date

wup, the letters bar asked me to check my cookies just now. ten buttons later and i liftin' owned one of those cookies. thats my story fer success. who woulda thought two c's made a x sound. why not give any sound that sounds like x the letter x. as if x is overused and we need to chill out on x. we don't.

buuht, back to the cookies. why are they so boring? i want to see little fucking cookies that look real cute fly around my screen every time i enter a new web station.

so, the cookies story was just a dream from a minute ago. lets talk about you!

how was yesterday?

who are you?

what brands do you do?

how do you define guilt?

how fast are you?

all of those answers are adequate. now they'res a meal! what did you get? o yea, you got steak, medium raw, i know cause i ordered for you, ha. now back to speed. i like a girl to be fast. not like, olympic or anything, but like first in the 100 at states fast. BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM

(man gets up after making boom noise with his mouth and walks out of the restaurant in a crouched run.)

I like Pens

Whenever I feel like writing these things down, I never have any scrolls.  I look around, and it seems like the wild mild west.  No pens, anywhere.  Plenty of plague, cigarettes and iPlaids.  Get old-fashioned, people.  Save the sweet stuff that guys named Bartholomew and Leslie dreamed up.  Dip some metal in some earth blood and indigo your self some cottage fries.  Can't you recall a time of bliss?  A time of wet slacks and paper stacks, stories laid out for eyeballs, hands reaching towards the vanilla manillas to read aloud the tales of importance that great men dream up while they're fucking their favorite hand?  Classic.

Man, I could scream on this for days about weeks.  How can I be so recluse?  Mediocre josh villain I am, there is nothing I can do about it.  Sometimes there are no tools to make my words true realities.  Nothing but the possibility of piercing myself with myself and writing in my own life gravy onto some fake-ass temporary book walls, or faces of children.  Like, I don't have the time to do this.  I'm important and probably late for a kissing regret.

Maybe I'll let myself prepare next time, I gotta be writing.  Bibles didn't make it this far without some hairnet-faceted thumb jockey scribbling out his lucid and fiery no-bake recipes for Josiah windbreakers.  Think about it.  Johnny Moses and those ibuprofen tablets didn't pull any weight without the use of some Rose Art Spirograph facsimile, come on.  How commanding do you think he could've been coming down from that TCBY with mint pistachio on his cock cave of a mouth, nothing but shit smells on his jacket and a quivering face, plea-heckling to those poor dick-breathers that he was gonna hafta tell them something he kinda sorta remembered.  Not very at all much.  Asshole.

And OH MY GOD speaking of corn specials, whatever became of the stenographer?  I thought people had that fucking job!  I was looking in Craig's Bag, and I didn't see any notes about want adds or want bads.  I couldn't find any buyemsellems about people who would just write what you said, following your mouth with their pens like they would probably follow Jesus's bloodied guitar case to an El Camino rally.  Important.  I was on this so-called "Craig Mack" and all I saw were sluttish whispers about meeting people on secret planes of existence, where the half trolls and whole grubbies of any given hemisphere could secretly secrete about each other from the comfort of whatever.

See the included example:

To a Lonesome Pastry in the west side east Starblush Cafe:

I think it was Thursday because my rash was gone, whatever.  I saw you there, sipping your drinks, eating your crumbs off the finest China.  I'm Japanese, so I can relate. I was there then, I know you felt me.  My mouth was wet from watching you move yours.  Call me sometime, I want kids and I know how to use my dick!!!

Hauntingly yours,

Johnny Gunnuhrape

And furthermore, when people use this service, they expect reality to become great.  Shit doesn't work like that people.  If you use cool things on the internet but your at-home life is full of faggotry, you are still an asshole.  Blogs are like that too.  Blogs are for Morks who can't even think of their own line of denim tooth drips.  So I'm supposed to read all of your finger vomit and only visualize what you want me to think about?  Even if I can tell by your cyber codes that you are just a dirty spatula waiting to flip me over and make my booty go?  No.

I'm so mad I can't even write.

