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.

manY mooN muraudeR

My father was the Tackiest of the ghetto gunslingers. Many hoodies from neighboring depressing-brick-boxes felt fearsoiled by his glint of fools gold and smell of old pennies. By the moon, the "glint" turned to a dull ugly, and the smell transmorged into thoughts of Raven. Simon. This tickled my father, for he fancied himself an animorph ever since like 5th grade. And so, he slang guns at twilight. Premiers. Syke, reader, i mean nighttime. ;-D

I have taken his place now. Ghetto's must die, and I have been forced through threat of tickling to kill them. To help my killtactics, i would blast "eminem" into the hoodies sad-places. Something about blonde hair and unbleached titanium skin makes hoodies get disobedient and detroit-y, aka grosssss and i guess sadder. My love of blasting Marshall has made some joke like "yea M&M like many-moon-murauder." and i'd be like "o you got jokes" then I'd most likely kill them. I mean that is my job idiot. Anyways, my mission tonight, write this journal, touch my gun like it was my dick, find and extinguish forced disobedience, and rejoice in the feces of the killings.

ACT 1:

Ok now i'm on top of the popeyes, i've got stink bombs, little snappers, pop rocks w/ jar of saliva to activate, and a monster. "Time to WORK BABY!!!!" im yelling as i get stuck in the airconditioning vent. I am dropping stinkies, snappers, and salivated poppy's, and they are all going off on me cuz i'm still stuck in the vent. "shit". I am way to wasted tonight to kill, i didn't even bring my Slim Shady LP.

ACT 2:

"OK, whatever i say, ya'll gotta do." says I, and I take out my swordblade. I am in a Wal-Mart, classic. So now everybody is looking at me all "Stan"ed up from blasters, and I'm pretty much a funky ass bastard about to go all noble on these bitch hoodies. Then boom, I fart, and I pilage the shit outta all their lives or souls. Flashes of my Bladewich reflect the dumb ketchup blood that hoods drop from maybe veins. "So tonight worked out right dad?" I mumble, my face in my dads ashes, that i keep in a ziplock with me. Then i sniff, FSSFFSFSFSSNNNFNNSFSNNHGHHGH! (sniff noise) and I feel free. And dead.

I forgot i switched the ashes out for fungus shavings and spider legs.

Daniel and the crunch-coated tummy friends!

Daniel's eyes opened and he immediately knew what to do.  He grabbed his flashy hand boat and dialed up his friend Dave.  The smoke signals were meaningful this morning, and he was super into it.  His blanket was like a wigwam, nestled and soft-wrapped around his head, with full on babushka looks.  He had oodles of noise romps going through his ear doors into his receptor brain.

He was like, "whoa."  Then he started knowing what sounds were, and it was sooo velvety.

Daniel could hear the sound of lilac butter sizzling in the kitchen.  He could hear his mother's apron, it's long polyester scrape-laces dragging on the copper-coated fuzzberry floor.  He heard his father's belt sliding into it's home for the day, so close to his junkyard of a front part.  He heard birds outside singing songs about cars - and he heard cars, hating birds and dancing on the blacktop like they were all drunk n' shit.

He heard people and he heard animals and he heard train-planes, and he heard so many other things that were never really there before.  He was very pleased.

His ears had become way better at paying attention to the real world, and almost over night.  Daniel listened on in full slack-jaw, partially because he had just spoken with his friend Dave, and mostly because thats what his face was doing.  He usually let that dude do whatever he wanted.  It was easier.

So Daniel started getting out of bed at about a turtle's pace.  The sound of his body blanket was deafening, scraping along his softbed - which also sounded all loud-assed.  His feet hit the floor like thunderbolt throat coughs, all gutturally strong and as loud as the rest of the things he was doing.

He sighed, confused.  Even the mere sound of his sigh was like bash poison to his ears.  They seemed to be trying to pucker inward.  But ears can't even do that.  So, whatever.

Just then this freakin' big ole' wizard came rushing into his bedroom, breaking the spell instantly. 

"Consider yourself lucky I saved you.  I know how your ears were gettin' shitty there for a minute, and you were probably scared like some little dick baby."

"Wha-what?  What is going on?  What happened?  Why was everything so loud?!"  Daniel shouted these things because his ears had not caught up with his brain.  It a thing, like science.  It's proven or something.  Anyway, he was all like, "who the hell are you?!"

"I'm the Wizard.  Charmed to meet you."  He cooed.  Daniel immediately thought he was some kind of mentally challenged teenager or at least a real big douche.

He bowed, removing his hat.  Daniel was especially mad at this.  He started blabbing about spells and charms, occasionally stirring an elixir into the mix, apparently for the hell of it.  He smelled like Cherry 7Up and taco shoes.  It was super weird.

"I come to you tonight with a gift."  The Wizard smoothly proclaimed.  Now he sounded cool as shit, because Daniel loved gifts.  He held out his hands and waited for something awesome.  Candy, a computer, a new dad, or at least some rap shoes.  He was giddy like a fish covenant.

"I present to you, Jacob and Ronnie."  The star master held out his hand, revealing two tiny people standing on it.  They were about 3 inches high and made of chicken.  They were golden fried and dripping with mouth-tempting butter oil.

"Human nuggets?"  asked Daniel.  "That's your gift?  Well, I can't turn down a nugget I suppose."  He immediately grab-swiped them all up in his clutches and popped them into his mouth.  After about ten seconds of lick smacks and stomp-bites he was done.  He burped into the wind, full of goose-like butter crunch and very, very satisfied.

"What?!  What the FUCK!?  What did you do?  You - you ate my, OH MY GOD!!!  YOU ATE MY FUCKING PARENTS!!!"  The Wizard screamed so loud, it brought back all the pains of the wake-up disease he had earlier.  "WHAT THE FUCK YOU FUCKING ASSDICK!?  OH MY GOD!!!!  OH MY GOD!!!"

