Flushing a Full House

My dear… you need to stoop for the next three months if you want to be fully appreciated. After all that standing tall, you’re bout due for a big, fat bring-down.  At least, that’s what He tells us.  Shhhhh.  Shhhhh.   SHUT THAT CUNTRAPTION!

that’s better


Now… lower…


hold it right there.


You think you’re out of the woods, but you never left the suburbs.  This neighborhood is watching you.  The MGMT has a vested interest in keeping you bulbed, stationary.  You’ll never go anywhere now that you’ve dropped your deuces and plus fours in the same fragrant drift.

I mean, the MGR hates you so much harder and more like an auto-mobile than you can handle.  Wouldn’t you, if you were He?  He’s issued your recall.  The bulletin scrolls.  Your pumper is defective.  Your dumper is clogged.  Your tie rod is bent from potholing while rolling.  Your nose won’t stop, can’t stop, growing.  You might want to start begging now— while you still have the chance— while the territories still remain open.  They’re constricting as we speak.  But, back to you, my friend cum constituent…

Nuh uh uhhhh…

get back down… it’s not time for you to jump back on your bobby horse…



That’s right.


The MGMT has suggested making you into a paperweight, but you’re just… well… too ugly?  Is that too forward?  Well, I’m sure someone’s sorry somewhere.  I know you are.  The MGMT has decided you’ll remain an auto-mobile: one of the second class of simian prototype vehicles.  The model that runs on swine blood.

As soon as He fixes you, He’ll drive you up the mall, dog your gears and brakes and eat through your fiberglass (before you can count on me).  He’ll torment you for blackening his sky, his grass, his fleshy word, his name of consonants.  He’ll slip you something unnoticeable and that’s when the real fun starts.  That’s when you’ll start noticing.  Your life will have a purpose… and that purpose will give you meaning… and that meaning will give you cancer.  At least all your answers were questioned before it was late enough.

The MGMT has become unbearable.

It’s only a matter of time before your cockles crumble.  Before your Dockers jumble.  Before you mature into the lump you’ve been diagnosed as by your kindergarten teacher.

Myth is myth, and yours is the legacy of a syphilitic whatchamacallit (exploding propulsive due to its biomagnetic horsepower). Only big names have a good chance, at that point… and right now, your name couldn’t mean any less.  The MGR never expected anything but second rate waste from you.  But, rest ass-sure, none of us is going anywhere until the department head is 100% swallowed down gold nards first.  Like a wafer and a cup of Welch’s because we’re all 12 steps away from being suspended in a jar.  We’ll take the MGR in like the flavorful smog of the valley, like a sexual slug on a half shell: swallowed like a pearled loogie, tasted by the papules lining the sleeve, threaded into the system.  Incorporating cock, smock and papule in a presentation of criminal proportions, the MGR stacking the odds in favor of himself, flushing his full house.


messy 2
Chef’s Special, collage, 2016 copyright GPD


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