My mind is on an eternal black midi loop; it’s always on fire and I’m always trying to extinguish it.
I call bullshit.
Leave the goddamned standing and flapping statues and flags alone! Allow any and all graffiti and/or defacement in the name of true liberty, the vaunted first amendment. Let that dildo epoxied to Chris Columbus’ pinafore proudly point the way, increasingly filthy until the elements wear it to a nub. Wobble, salute, kneel or stand before all that it represents. Hoist the burnt flags, let the broken face of Juniperro Serra be a reminder of the fear and loathing abundant within the crucible that callousness cooked.
I can abandon these foolhardy, frantic searches for ‘helpful information’.
Courage based approaches only draw fire. Do you have enough Kevlar for this? The pistol’s in the holster… I let it speak for my asshole when my mouth’s full of pork rinds.
But seriously… what does it mean to you to ‘GET AHEAD’? Get a promotion, a new job- start a business- close a deal- work your life away- fill your master’s pockets- cast your line into the Smartwater and land a two hundred ninety nine pound client with your hook through his turkey jello- hang your family name above a mountain range of spent product towering above the Heirloom Landfill? The good times just keep a-rollin… rollin… rollin rainin darkest night into the ditch. Rainin, fallin over all those donkey carcasses. This soon-to-be mass grave of asses. Even in death, our jawbones’ll still be flapping.
Loose teeth, brittle bones rattling like a symphony of maracas in the sinkhole of this interim hellscape. The proles thought that, because Ohia re-opened, the danger had passed. Now, we’re spiking. Some silly bitch wanted to argue with Arnie based on this spurious belief… she lives her pathetic life pinned to these sorts of fallacious mainframes.
“Them re-opening the state means et The Plague is over.’
The dumbest of the dumb leading us from a bleak past into a disastrous future. It’s not going to work out the way you think it will. When has it ever?
Plague 3.0 dings organs, scars lung tissue- meaning, your air sacs’re compromised for life, as are your heart, brain and other unused parts; now, the party line is this: ‘We don’t know the long term effects of this virus.’ Maybe we’re better off.
It’s about ‘inciting’ then ‘quelling’ panic in a spin-cycle- they know very well what time it is. Yes… friends… this precipitation on your head is, indeed, piss.
Feel the rising action? Decades to go before the denoument. They’ll orchestrate your heart attack with subliminal crescendos, first manifesting in the center of your head, a singular tone, a crushing tinnitis. It can be done in an oink from the sty and a focusing of satellites. Cuntry simpull. Ballwrenchingly stupid.
Let’s talk contact tracers… uhhh…. then again… zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz :kissing_heart:
Nobody can tell me Plague 3.0 has hurt the bottom line for the steel backbone and nards of this wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.
Culling the herd.
Taking in the sheaves… the dregs of what this bottom shelf culture has to offer.
Git that money!
Moo, baby, moo moo moo.
Cain’t give no milk no more.
Gave all I had to give and I got nothin to show.
Swarms feign freedom while continuing to suckle the man’s moobs. Hell, I’ve done it. His milk is as delicious as it is poisonous.
Rubber bullets for everyone. POP!!! Right inna cocksucker. I got one for your bow legged momma too. Your slope-headed daddy already brain damaged so we’ll just put him down, like a tube of toothpaste been stomped.
Your parents should have taught you better… at least they should have taught you something useful… other than how to be a cancerous nevus on the Cunt Lips of Liberty. We’re all cunts on this banana boat. Where’s Captain Moobing? I need a squirt to keep up my strength.
Parents? Ell oh ell. Who’s into that tired routine anymore? Parenting is completely electronic now, texted in, leaving you ambitious amphibians free to collect your slime and grievances for airing on any platform, in any workspace, that will support the leaden likes of you.
The chaotic stylings of a remote control Tomorrow Land-
so fun… so free.
Where the water is smart and the air…
You know you’ve got it bad when the water is smarter than you or your misconceived lineage will ever be.
There’s nothing to believe in because none of this shit is believable.
Show me a god that eats fried chicken for breakfast. Christ. If you do that, I’ll show you a sober, clear headed Ohioan… or a pure-hearted priest.
Elle oh muthafucken elle.
If you’ve got a half baked ideology, you have a Gog-Gibbon duty to enact it using all the most retromethods available to you. Put a fence around em and carpet bomb the bitches… how about using a concentrated mix of that stuff you sprayed over Sam Frank’s Disco all those decades ago. Or Zyklon Bee.
Anybody that ever said violence never solved anything never read a history book, as the Vietnam pundit once told me when I was a gonopore on a grasshopper’s cock.
Let’s bring back Zyklon Bee just like we did coal.