Daniel just stood there, turning pale and sweating profusely.  He let out a quiet but stinky fart, hoping the Wizard wouldn't hear.

richard hates you.

"Blaggards!!!"

Richard must be displeased, for curses are forbidden in the yacht club. So is making dumps, which richard is currently persuing. Then, after many "well whatever"s and "shit in your own stockings"s, He left. The King of andrew dice clay stylings has left the boating arena. Dick just wanted some love, or some loving, maybe even a taste of future love. But no. Lonely Dick Dastardly exited the building with a slow drone of fart in d minor. The sad fart note. His sphynctoral symphony to the megabucks minions.

Is Dick to big? and octagonal? Na, people love big long octagons like they love summer in the desert. But What could be the problem? "Fuck it" thought dick, out loud, to some kid in the park. The kid cryed, openly. "What do i care? Im all gleeked in fire rubles and cinamon saphires. and my ascot is feathery and light! This pleases me."

With his spirits a little more drunked, Richdast dissaparated out of the park towards his go machine. "drunk going is the way to go, duh" rich told the officer at hand, whose gun was drawn, screaming rules and reg's. "Gaaaaaaay" thought dick, holding his own banger and using it without being a rookie weiner.

Welp! time for our hero to hide out again. Departure to Dastard Manor was quite pertenent. Murder, one of the funner sports, is apparently lockupable. And fuck lockups, That too is for rookies. Now Dick has a chance to be alone. He can enjoy bathing in swan water, and cooing to the birds he hated, so as to distract them from puking onto their fowls faces. "This is the life" was richards motto for the moment, and "this is the life" it was indeed. Richard Funbutter Dastardly IV was rich. So much so, it was spelled "Wrych". Boatski's and Fast-lane druggin were required, and doing what you want meant that you were responsible and godly.

And everyone HATED him. But Richard had two words for them: "STAB" and "mirthless laughter". This muhfucka rich duh stupid muhfuckas! he gon do wha he wont!

"Man fuck rules and danger, im going back to playground park!" God this was a bad idea, but to richard, those were the only ones. He escorted himself sexily to his whipgarbler and sauntered in. And with a poke of the reset button he was mach 4.5 outta there, headed straight towards some unsuspecting little one's. "These one's are littler than before! man i bet they roast up real nice" Dick said to one of the parents, who had passed out from the stench of his dick. Babies were Dick's specialty! on the grill. And what a feast he was about to have!

So! he loaded up his yellow G 55 AMG with like, about 9 lil biscuits, aka infants, and enjoyed their last cries as he delivered them to his fridge. Then, @ approx. 4 a.m. on the 12th of february, Richard passed away, stomach full of infa-meat and sloppy Extasy, and a grin on his face.

hand puppets and rolodex cream.

july 21st, 1981

Dear Diary,

I am disappointment!! but your my only friend. We've had great times, unlike the time in paraguay, the mashed potatoes are real, and not laced with your unforgiving jonsey breath and your drugged up compassion. but this time you have crossed the line, you and your stink fingies of death and dishonor, calculating the equation for evolution. your no longer mantastic with your hotmale accounts and your pasta master. i went to the bathroom today, for 6 hours, and no one could translate partial nudity, your 8 tracks are crass (and i don't have coupon for that), your jolly feeding jack rabbit sticks taste motor shanks. jeez, hamburgers cant help me anymore. someone did tell me i was a ballicker. i just wanted you to know that i am no longer afraid of undergarments and juice pops. i know how to do my own calisthenics. the proper way. i wrote a side show jingle called "maybe, maybe not" and i don't have anymore personable donut holes!!

fuck you and fuck your friend jocund (i want receipts)!! ill talk to you tomorrow.

sincerely not,

john jacob belvadier

p.s. thanks for the numb dumps on my childhood memories (that was real, fuckin, cute).   

Salamander McDivet

Salamander McDivet was always doing bad things.  He was always selling old ladies to young misters, without tax, and with zero appreciation for the humor involved.  His house was full of the worldliest of possessions, on the free, stealstyle.  He caught neighborhood bluebirds in terrible traps made from dental floss and carrot spoils, and he never let them go.

Once a young child falling from a tree was reported to have called out to Salamander, "Help me, I'm falling!"  Cool Salamander sat in the cut, mugging mean and denying rescue to the ailing tiny person.  As the child's undoubtedly soft and pudding-like forehead slammed into the harshly paved gravity plate, Salamander released a low " Fuck yes. " with full disregard for anything precious.

I should tell you that Salamander McDivet was a Navy man.  He wasn't actually blue, but at first glance you'd swear he was some sort of cobalt, mellowing out in the manor of a merman, merged with mallow and malice.  "All of the m's," I said to myself as I wrote that last line.

So yeah, McDivet was some sort of warsmith or weapons marshall.  He used to design things that totally ruined the design of other things.  Kablooms were always coming out of his brain, and later on they would come out of his trousers in the slowest of puffs.  Lets call them Reese Puffs.  Ew.  Anyway, no one in their right mind would ever volunteer to talk to or even be in the same space as him.  He got lonely, he ate a lot of meat pies.

The other day I saw him buying some stone capers and fish wallets in the market on Scrumm Street.  That place is usually so gross that I don't spend my dollars there, but I was out of Perry winkles so I hesitantly and nervously trotted into that annoying swamp of a carnival.  It was wet, like stink wet.  You could have swam in the sea that was the customers.  They were all covered in hanky drips and plaid shimmies, and you could see tears waiting to dance free from their television eyes and Facebook noses.

I wanted to run.  My head was 'bout to get sprung.

As soon as we made eye contacts, McDivet slammed his eyes all up on my groin, licking his chops and almost everything else he could lick at the time.  I thought to myself, "Why the fuck does McDivvles love his tongue so much?  I sure as shit don't."

