It is the 41st Millennium. For more than a hundred centuries The Emperor has bathed in the light of his Golden Wall of Mexico. He is the Master of Mankind by the will of the people, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a shining example of a human being writhing invisibly with high energy from the Golden Age of Nationalism. He is the Nephew of Kek for whom a thousand memes are sacrificed every day, so that his mandate may never truly end.

Yet even in his transcended state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the illegal alien-infested miasma of the cosmos, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Memestronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor's dankness. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Centipes, the Space Centipedes, memetically engineered super-creatures. Their comrades in arms are legion: the US army and countless planetary defence forces, the ever vigilant US navy and the meme-priests of Fortuna to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, shills, cucks - and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the best and most prosperous regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Cherish the power of technology and science, for so much has been discovered, never to be forgotten. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in these leftist buzzwords there is only war. There is no degeneracy amongst the stars, only an eternity of asceticism and glory, and the tears of awed gods.

(r8 my copypasta fams)