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.

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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.


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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.

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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