He looked at me hard, through the sea of sad bodies and bent souls.  His lustgaze was like a fever lazer, crushing my bits with the fractions and follies of an eighth grade pervert.  I should've ran.  I should've dove into an alley or whatever.

"Hey, what're you thinking about?"  he asked me, sliding his vest off.  He was wearing this vest of cucumbers, ugh.  "Want some gum?"

"He he, no th-thanks,"  I stammered, spilling my pee everywhere.  I was almost certain that I was about to get draped, or whatever you call it.  You know, when some creepy old pervert takes control of your body and covers it in drapes.  Sick world we live in.

"You sure?  It's passionberry."  He looked like the worst thing ever.  "Boys love passion, and they are pretty into berries, too.  At least that's what my friend Jerry tells me.  Have you met my friend Jerry?  He's really soft.  You'd love him!"  He reached into his pocket with a grin on his face, his hand fumbling around like new lovers in a sand box.  Sweat poured from his ducts, sealing the deal on creep central.

This was it.  Drape for sure.

Salamander pulled out a pack of gum labeled, "Not Fake Gum."  He closed his eyes for a split second and I ran.  I ran so fast and hard.  He eventually opened his eyes and shouted something, but I was too far to hear.

As soon as I got home a man was waiting there with my mom.  I told them both my story and the man asked me many questions of wonders and quandaries, and I told him all I knew.  Most of the quarbers were about Salamander.  Apparently he and my mom were convinced he wasn't real.

"Son, you suffer from what we call a fucked up brain," he told me.  My mom started crying and ran into the kitchen room.  I turned to the man and asked, "Who are you?"

In an excellently soft voice he cooed, "My name is Jerry."

I want dave foreva mane-eva mane.

Fountains of grease.

Fountains of youth.

found taints in booths.

fontina rapes in vancouver.

ME and DAVE. ahh what a love we have.

such love makes me do marvolous things, like spell marvoilous rong.

When i meet dave, we shake. This starts a process i like to call "doughy".

One day the blue's took dave away from me, told me i was "a fucking dumbass"

and that i need to "get the fuck off my lawn, i'm calling the blues on you!"

Then the real blue's came, but they had shine's on their blue's. It was trippy.

I woke up in the morning with dave inbetween my pants and underpants. i was like "wuh"t?

so i scrape him of my dirties and gave him a chance to redeem himself, with art fire.

WE danced soo whatever hard on that day when i woke up. But dave seemed.............different.

he was soaked in "flakes of sad" and smelled sours like the day is long. But fuck you for

judging dave, i didnt, and then we had fucking awesome times all over some rust.

I think dave took me to like, rusty metal over water, surely a flyin rust cloth over caspain sea's.

Anyways, Davestopherson kept licking my ear over the caspains. Like over and over you have no idea. i mean he licked with the force of roofie and the tenderness of chicken. He was encased

in his normal glass casing, and i turned to him, begging for tears to leak out of me, i guess in the butt. daves face was crazy, and it wasnt my favorite at the time.......

$$$$$$$$$$$ i dropped that many ess lines on david that day. "This is the fucking longest day i've been in, whats that happeneding at the light spot??"

And we had arrived. Dave took me to his home! there was dirtsoils alllll over the ground, and that was about it. and REAlly bright lights. Swear, my fuckingface was burned.

"Dave what the fuck>? my face is getting ow-ed the shit out of, with interest. !"

I woke up in the hospital, i couldnt see. there were bandages all over my face, then some doctor officially gave me his card, with brails. and I new how to brailrape. the bumps rubbed my fingers of a tale, a tale of me lighting unknown objects that were doused in piss, kerosene, rust, and fresh honey. I was like "I fucking hate honey!!!" and my lips chapped, freagin super chapped. then the doctor was like "you dunce cap wearin motherfucker you tryed to smoke a pile of dead leaves in my daughters front lawn and now your blind. have fun dummy. your gonna get FUCKEd by inability."

Me and dave still talk, i'll never stop stalking.......DAVE

The Last Thirty Hours

Wake up early as shit, perform some ritual brushes

Up in the shower an hour, on some habitual touches

Pack up my time piece and dime piece, more like my duke and my duchess.

You can't imagine the ruckus wrapped round 'em tight with my clutches.

But I've had enough of the morning so I'm jumpin' onto lunch,

Here's a hunch: in between I sipped some mean purple punch.

I black out then act out of control at a brunch.

I missed the last thirty hours, in the shower like a dunce.

funkin gonuts and triple dog dares!!

gunther landstar reinvented salami friz  before morse code went out of style, 
he had a message:


who stole the sam wise gum job wafers and those delightful lemony fresh felon melons.
i poop spit on you and your renaissance presents of panti dirt decadence. 
several pounds of concrete. 
crawford shermans house.
diabolics; for the future.
man-shackle from ass to mouth, half cotton, half uncle fester.
scribble nibbles under 20,
saddle bags and half a cack stick till 12 jiggles.
traces of a dog tooth gypsy escape camps. inferred push-pops dresses and mangled jody's.
stabdabar!! 
bologna finger fights and bonanza fire cackle wipes (the burgundy ones).
smith and more smith but no more smith.
(actually to much smith)
cyclone crotch. Real? Really Rotten crotch. hurricane season
tampered poop spit!! or was it spit poop water guns? SHIT!!

Summer is Over

Summer is over, I found out today.
What a bummer, outside it is rainy and gray.
I'm sitting inside, and that's where I'll stay,
Watching half of Transformers by Michael Bay.

It's rainy and gray, much to my dismay.
Hurricane Chris would say, "Ay Bay Bay."
If it were the 90's I'd day, "That's gay."
The Backstreet Boys would want it that way.