BRUH

yea i guess i'll blog again.

or maybe eat a hog with some loz injes.

hope i find a pig in the sausage den.

if you were in tune, you'd have future found out about the future of your town.

whatever measle ridden fuck town you live in.

a town where they play the music from ocarina of time constantly.

now open your eyes, you are the leader of the town.

whats your first order of breakfast, or bussiness?

or execute somebody.

its like jail, execute someone first, or they hire gov't rapers to i guess love you.

ancient love.

pit two horses against each other, you get country chess.

pit two beers against each other, everybody wins.

...breasts and chins, whichever wins can peel the best of brims.

banana hat gilderoy. act like a fat dick and fill the boy.

but please don't.

secondary colors are hated for a reason. duh.

only one is right...green. Ten people might like green to every ten people who are somewhat indifferent.

Bruh, i uff with the green.

one could label me a GREENINVESTOR.

turbulence with sanford suns.

wiggle wigs on top of morphing giants and smelly terrible's. i couldn't find a sears hardware. thats bullshit but i am still flippin. donald trumpin and lady lumpin, sideways and counter clockwise. smack ties and ginger bread mayonnaise. quag stacks and deli cuffs, the reason for not enough jumping jacks. mr. simone came too in the eve, christmas and a new dope. scroll dog and measuring cups.
mail man no more.

Baby I just Landed.

"Man Remeber zach galifinakis? he Drank beerrrs choo!" sang Dick, His j.j. longbow hangin out the window of his G4, highly illegal. Its the Rich-boy again, Young and Blessed Richard Dastardly Just Landed in this Bastard.

"That flight tasted like BEER the hole way. Was I supposed to be drunk?" to which his clutchy JUXON ManyLove WON'T replied "FUUCK Bu-Dick Dasterdgay! I was flirting with my hand the whole way why didn't you Color me Drunk?"

"O Shit I was more focused on moon boots, remebre boon moots? they were terrible and caused kids to have Krones D'sease!"

Yes it's Me, Juxon ML Won't, basically infant sitting richards cuss-fucking ass. Though I do declare, G4's sure do make a Guy smoochy. I could feel everything with my lips and the hairs at my lips, and also my breath-bots.

So anyway, We just tiptoed our way into Detroit, Dick said something about "Marming up to some drake" while "cutting detroits hemroids with his fist." And it's Cold. I grab my shawl while Dichard snuggles into some goose down and finally, we leave the cockpit.

"Hey dast, lets not you fly drunk anymore, we litterally just flew from toledo to detroit and stopped one and a half times for gas. NOT to mention we flew right into ZULE hiding in that fridge."

Dastprobe replies "O stick it to a hammonk, i'm Farts at driving Planes! But Fuck you we down now touchen gods green, bro! lets go tank you up on some bad decisions!!!!"

I was privy to this info like hard to a dick. We bolstered up our courage and Gclass glided to "Drink and Die," a local fun dispensary. At first glance it looked like DZ-Discovery zone, but after my eyes got used to the lighting it looked like an empty fish tank with ikea furniture and toxic chrome paint....paradise.

THEN,...we got to sippin. Richy kept screaming for more rounds of bourban cherries and mini liquoer cakes. Needless to say, lil-dick-big-dick made me go in. I was mad goin in, tellin some bar stander "Hey shady, tuck some of that salad right where it will make you touch my DIIIIUUUUCK!!!!" I knew we stay with some hurt to kill with so i was lacin all my convo with shit. "Richard, you made me come to detroit to sleep next to me didnt you. AAH take a nummer crack FUCK. I goh'my dick WAAAY outta the League"

Then RDAST told me the best thing a bar stool could ever tell me, he wuh like "dont you fucking touch me prick, i MAADE you com here, wi' ME!......I bet that is why you are DRUNK! IM drivin' us back to the showers, practice is over."

And practice was over. We love Practice. Thats probably why the rest of the morning felt like any kinda stream you can think of, but with stuff in it better than water, and not piss, or kum.

