My New Video "WW3 is Coming, The Rapture is Imminent, Pizza Gate was Real, and Epstein is Alive!" REVIEWED by Daniel Harambe

 

Is Trump our "End Times" president?

Some YouTube videos inform. Some entertain. And then there are videos like The EZEKIEL FUNGUS BIBLE PROPHECY SHOW, which stride confidently into the digital landscape with the conviction of a man holding a flashlight under his chin and declaring himself the final authority on global affairs. This episode, boldly titled “WW3 is Coming, The Rapture is Imminent, Pizza Gate was Real, and Epstein is Alive!”, wastes no time announcing that it has arrived to deliver nothing less than the truth the world has been too timid to handle.

Ezekiel Fungus opens the broadcast with a personal testimony about dabbling in the occult, a detail he shares with the solemnity of a statesman recounting his years in public service. It is clear he considers this a crucial credential, the kind of résumé bullet point that instantly qualifies him to interpret geopolitics, biblical prophecy, and the metaphysical status of Jeffrey Epstein.

He then reveals that the show is being broadcast from a “secret location in the Holy Land,” a claim delivered with such earnestness that one feels almost rude for noticing the suspiciously crisp edges of the background. But Ezekiel’s confidence is unwavering, and like any great broadcaster, he demands that the viewer accept his setting as fact, not suggestion.

From this sacred bunker, Ezekiel launches into a sweeping overview of biblical revelations, global tensions, and the imminent arrival of World War III. Iran, Russia, and North Korea are all presented as active participants in a cosmic drama, their leaders presumably consulting ancient scrolls between missile tests. Ezekiel speaks of these nations with the gravity of a man who has personally read their classified plans, annotated them, and cross‑referenced them with the Book of Daniel.

The prospect of war with Iran receives particular emphasis. Ezekiel treats the situation as though Tehran is moments away from pressing a large, glowing “Armageddon” button. His tone suggests that diplomatic nuance is unnecessary when prophecy has already provided the script. One can almost imagine him pausing the broadcast to check the sky for incoming fireballs.

Russia, meanwhile, is framed not merely as a geopolitical actor but as a direct fulfillment of Biblical prophecy. Ezekiel speaks of Russia with the reverence of a man discussing a long‑awaited houseguest who has finally arrived to complete the narrative arc. The fact that Russia is involved in anything at all seems, to him, proof that the end times are not approaching but actively circling the block looking for parking.

North Korea also earns its place in the prophetic trifecta. Ezekiel mentions it with the same tone one might use to discuss a mischievous raccoon that keeps knocking over the trash cans — troublesome, unpredictable, and somehow essential to the grand cosmic plan. The implication is clear: if the world is ending, Kim Jong‑un will absolutely want a front‑row seat.

Bill Clinton is prominently named in the "Epstein Files"

The episode then pivots to the release of the Epstein Files, which Ezekiel treats as though they were unearthed tablets from Mount Sinai. His delivery suggests that these documents contain revelations so explosive that only a man broadcasting from a secret holy bunker is qualified to interpret them.

Enter Wilford Fungus, who appears via remote connection from what he claims is Epstein’s island. His calm assertion that Epstein is alive — and was replaced by a clone — is delivered with the matter‑of‑fact tone of someone reporting the weather. There is no hesitation, no doubt, no acknowledgment that this claim might require evidence. In the world of the Fungus brothers, clones are simply part of the geopolitical landscape.

Jeffrey Epstein was reportedly a "furry"

Wilford’s report is treated with complete seriousness by Ezekiel, who nods along as though receiving confirmation of a long‑suspected truth. The viewer is left with the distinct impression that the Fungus family considers themselves the Woodward and Bernstein of supernatural island‑based cloning operations.

so-called psychic genius the "Amazing" Trumpo

The show then introduces “the amazing Trumpo,” a psychic whose predictions allegedly extend into the 2060s. Ezekiel presents these prophecies with the reverence typically reserved for Nobel Prize winners. The idea that someone has already foreseen the next five U.S. presidents is treated not as a curiosity but as a cornerstone of the episode’s theological architecture.

the "Amazing" Trumpo's prediction of 5 future presidents

This naturally leads to the question of whether Donald Trump is the end‑times president. Ezekiel does not answer directly — prophets rarely do — but he circles the topic with the enthusiasm of a man who has already highlighted the relevant verses in three different translations of the Bible. The implication is unmistakable: history, prophecy, and electoral politics are all converging in ways only the Fungus family can decode.