Men in Black II next on USA.
Tommy Lee Jones plays a mean Agent K.
I'm sitting inside 'cause it's rainy and gray.
There won't be good weather 'til early next May.

Based on Real Events

On Sunday, Huss and Uppen were playing a lavishly sweat-soaked beer-handed game of kick, when Uppen landed a dumbass highball in the neighbor's tree liner.  He happily and chunk-heartedly accepted the imminent duty of hopping a fence in order to retrieve that damn red ball.  What he didn't plan on, however, was cutting the meatiest beef loin on his thumb and mitt connection.  He let out a girlish, "Oh shit!" before landing back on the right side of the world, his hand steer-crashing directly into a pile of dog wasters.  There was shit in his cut.

On Monday, Uppen realized he had some bruise rations on his arms, and payed no attention to them.  They had probably been knocked into him, carving style, by some random object or human of rudeness.  "Or else," he thought, "I'm just a dunce."  In actuality, he had given himself the bruises with his mind, as his was a powerful mind, capable of denting and smooshing the flimsiest of chest branches: the human arm.

On Tuesday while peddling his bike he was shit on by a rather small bird with an ironically large stomach, capable of holding worlds of tiny seeded purple clumps.  "Shit in a cut, and shit on a bruise," he thought to himself, laughing out loud and screaming the letters L, O, and L!

When he got home he ate a bowl of grains and told the world his story.

Taste youself, Dummy

Though he was so warm, Bantom never wore coats. Like, his mom would fall into a cloud of jackets for him but he would just sit, feet in the sand, hand on his throat, and Sigh. This is how its always been with Bantom. People surrounding his aura liked him in such unimpressive amounts that they persued his lust like two-tone cars persue trashy.

His nickname was "ewgross" and he used to smoke brasserettes. Him had to stop after a while cause his dad found out why all of his brass polish was missing. Bantom had two pairs of shorts: one he made out of leftovers n stuff, and the other were pleated as all get out.

I mean this kid had it aaalllll. His toys acted totes cuter for him, moist towelettes would turn into edible for him, his old neighbor killed himself in front of him, his teachers slobbered on him and wanted to lay twixt him. Yet again, he just sat at his desk, chewing steak fat, carving swears into his nails, and swilled out a righteously winded SIGH.

One time he said "Fuck" and everyone said it then. They was jockin.

Trail mix craver pack.

Orlando Florida is having a sale on its rape and heat. Gossip percent off everything.

Rain

1.  Mom was right

As he began to feel the arrogantly contrived wet kisses that God threw so brawnily upon his forehead and four arms, Marcus realized that his mother, as usual, was right.  He should've brought an umbrella.

Earlier it hadn't looked like rain, but more like an intricately assembled meat sandwich and pudding pop hybrid:  warm, sunny, and very filling.  He trudged on, having already walked too far from home to retrieve the tinkle swishbuckling thunder bubble he so longed for.  It's absence was driving him madder than ever, each second knocking him in the dick with a horses' energy.

The raindrops fell into his skin like sponge-molesting drip witches, feeding him so much damp bullshit and lackluster calamity splooshes.  His carnival of a thought process had turned into a beaver's den of sadness, with brain smells of poop and pee.  Everything sucked.

He thought to himself about some serious things: problems at school, his mother's consistently bland and overbearing macaroni dishes, his peer's response to his self-described "dickass face and shitass body", the alarmingly increasing rate of booze-guzzling teenage otters found breaking into the nearby Waterbody Park and Swallow, lambs, doodles he did when he was little, poops he made when he was too little to understand what pooping was, and many other little kid rapers of merriment.

"At least mom will have fashioned several warm and bubbling chocolate elixers for my arrival,"  he said to himself in perfect nerdspeak.

˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •   ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •

2.  Bedtime

"Delicious!" Marcus cooed, lazing about on what had previously been a child's blanket.  "Mom, could you bring me some more?  Probably right now would be fine, unless you have a time machine!  It's so good, I want to rip my legs off!!!"

"Quit exaggerating honey.  It's annoying and it's very rude."

Marcus's stomach growled, screaming butt gallons about it's constant craving for more of that tasty-as-fuck mouth drink.  He could still hear the rain hitting the side of the house, and the thunder and lighting were playing booty-jigglers on the moonroof.  His dreams were going to be real dumb tonight.  All over the place.

"Honey, you wanna get ready for bed?"  his mom splashed into his face.  His dribbled down excitement was finally turning into dream particles, weighing down his eyelids with castle-like strength.  Moms always know when kids are sleepy.  They also always know when their dates wanna play couch secrets.

Marcus fell into bed loudly, slamming his face into the pillow with most of his force.  His dreams were already seeping in.  He couldn't keep his eyes open nor his pillow clear of tongue waterfalls.

Drool.  I'm talking about drool.

Tongue waterfalls means drool.


˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •   ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •

3.  Marcus's dream

Anyways, his mother was in the living room with Thompson, the local dog watcher.  His shirt was exploring other options, and decided to leap to the floor.  There was a bottle of Steve's Crazy Pumpkin Throttle on the table, and a sausage roll on the stove.  It was about to get real.

Meanwhile, deep in the dusty folds of his third floor attic bedroom, Marcus was all up in his race car bed having nightmares.

Here's one of his dreams.  I guess it's in italics so you feel like it's a dream or something.

He was in Arkansas in a bar called Jay-jay Marcy's.  A Gary Larson calendar told him that it was Wednesday, but a Calvin and Hobbes comic strip swore that it was Sunday.  He didn't know what to believe.  It was raining everywhere for like thirty minutes, then it stopped abruptly.

Outside a woman screamed.  Marcus grew scared and began to vomit whole tacos.  They were delicious.

The door to his bedroom blew open, letting in the rain and wind in a dustswirl of newborn hate wrath.  The rain seemed to pool together and form a figure.  It stood before him huff-puffing and dripping with intensities.  