And so, by 1:00 P.M. the DICK and the JUX had practiced helllla, waas drunk, hella talkin about what kinda bird we would be, and also with limitless hands-on-money.

Today was a good day.

Carlos

"Let me get this straight, you want me to punch you in the face?"

Carlos stood staring at Marcy, wondering if she was being honest or just playing more of her boring mind games. He sent a few curiously strong hate glares her way, but she didn't budge.

"Yes.  Hit me as hard as you can.  Hit me with your fist."

"Allright, I mean, you are my sister. Family first."

Just as he began to wind back his dangerously delicious carmel apple punch fist he realized the trap she had cleverly laid. In walked Tall Paul with a menacing gull on his shoulders and a large rifle. It was covered in death candy, all black and cold-stoned. His face looked like Carlos's bowls, tight and full of shit, but at the same time very dangerous.

"Paul, I - I - I don't understand...  Marcy?"

"Marcy's dead, you son of a bitch." TP exclaimed, shooting Marcy in the face with a masterfully sweeping vintage rifle sling. "She's dead because of you."

All of a sudden everything did some switch-up shit and no one was where they were before. Marcy was dancing on some ceiling somewhere, Tall Paul was now Short Lucy. She was giving out taffy to homeless dogs, and those dogs were satisfied. Carlos immediately knew he was dreaming, so he decided to wake up.

Just then Carlos woke the fuck up real quick, covered in sweat and various salts. He reached for the remote on the nightstand, fumbling around like a prairie dog on meth, and eventually found it. He thumbed around for the buttons, but something felt different. Suddenly changing the channels had become more fleshy.

"Oh my fucking God!" Carlos shrieked as he caught a glance of his "remote," which was actually a human penis. He looked at it for several moist moments of glorious horror, then, turning it over, he found a note:

Dear Carlos,

Confused? You should be, because you are an idiot. You don't even know anything about the world. You claim to be some kind of intellectual bullshit dude with a brain of gold, but you're as stupid as a new born child. Comprehensively speaking, you're about as far along as the shit I'm taking as I write you this note.  

Don't you see what you've become? Lazy, plain, thick-headed and fucking fuck-brained.  You deserve this gift. You deserve it more than Hitler, or Muesli, or whoever else killed people. Fuck you.

You are trapped here with me, buddy. You will never wake up. Not really. Welcome to your wildest dreams, for fucking ever.

Regards,

Martin "Tall Paul" Bungerton

              
          PS:  If you talk to Quentin, tell him you have his penis.

Dallas.

There I was, riding alone in a purple Ground Wheeler, driving towards New Jersey with a bucket of nuggets in my lap and a liter of health juice in my hand.  It was quiet, like dead quiet.  The kind of eerie silence that makes being a man seem impossible.  Anyway, some bull-shit weather was making the road all slippery with lube.

I ate some nuggets to calm my nerves, but those nerves of mine were not cool.  They were screaming dick-headed remarks and making my tummy cry.  The weather kept kicking my car and my car kept sliding along, making gravy stains on the black road.  I totally fell asleep, and my car did too.  

When we woke up some police idiots were rubbing us down with ugly constitutionals.  My car took off into the woods, and I was left alone with several large donut boxes, each one with a mustache, some of hair, and some milk.  I said things to them with an intentful whisper.  They didn't seem to care and they did seem to start mercilessly beating me with their hurt sticks.  My head took some hard hits from the main donut, so I went to block some stuff but I sucked at not fighting like an asshole.  

Let me tell you from experience, the only way to make a cop beat you even harder is to shamelessly cry.  I mean, these guys hated my tears.  I think at one point they were all trying to punch my tears themselves.  

So I'm hangin' out with these dudes for what seems like an hour and all of a sudden one of them puts his hand up in the air and says "all right guy, you've got some spunk."  I mistakenly thought he called me a hunk, and I got ready for a kiss.  He did not like this, and neither did his buddies.  They started in with many death blows, but by that time I had hit my point of no more punchies, so I took a little nap.  I woke up in Dallas a week later.  

Do you have any idea where that even is?  I sure don't.