Title: The Bitcoin Confessional
(A Cynical Satire on Modern Maximalism)
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ACT I: THE PILGRIMAGE
Every year, thousands of devout Bitcoiners embark on their sacred pilgrimage — not to Mecca, not to the Holy Land — but to the fluorescent-lit halls of some overpriced Bitcoin Conference™ in a Miami hotel or a European cathedral of capitalist cringe. The faithful arrive draped in black tees, wielding cold wallets like rosaries, praying their last few satoshis aren't spent on fiat-rigged airfare.
They come burdened.
Burdened by their sins:
That one time they bought ETH for gas fees.
That weekend they FOMO’d into a dog coin "ironically."
That DAO experiment they joined “just for research.”
And now… they must repent.
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ACT II: THE CONFESSIONAL
At the center of the conference stands a glittering LED-lit altar. Behind it sits The High Bitcoin Priest — a self-appointed node runner with a podcast and a book deal. He wears a suit made of seed phrases and speaks in cryptographic parables.
The penitent bitcoiner approaches, eyes downcast, Ledger in trembling hand.
> “Forgive me, Father Satoshi, for I have sinned.”
“Speak, my child.”
“I… I staked. I farmed. I used MetaMask.”
gasp from the congregation
> “You bridged?”
“Yes, Father… to Solana.”
“Oh Lord… even the fast finality couldn’t save your soul.”
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ACT III: THE PENANCE
The High Priest prescribes the usual atonement:
Burn your ERC-20s in a ritual gas fire.
Recite the Whitepaper thrice backwards.
Donate to OpenSats.
Kneel before the mempool and watch it clear.
Only then may the sinner be absolved — though their reputation on Bitcoin Twitter will remain scarred. The scars are important. They remind others what happens when faith wavers.
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ACT IV: THE EXCOMMUNICATION
But not all are so lucky. One heretic is caught browsing NFTs on a sidechain. A murmur spreads. The High Priest points dramatically:
> “CAST HIM OUT!”
Security drags him through the merch hall. He screams:
> “It was just JPEGs! They were in a Taproot wrapper!”
Too late. His node privileges are revoked. He is branded a crypto influencer. He will never speak at a conference again.
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EPILOGUE: THE BITCOINER’S BURDEN
Back in their home citadel, the faithful bitcoiner unplugs their router — just for a moment of peace. They sigh. They’ll never stake again. Probably. Unless it’s wrapped. Or for yield. Or on Liquid. Or maybe just—
They stop themselves.
“Forgive me, Father Satoshi…”
The cycle begins anew.
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🔥 “In the beginning was the block. And the block was with Satoshi. And the block was Satoshi.” — Bitcoin Book of Re-Orgs, 21:7
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