Modest Mouse was playing.

Next thing he knew, the rain was dressed up like an ogre, beating the shit out of him with a bunch of hand painted dolls from Bangladesh.  There were desserts everywhere, but nothing to shovel them with.  He could see cakes but not taste them.  He knew the puddings were there, but they denied him all of the jollies.  

The rain was destroying him slowly, while a nearby ice cream sundae laid waiting in full desire of his mouth.  

All of this was way too much for Marcus to understand.

˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •   ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  •  ˚  • 

4.  Breakfast

Marcus woke up covered in sweat.  At first he thought it was rain man's soft hands saying he was sorry, but no.  His legs wrestled with the blankets, proving to their mortal enemy that they were stronger and better than he could ever be.  The blanket shamefully slinked into the corner of the race car.

His eyes were half open when his mother came into his room with a man Marcus had never seen before.

"Marcus, this is Thompson.  We met yesterday at the store.  He's taking me to breakfast at his mother's house.  We'll be back later this evening, honey.  There's some Blueberry Pastry Tarts on the table."

"Hey kid."  Randy said as Marcus's mother dragged him excitedly out the door.

Marcus opened the curtains and watched as they drove away.  He picked up the Pastry Tarts and carried them to the couch and turned on the TV.  

He had just missed Spongebob.

mana shortage: what have we done

"Treeeees!!" rickrolled the sadist and sexy she-jaguar.

Trees. Forests. Green alive areas. Compost butt plugging seasonal fucks. She-jag was not taking their presence as a present. She moreso found smackfaced reasons to sob hurtywurds at their slightly thirst-quenched skin. And she was not alone on her hate date. Most of BedRock were salivating over her caws. Trumpeting major and E-minor blASSts straight from the rough streets of Gullet and Sphincter borough, the Man-ephants and tele-a-sauruses were straight raping. Tying red (bone) rope from tree to pompousness, they tugged. Such tugging. One could newname their jobs as TUG Jobs.

These fuckers gave 900,000 of the meanest, classiest, and moderately cute tuggy's I've ever had the hispanic sauciness to witness.

And when the woods, forests, trees, leaves (of the wipey kind and the gambit-throwy kind), and deeeeep penetrating (wink?) roots finally devasculated their boner-holds to their loving and drunken mother earth, well, things got....wierd.

The mountains thought they could run a couple mucks, so they whisper to the swamps "ayyyyyy mans, sup with a little of this? and perhaps a touch of HUFFING GASOLINE AND ETHER?" They obviously had trouble keeping their mouthies muffled once they ingested a little of this, hense tall lined abrazor fonts.

What with the Mounts gettin thizzy and huffy, the flying diamonds and nerds of prey saw an opportunity to go high and get high. The nerds already had their scotch tape out and the diamentes turned spanish. However when they reached the point of crashing the drugparty, the enormous sedimentary coneheads got way brick. Spittling things like "get the futts out, gutt sucking pewterbottom cauldron!!!!!" and "suckle twixt my downlips and recieve my velvety vengence!!!!"

Meanwhile, in the land of everybody-and-mana else, Squints left the sanlauh't and took form as kay (jewelers) os! The Kaos was comprable to FOURloko with deadskin on the mouth. The merfolk, rubbed up by all the lava that the mountains were drunkenly excrimating, started violenty hearing ghosts.. The ghosts had left the swamps and old peoples bedsides to be heard (which is how they get their plasma off).. A flock of Giant quails squirted into being and started grazing where once was drunken earth's party manimals, and no one could fucking hunt them.. Gaspar LaMarc grew pubic staches instead of his usual crop of race Korn. Merchants turned into urchines and vice versa, so humans lined the streets looking like zombies and fluttering their arms to collect mouth mites while the reefs were filled with sin, drugs, religion, dumb opinions, and boring TV shows!

She-jag was delighted. She reveled in her maestropeice. Claps and applause bombarded her supercocky and obviously dust addled brain. Many a thanks were given by the 76ers, lebong james, and the ghost of nanny mcphee. . . . . . . "EUUUELrLRLPHFF" and up came allllllll the poppies, boomys, acid pops, and nitrous breathies.

And laura sat on her couch in the living room, panting, covered in evidence. Then Jaleel-oshit-imean- Erkel came in and said "FINALLY, ITS FUCK TIME BITCH!!!!!"

no wifin in the KLUB!!!!!

Gusto- "Here at Wifey inc., we gross each other out with haste and lifelink. The damage that wives do to us is nothing in cahoots with the mortally wasted blood we have in our Fartery's."

jayms- "why are you talking like that, sir. I mean i know i'm just an undercase fuck, but like, i still get the tip in. i'm just not following your Big Dick lingo."

SLAP!!!!

Gusto- "Jesus Chritics, you're real fired. So back to the meeting, folks. Sorry about that ignorant bledsoe. The Klub is our main emulsiphyer. It's hoey chrysanthimums make double the ass poundage that we could ever provide with our sticky buns. Apparently many Gents prefer to have slippery slots meander twixt their special bars than to have our rubbery corncob creases gesticulate with extreme force onto the special bars."

Operator- "um sir, your just spewing jibberish at me and frankly I'm so offended that I two-wayed the police whales ago. I've been trying to put you through to someone of your special desires but you just keep on abusing animals rectally and making me listen...(sob)..."

Gusto made his way, whorishly, to the KLUB. KluB was the only place for wine, stick-comparing, and of course, grinding. There was only one rule at KLUb, """"NO WIFIN IN THE KLuB""". Dick havers who denied the rule have seen such days as only krusty man mayo has seen. and smelled. Gusto approaches a slippery slot.

Gusto- "swing those tabernackles this way dear slotty, i need to recieve some communion (super heavy wink)."