Pearl Davis makes a brief appearance to attempt to discuss war with Iran, offering commentary that Ezekiel receives with the seriousness of a general consulting his top strategist. Her segment adds a talk‑show flavor to the proceedings, though the tone remains unwaveringly apocalyptic.

Jesus teaching his disciples about the End Times

By the time the show concludes, Ezekiel appears genuinely startled that the prophetic timeline stretches into the 2060s. His surprise is palpable, as though he expected the world to end before the next commercial break. It is a rare moment of vulnerability in an otherwise unshakably confident broadcast.

The episode ends abruptly, leaving viewers with the sense that they have witnessed something monumental, bewildering, and entirely self‑assured. Whether one agrees with Ezekiel’s interpretations or not, there is no denying the sincerity with which he delivers them. It is a work of absolute conviction, presented with the intensity of a man who believes the fate of the world hinges on his upload schedule. It is not subtle, it is not restrained, but it is undeniably unforgettable.

- Daniel Harambe

Morning McDonalds Disaster: "Do Not Microwave" Warning on McDonalds' coffee cup is no joke

 

Ah, the folly of man versus the unyielding wisdom of a disposable coffee cup. Let me regale you with my tale of rebellion, dear reader, for I am that brazen fool who stared down the "Do Not Microwave" warning on my McDonald's cup and thought, "Pfft, what do they know? I'm a grown man with a microwave and a lukewarm latte!"

It all started on a crisp Tuesday morning. I'd swung through the drive-thru, grabbing my usual McCafé fix—a steaming hot brew in one of those flimsy paper fortresses, emblazoned with that smug little cautionary tale. "Do Not Microwave," it sneered, as if daring me to defy the corporate overlords. But oh, how the mighty fall when the coffee cools too quickly. By the time I got home, my elixir had turned tepid, a betrayal of epic proportions. "Nonsense," I muttered, popping that bad boy straight into the nuker. Thirty seconds, I figured. What could go wrong?
At first, nothing. The microwave hummed like a contented beehive. But then—oh, then—the cup began to... protest. A faint crinkle, like it was whispering secrets to the turntable. Then a pop, followed by a sizzle that escalated into a full-on symphony of doom. The plastic lining, that sneaky saboteur, decided to melt into a gooey rebellion, oozing like lava from a fast-food volcano. Sparks flew! Smoke billowed! My microwave erupted in a fireworks display that would make the Fourth of July jealous.
In my panic, I yanked the door open, only to watch the cup's contents explode outward in a caffeinated tsunami, drenching my kitchen counter, my socks, and—horror of horrors—my prized collection of vintage action figures. The smell? A unholy blend of burnt plastic and over-roasted beans, like Satan's own espresso bar. But that was just the appetizer.
You see, in my haste to contain the chaos, I slipped on the spill, flailing like a cartoon character, and accidentally dialed McDonald's corporate hotline instead of 911. (Don't ask how—fat thumbs and adrenaline are a deadly combo.) Before I knew it, I was ranting to some poor customer service rep about their "defective" cups, demanding justice for my scorched countertops. Little did I know, my meltdown (pun very much intended) went viral when the rep leaked the call—turns out, I was screaming something about "Big Mac conspiracies" in my delirium.
The internet ate it up. Hashtags like #CupGate and #McMeltdown trended worldwide. Protesters gathered outside McDonald's HQ, waving signs: "Microwaves for All!" or "End Cup Tyranny!" The stock plummeted faster than my coffee temperature. Ronald McDonald himself issued a tearful apology on national TV, blaming "rogue cup designers." Lawsuits flew—class actions for "emotional distress from ignored warnings." And me? I became the unwitting hero/villain of the saga, dubbed "The Microwave Maverick" by late-night hosts.
In the end, McDonald's revamped their cups with glow-in-the-dark warnings and built-in alarms that blare "I told you so!" when heated. As for me, I now sip my joe cold, a wiser man with a charred microwave gathering dust in the garage. Moral of the story? Listen to the cup, folks. It's not just paper—it's prophecy.

