so __________ is dead. what did you expect?

to tell you the truth, i expected _________ to be first. but you know how it goes. when all the pointed questions are aimed at your guts. and the camera that never lies is watching you.

start spreading the news: you’re dead on the news!

You’re heading to hollywood. the Nation waits for it’s next grim yet savory Saviour. bubby bubby howby bowby crumb y stumbly in the serious moonlight. oh…

but to hell with cynicism. lets talk about:
getting lost in your imagination to the point you poop yourself and don’t notice.
playing a flute on a precipice.
making a mouse into a man using a hammer, a burberry scarf and a coat rack.
singing softly into your pillow on a rainy afternoon.
melting down your crayons and pouring them over your “pity patch.”
or dying your pet to suit your mood.

Or getting in the mood to make a suit from your dying pets.

oh… I don’t know. whatever floats your matter. i just want everyone to get along: get along = all the nice looking liberals/radicals and disenfranchised getting together and moving to an island and having six insane months and then setting off a Hydrogen Bomb.  Of course I’D be included.

gosh… maybe that’s a little extreme. let’s see… uh…

i just want to rule Poland. and if i could rule Poland, that could be my springboard to becoming the next European idol. and if i could become the next European idol i could cure aids in Africa, because i would just flash my pearlies and the giant bank vault shaped vaj would open and squirt money all over me.  i could take fifty for me and send ten over there.  they have no concept!  i wouldn’t have to spend but ten minutes max in a village, take some pics and then be outty.  Easy enough to squeeze out a golden egg or two on them, as a token of my esteem, before I go.  Those desperate SOBs will rush to cash these in because they need medicine, water and schools.

Think of all those dying children that need to be educated for an early grave!  in the Afterlife it will be necessary to know where washington d.c. is on the map.

and after i’ve saved them, then i could push my little tushie at the paper-rot-see and give a hundred withering baby Brazilians a case of Twinkies and some Prep pills.

oh there i go again.

i really do need to be beaten within an inch of my dank and musky life. maybe i should shoot heroin naked in my bed. then i could understand true life… true pain and artistry… true deliverance. as a footnote here, i’ve heard fried chicken tastes really weird on heroin.

i am sorry south America, for my whiteness. i also extend apologies to Africa on behalf of my degenerate race. on behalf of heath ledger and simon cowell… on behalf of ted turnerover and motherfuckin’ russel brandaid.  i beg for MERCY on the pale face. on behalf of l(bj), mel gibson and al capone i ask for forgiveness for our people. even though i’m not officially white… i ask for this in the name of Metro Goldwyn Mayer and Publisher’s Clearing House.

even though i am a filthy mongrel… i spit in the face of my default people.

i guess i would rather watch America’s hopefuls and beautiful dumbshits than overeducated shitbabbies splatfighting on a rostrum. And I mean you BooshMAN and Rod-ham. THERE ARE NO OTHER SIDES. A or B.  Stupid vs. Evil.  Two hot n greasy Mayor McCheeses for one big McTurd Avalanche.

i’m sure that senile old dildo Eastwood would agree if an Eastwood could (coherently) agree.
but to hell with cynicism… let’s talk about:
Potbelly pigs and dashing, gracefully aging bachelors.
The Apocalypse diverted by recycling.
Hot coffee and artificial hearts.
multi-platinum dum dum
tingly pink things.

Phewww. That’s better.


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