Charlesette- "my grindage is soooooo messy, and allways gros-i mean great. In mass and volume."

Gusto- "WELL now, this super supple and leathery beat should make apples of this sichiation!"

And the grinding proceeded. Charlesette made no effort to accomidate 'Sto's semi-enlarged viola. Strings were busted, wood splintered, and I-the narrator- will not concede to horrify you with his tuner.....

Months later, Gusto JUMPed out of his car seat and pressed his face against the tinyvan window. What went down in kLUB? He had no recollection of how his chest lines dripped down to his main hump area. "Someone (charlesette) must've pressed the nib in too hard." Sooooooooooo much dripping.

And he climbed with all of his babybody might to the front seat, where he saw.....Charlesette, hand down her pants, drool piercing her ears, and many wedding rings and gadgets around her sausages.

As she KAKled sexually into 'Ust's dark stare, our oldest commrade learned a cheap and debatable lesson.

NO WIFIN IN THE KLUB

Jamal and the Whisper Fountain

"You want fries with that?"

Jamal turned to the man seated next to him, his hands in his lap, calmly stroking a box of Topps 88's.  His sad mountainous face was dusted in a light Cheeto glaze and he smelled of showerless days and sleepless Seattles.  The bus was double plus crowded, and the usual amount of crazies were dangling from the up-top hand rails like city-born jellies, waiting to crystalize in transit to the mall or the cell phone store.

"No thanks, I'm straight,"  Jamal responded politely.  It obviously hadn't occurred to the gentleman offering potato shards, but he was in fact on a bus and probably incapable of making or selling fry daddies or any of the other things he had offered to the people on the bus.

"Well, this is my stop," Jamal said, standing up to leave.

"You goin' to Whisper Fountain?" asked the Cheeto muncher, with a bit of Lance Bass in his throat.

Jamal debated answering him, but decided that his words would be meaningless and therefore should be saved for more deserving and more real human examples.  He quietly left, while the strange and stinky bus orphan continued to rattle off word mixers and verb particulates about the profound and apparently inescapable Whisper Mountain.

After stepping off the bus and into a small puddle of what might have been a street bird, Jamal decided he needed a new pair of foot leathers and possibly a mouth splash or too.  He headed towards the mall, knowing that they were the only ones in town known for their rapid yet tastefully pleasant mouth splashing and foot leathering.  He clutched his dollar sack excitedly and pranced the fuck on.

At the mall, babes and ugly ducks were wondering about, drooling over the newest hotnesses.  Children were everywhere, and Jamal was way not pleased.  Waves of sticky carmel hands and taffy legs shoved past him, each one followed by a galloping log-pile of shitty parent or barely legal guardian.  He ducked into the nearest mall alley to find some respite.

"Man, I don't even know what respite means -" his words stopped.  There, in the darkest of mall ally corner hideouts, was a disturbingly quiet and anguished looking fountain.  Suddenly all was silent.  Stillness and anti-calamity became Jamal's new brain.

The water, splooshing out from the scratchy tin urethra nozzles, was without sound.  The tinkles and splashes and other wet audio were no where.  Jamal's ears waited impatiently, getting hungrier and hungrier for noise burgers.  Nothing.  Nope.

Jamal started to panic.  Now, in the coldest time of mall seasons, mall winter, he sat alone in a withered and eerily silent alley.

A figure approached him, but then he realized he was just tripping the fuck out, and started trying to scream.  Nothing came out.  He had no more word powers.  His brain wasn't even making a sound.  He even tried to let out a warm ass warbler, but it turned out to be a hollow wind of blankness.  His panic was potent and edible by now, and his wishes of mouth delights and foot treats seemed further away than his biological parents.  His sadness hit him like a third grader, punching his stomach then kicking him in the dick.  With cleats.

Jamal's brain suddenly and all kinds of at once knew where he was, and with one final energy blaster he let out a faint and breathy "whisper fountain..."



-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -


Jamal opened his eyes, alert and refreshed from his dream-coated whisper nap and brushed the crumbs from his lap.  His eyes were sticky and sleep tossled, his hair a nest for creatures that deal in dreams.  He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, finally releasing a slow and sweat-soaked dustfart into the lower stratus of his surroundings.

He turned to the gentleman sitting next to him and asked, "you want fries with that?"

Hermione's racist porch swing.

Ungh....yeuh.

i'm in an ac slater pose, pickin like a babys nose.

drop draws in public, stinkin like the latest hoes...

..plus i plate the 'go's

escar that is, and i park fat kids

in the dark, ass is

what the nark smashis.

blashphemy...

i pass three weed seeds to dapheny.

and she laughs at me, and i probabalee

dropped....balls like an atheleete.

when mesh shorts rub all

on my balls its truble

and i'm on the double

givin bulls their bubbles.

"And that was quick dick of Hermiones new album "blast off into hell, bastards."

which, as all the muggle borns know, is a big fuck you to egyptians everywhere.

She finds herself fucking a pig in the middle of one of her better tracks, i know

because it made my sudden vomit attack taste of scraps and magic spiders.

Better suited for pointy nipples, this album climbs up everyone's shirt and

fucking laughs in their face. Not laughter like haha but laughter like silk gloves

dipped in molten lava. END"

shorTs seTs

"I have crumbs on my new sets....."

Koach Bonbays pitiful anger ship was blasting it's way through his jaunty demeanor.

"These sets were to last me half a moon. The not men were to bat and flail their eye sticks gingerly as i passed in the great hall!" No one was fooled by his anger. Shorts sets kame in packs of several, and alwwways did the wofolk stare. Well, more like get doughy.

Koach Bonbay was always at the top. Always. Top of stairs, tops trading cards, top ic of sex hunts. It was the sets. What with the flagrant layering and thoughsand island dressing, it's no wonder he killed himself. If you could go back to Latter day, you'd see Koach in all his cream filled shavings. Kream for the wolady's and filled shavings for the kids.