Steve Bannon's BORING Snooze Fest of an Interview with Jeffrey Epstein goes viral for some reason

Jeffrey Epstein and Steve Bannon take a selfie

In a move that absolutely no one asked for, former White House strategist and perpetual disheveled icon Steve Bannon has unleashed what he's calling his "groundbreaking" interview with the late Jeffrey Epstein – a spectral chit-chat that clocks in at a soul-crushing 47 hours and proves once and for all that even the afterlife can't make this guy interesting.
Titled War Room: Beyond the Grave – Epstein Unplugged, the "interview" (if you can call a one-sided ramble that) was conducted via Ouija board in Bannon's dimly lit basement bunker, surrounded by half-eaten Big Macs and crumpled Breitbart printouts. Bannon, ever the showman, hyped it as "the exposé of the century," promising dirt on global elites, shadowy cabals, and why pineapple on pizza is a deep-state plot. What viewers got instead? A monotonous drone-fest that makes watching paint dry feel like a thrill ride.
"Look, folks, this is huge," Bannon growled at the camera in the opening monologue, his signature rumpled shirt looking like it had just lost a wrestling match with a dryer. "Epstein's got the goods on everyone from Bill Gates to the guy who invented NFTs." But as the ghostly apparition of Epstein flickered into view – courtesy of some questionable CGI or perhaps just bad lighting – it became clear: this "mastermind" was about as exciting as a tax audit.
Epstein, manifesting as a translucent blob in a polo shirt (because even ghosts have bad fashion sense), kicked things off with a 90-minute soliloquy on his "fascinating" island landscaping tips. "You know, the key to a good palm tree is proper irrigation," he mumbled in a voice that sounded like a deflating balloon. Bannon, visibly fighting off a coma, interjected with, "Jeff, cut to the chase – who's running the world?" Epstein's response? A 20-minute tangent on why he preferred organic fertilizer. Lame doesn't even begin to cover it.
As the hours dragged on – and we mean dragged, like pulling a semi-truck through molasses – Epstein's "revelations" devolved into pure tedium. He ranted about his favorite yacht brands ("Beneteau? Overrated. Azimut? Now that's class"), complained about prison food ("The Jell-O was subpar"), and even tried to pitch a conspiracy theory about how the moon landing was faked... by Big Cheese. "It's all about the curdled milk industry," he whispered conspiratorially. Bannon, by hour 12, was seen chugging Red Bulls and muttering, "This is longer than my contempt of Congress sentence."
But let's be real: why should anyone care what this spectral schlub has to say? Epstein, the ultimate scumbag has-been (or never-was, depending on who you ask), built his "empire" on schmoozing with the elite while being about as charismatic as a wet sock. His "insights" are the intellectual equivalent of elevator music – bland, forgettable, and liable to put you to sleep mid-floor. In a world full of actual problems like AI taking our jobs or why Twitter's still called X, Epstein's ghostly gripes are as relevant as a flip phone in 2026. No one asked for his comeback tour, and honestly, the afterlife should sue for defamation.
Viewers tuning in were treated to Bannon's increasingly desperate attempts to spice things up. "Jeff, tell us about the Clintons!" he'd bark. Epstein: "Hillary's secret? She alphabetizes her spice rack. Revolutionary." By the end, Bannon was reduced to interviewing his own coffee mug for excitement.
In a post-interview statement, Bannon defended the debacle: "This proves the deep state is so boring, they're putting us all to sleep on purpose!" Sure, Steve. Or maybe it's just that Epstein was always a lame duck – a guy whose biggest thrill was hanging out with billionaires who probably regretted it the next morning.
Moral of the story? If you're going to summon the dead for dirt, pick someone fun like Elvis. As for Epstein? Let him rest in pieces. No one cares, and that's the real conspiracy.