and talented” Holmes looked, sounded, and seemed like someone with whom it is whatsoever worth spending time.
It was a brave blink of glutted groupthink, where curated cogs of elite culture coddled all things pink, penis-less, and mediocre.
It was the perfect time for the mental-drool to shine on the lips of social-retard Elizabeth Holmes (aka the white Alexandria Ocasio Cortez), whose sole role was to parade—with a petty pink bow—and to scoop—with a pretty pink bowl—yet another shit scheme dreamed up by some silly, tenured, theory-cluttered pseudo-Jew with only time on his hands, and only tits on his mind: the waste that launched ten thousand grifts.
Thus, one day, as slutty Stanford student Elizabeth Holmes sucked her professor’s massive, veiny Trump for a better grade—her tongue tickling his pee-hole triggered an idea: “Bro!,” he blurted to her retardedly, “what if like, you could, like, just take some blood and then find out all the stuff about somebody!,” the pothead comic-booked stanfordly.
“Whatchu talking about?, dogg?,” niggered Holmes, taking a break from girl-powering her mouth all over his dick—her boring, dead, blue eyes still autisming blankly at her academic-sugar-daddy’s hairy navel, as her low, lazy, culture-less voice sounded like somebody’s brain-damaged uncle.
Then she lied to a bunch of guys who spend their lives begging to be told lies. Predictably, this was pretended to constitute a crime—so the morally upright society cast Scapegoat Holmes into a cage with Scapegoat of a Generation Kermit Gosnell. The two goofs immediately became fast friends, and from then on, they spent their time always together—aborting and feministing their way to paradise; as they, and everyone else, lived happily ever after.