Koach loved the kids. So did his sets. The one today went to this tune::: Maroon, then Drunked grey under, and Office burlap hiding beneath.

Then Goldberg showed up in the middle of the twilight, naked as so many docile animals, kissing the seeds that Jerald had sewn on his bed seconds before. Everyone flew into a hysterical fit of hope as Goldberg's stomach flew out of the back of his head.

He had smooched on the seeds that came from thoughts of sigourney weaver.

Delicious Christopher

Exactly five minutes after I stopped chuckle chortling I noticed the red shoes on the floor next to the peppermint cradle.  These shoes were fierce, but I was determined to Google them.  I checked, and surely saw the surly straw of reality slap my blister-dicked wheelbarrow of a brain.

It turns out these shoes were once owned by the magnificent Delicious Christopher.  His passion for red shoes was almost as demanding as his sense of inflammatory nonsense and brickle fits.  Can you wake me when this dream life is gone?  I know I'll stagger out of here all dead and expired, but I really have to try on these shoes.  I have to know what ghosts feel like, wrapping their transluscent windjammers all around my walkabout fingers.  I have to feel the energy of a thousand years.

I have to know what Christopher Delicious knew.

I have to triumph, and I have to turn my ashy whittle swizzle haunches into melonaise and brandy water.  I must be victorious.  I must be mustard.

I must be my own red shoes.


I'm totally dead.  I knew it.

ALL the girls are on it. damn.

And this is the gaping history of the open sore cult known as Swag.

There were once three swags, all layered and, frankly, quite guilty.

First of which held the monicker "Stable boy Swag" - also known as "The veluptuous mr. Editor". Currently the swag brought about by said horse crower is known as "Posture". All the mountains and tree's came at the same time. The mixture of their majestic dose of "Kum magic" fell on one small chap lad of a boy, crowning him "Stable boy swag". He is the owner of band-aids.

The second and third swags are broken and gormless. Somethymes they fall down holes just to think they are super body raping the holes. sickness. The second squall is called as such: "THIZ n HONK swag" which later became "eau le doet....ay!" Obviously his rambuncious asshole nature came from the DUMPS of a small tribe of kools. ("tribe" became "pack" in the year 20sticks.)

The third, and by far the most well pressed, is the "Pretty boy swag". Now this grotesque, burlesque, toyota mating, pumpboy dialing, mesh souled, flame detailed guitar was not created by not purpose. In 2000, 504 boyz and eddy murphy's donkey lover broke into the lab of 7 maestro's with the prank-tentious purpose of creating someone to blow. After adding an abundant amount of tears, rainbow skeletons, and horny fancy ducks to their graduated cylinders, they rubbed. And they waited. Then mystikal let out a cry: "Beat me! o my god beat me with everything!!!!" Everyone started crying as "Pretty boy swag" emerged from breath homes in the room, as tall as the tallest belch, and wider than anyone could've urethrasized.

Thats when all fuckin heck broke loose...all over the fucking floor.

banging corn betty!!

several years back, i met a shorty stack, hustlin waffle corn hats, for five bucks a pack or maybe it was 7, i am not really sure, but i know she earned it the hard way(kinda like that one part in back to the future, when marty wakes up on the 47th floor). she worked a out of lavender cream shack and told me to spit on it (that was her hello).

every tuesday night she hosted polynesian grain dancing massacres, its free for the first twenty minutes than nine cents a minute after. it was a cross between yoga, martial arts, a car wash, kevin spacey's upper lip, twenty degrees north by northwest, a pair of broken hearts, wrinkle pies, and episode 126 of COPS.

i picked the daily double and we slipped into the flashier side of eternity. i was mesmerized by the way she wagged her starship pastries and her light saber hatchet. she looked at me and said, "roads? where we're going, tropic psychos will bboy yo yo fists in a cylindrical fashion. Santa will probably jump start your soul in the wrong direction and make you wish you were marlon brando. the bare necessities are that you and i will join as one and bring devil vision back from the dominican, carpal tunnel won't stand a chance, table tops will dance on you and there wont be left overs."

and then, nothing..... thats all i remember from banging corn betty.

  

The fire inside of me.

So all of these guys came up to me and said, "Hey.  We're all these guys, and we're coming up to you to say things.  Let it be known that invisible diagrams have proven gravel sacks to weigh five times more than straw purses."  I knew at once that their words were bullshit.  I neither understood nor respected them, and they immediately puked whisper emergencies into each other's ears.  One of them referenced a Bieber song and let out a slow but moist rump blast.

The fat one said, "Huddle together brothers, so that we may create a vortex of calamity, and elixir if you will.  A thought elixir-"  He paused, obviously defecating in his own pants.  A fortnight ago I would've appreciated this kind display of comfort and obvious love for Blossom (the venue, not the television series), but today I thought to myself, "This is simply disgusting.  Grow the fuck up."

I climbed into my bed and swore off halogen power and noon naps for the last time.  Preschool hadn't prepared me for the harsh realities of Kindergarten.  My teacher was a demon, squirting out her own death yell lotions and clawing at our brains with talks of letters and numbers.  Neither of those things sounded appealing or real to me.  Neither one of my parents had told me about the alphabet.  Things are what they are.

A toaster is a toaster, and thats all.  Why spell it out when you can say it so easily?

saturday at club poppinshit

Have you ever been there? The zone TWIXT the ultraviolet "wham" juice out of whats her names VAG and the motosickletay seat i been wheelin on?

hahahaha yea man droppin wheels and poppin peels on whats her names.

whats her names is such a blow. no, shes a dutchess ho. no, damnit. uuuughhhh her wham juice is still tilting my cap. I can't even find out how all these babies came to be in my possession. probably from blowing them, the babies. thats how babies cum right? has to be, their dicks are way to big for whats her faces.

well back to me gloating about wham juice, when i le trouved on me seat, i checked it. you know, checked it for......(gama radiation) (sad face) (sunglasses face).

Apres the tests, i found that "wham" only describes the viscosity of the juice. O and juice is probably the wrong word, its more like buttery ketchup water. Yea way less like the delicious juice you were picturing, and more like fucking puke butter that flips tops and blows babies.

she must be fucking destroyed. the babie blowing bandit, butt fucks mcamstel light.

Get a rope, some very thin silk, and rev that shit- its wheelly poppin time.

I'm only going to say gravy one more time.

"Pizzas want to be me.  Charts want to style me.  Every day is a new wash basin, complete with tired ancient rhetoric, plasma in and out of all the master socks," he murmured, his hands to his side and his feet still wet with the stench of salt pork.  His rendition of the president's address was lacking, and the class was growing hungry.

"Chortle, have you ever even been to a Kentucky Fried Chicken before?"  coughed Starwasp, a nearby fat lump.

Chortle had never been to Kentucky Fried Chicken before, and he found himself taken aback by the mountains of heap-fleshed cattle persons standing there, leering towards other-wordly potato smells and irregular chicken cracklers.  There were little pot-bellied nugget toddlers, wearing wheeler shoes and Jnco gravy protectors.  There were sad teen monsters, smoking cigarettes through Pepsi goggles, running there teeth along the chatter fluid of green beans.

Every person in the joint was a captain or a handbag.  Miles away, the real Captain Handbag lurked, silently stroking his goldenrod Shag shirt.  The snowflakes had fallen for the last time.

"Sixteen more buckets of gr-" he stopped, remembering his promise to only say gravy one more time.  "Oh shit."

chip wyllis will not...

1. wrap himself in a flour tortilla (unless there is whole wheat bio-mechanics with orange puppies).

2. transmit morris code through a toaster oven about his first wheeling sex crisis, with a toaster oven (unless its Monday, Thursday or if its really really foggy out).

3. campaign for class clown tower's naked and a half marathon (unless Jupiter kicks Saturn in the balls).

4. pull silly jerk from a 3 pack of bio-degradable taint cloths (unless patty cake is truly the real McCoy).

5. smuggle tulips in his possum sack, 6 hours a day for the next motorcycle week (unless peanut butter stops calling for child support).

6. dumpster dive for non bio-degradable taint cloths (unless the fabric is clean enough to wash up the future).

7. drive a Mario speed wagon into a waffling pile of gaga (unless penguins are in heat and the lawn mower's speed limit is close to 7:30pm).

8. way too nasty to talk about (let's just say i found away to a promise of jelly fish).

book review circa grade 3. public school promises BJ's

"oooo this makes it feel real fast! o god hahahahaaha so fast!

you know when your auto wheeler is flipping and many terrible things are coming so soon? o it drenches me in stability.

in the sitch above, keep your posture about your....tai food?!. the straighter your "ness:P" the more you will break in *fiery devil. <------+(*)(*) this refers to hottness of food ..

tippy toes also makes for safety. doing tippy toes not only releases sex hormones in your brain, but also makes you a, like, raptor, or maybe like, some type of other.... stanky legged creature."

This was a snippet from Richard B.F. Snugglehurst's new "taint" biography. His imagery opens me and his flagrant smell penetrates my vulnerable GUTS!!!! Thats how he beds you. The way he uses the boring book symbols. It fucks me. o wait. CAPITAL 1_333 7292_*

Sorry, mid-article snack attack. Dick makes good points in the taint. I mean usually tainty points hurt, but when they are pioneered by a dick and a BF, well, they feel like the best DQ blizzard on the bottom of your ass rip. Best believe, buddah's job in our creation was to rip open a portal in all of us, the portal for solids. Solids = joy, nirvana, sass, and dress-up parties right? WELP, just buy the book. I was promised a BJ from sloan for every book sold and destroyed.

help me.

save me. BJ.

Salisbury Pie and Jan McGregor

Dear readers,

I can't seem to find myself.  Several weeks ago it came to my attention.  I'm including a recipe for a delicious summer pie that can feed about eight people.  It's a cured beef pie, so plan ahead!  Curing time is usually an entire season of Friends.

You'll have to excuse my frankness, but my mirrors have all been plasticized and are working as coal minors in a valerian exhibition.  I must find a clever concealer!

Jan Mcgregor








I found this recipe in my hotel sock drawer, Enjoy!


Salisbury Pie:



For the crust:

-2 lbs flour salts
-3 Salisbury eggs (stir the whites, discard the creme)
-1 pinch riser powders
-2 TSP coconut menthol
-salt, pepper

• Combine all ingredients in a small lavender music box.  Ambiance is key.  Stir until noon, repeat for a full episode of the Wonder Years.  Don't forget to bake it, probably in an oven.  Bake partially at 350 for 8 minutes.
• Extra stirring is key!  Don't let the recipe fool you!

For the filling:

-12 oz salisbury, extra long grain (trim the fat, but save it for marble skewers)
-1/2 cup brown gravy (don't use Uncle Schuappe's Best brand, it's awful and lumpy)
-2 TSP Hydrogen coin
-Some potatoes
-A few yards of carrot rope
-1/2 TBS whiskey mints

• Toss most of the ingredients (leave the hydrogen coin for last) wildly into a small trashcan (heritage adds cooking time, so pay attention!).
• Fill pie to brim, cover and bake at 350 for 14 minutes or until golden Salisbury.
• Remove from oven, let cool for 2 hours.
• Re-bake at 450 for 2 minutes.  Quickly remove pie from the oven, while crackling the hydrogen coin onto the pie crust with light guardian force.  Let cool for weeks.

Serve with Vincent martini's and quail butter.