Let’s lift the child labor laws. Give Generation Alpha a taste of what REAL GRATENESS is about, thereby turning them into a warrior class of stunning alphas. I’ve been bellowing about these quixotic child labor laws for going on three decades. How else will we sharpen the edges, thicken the carapace and indelibly imprint this soul-rending drone ethic upon our offspring? Imprinting… smelt them into liquid ore, model them and quench them into something unfeeling, adamantine. Teach them the value of work- drill the Sexxxayness of the Benjamin into their mutable brains with a grasshopper cock.
The blind simian knows not was he’s fighting for or against, nor does it matter really. This isn’t a mistake or an oversight. The lower primates don’t bother themselves with such fancies.
Kings, Queens, and All the in Betweens, I don’t care what you do with your tawhitos or what they taste like. I know what I like and it more than likely isn’t you. I’ve sampled from both sides of the buffet and the drawbacks are many- the pleasures few.
‘There’s too many of us… there’s too many of us… there’s too many of us.’
Who do you trust? Hopefully, yourself.
Well placed Hate is productive. Every day at noon, I wrap my head in a mildew sodden towel before I send out hate letters from my heart. It’s like my own prayer to Mecca. Did you get mine yet? Oh… that’s alright. Probably an oversight.
The key to my dubious success? Projecting my self-loathing onto other guy. Oops… I did it again. Where are my pronouns? He, she, they, heesh sheesh herm sperm. Stick your head in a fry vat if you can’t take the cold.
Here… let me help you.
It’s freezing in my skull despite ninety degree temperatures.
I’ve been trained to replace the ‘I’ with the other guy to mask my failings. When something doesn’t go according to my favored dogma, whose fault is it? Always THE OTHER… the dark and dusky, the well-dressed and husky. This makes things simple for a simpleton like me. I will ball my many clammy hands at these intruders with their plastic icons… I’ll shove my rock-hard fists- one in the mouth the other plunged elbow deep in the south-end- so I can shake hands with myself for stopping the noxious torrent of flatulated thought: regurgitated scripts parroting the pan poots of reviled and esteemed talking heads in: power ties, Sean John, Versace, yoga pants, wifebeaters, kilts, slogan t-shirts, Uggs, high end sneakers or crocs.
Yes… pan poots.
Flat Pannigan: American Author and Humorist.
I’ve got my own pan poots to exhale. I’ve been waiting to exhale them for… what is it… fifty three years, as of 2020. It’s turned my stomach acidic, but not so much so that it hurts me. When it gets too much, I launch a projectile stream at the nearest normietard just for the fuck of it. You should see their faces. And before you get all judgy: at least, for now, I’m not firing a MAC-10 at them— however more satisfying that particular life path may be. It’s only for now. Now has a limited shelf life. Today, simply picturing the timely demise… it’s enough… MORE than enough. See, I’ve taken to the cemetery… engineered a thoughtform which manifests in surprising ways… this is the path of the brujo, the reaper of flesh and spirit. I have no need of elaborate assasination plots. Like the government, I can achieve this by remote [😍 Sticker] while lying in a puddle of my own piss.
Starry eyed dreamer. Blurry thighed creamer.
I’ve got the whole world in a gooey glob in my hand.
Word made flesh.
Bridging the worlds.
Fueling the flames of annihilation and rebirth. Circle of strife.
Everything is as it should be in Gog’s imperfect world. Let our prayers hit our targets in the head, heart or groin. He will belch fire over us, washing us clean… like that kid that set the cop car aflame… self-immolating for what he believed in. At least that was Gog’s plan for him.
Gog is just.
The true idiots ultimately take care of themselves by accident. We won’t have to lift a finger. Rest assured, what these lampreys can’t accomplish the infopharmafranchisemedicomilitarytainment complex will— and these moo-ers and snake-ers leave absolutely NO LIVING THING standing when they ‘exhale’.
CORRECTION: Many may be left standing but it’s rigor mortis that’s keeping them so. Keeps a hard man hard.
Insert any pronoun you want here. Whadda I care? Personally, I could give a fuck what pronoun you assign to me. That’s it! By George! Replace my pronouns, HE and HIM with ‘FUCK’. One word should do it… streamlining and mainstreaming… very important. ‘FUCK came in here wanting to know where these files are located. I couldn’t wait to get FUCK out of my orifice. FUCK loves his pies and ice cream sandwiches. Yeah… that Glort… FUCK’s a real asshole.’ One FUCK fits all of me.
Big. Powerful. Perfect.
I’m picking up the mic that somebody else dropped on the killing floor. It’s bloody but no biggie. That’s what tongues are for. I’m a hoard of whores with a heart like an obsidian mirror.
A whore priest.
CORRECTION: I ain’t no priest.
I’m no longer a whore. I’m a no-fap volcel hiding in my personal prison cell.
Ha ha. Joke’s on me.
You know what? I hope I am the punchline to your joke. Elevate me immortal… make my name a verb. Allow my likeness to be scorched from my bones, replaced with a cartoon skeleton, dancing, on fire. Ha ha hee hee ho ho
I’ve advanced to the point I, myself and I, can spit black goo. It’s taken hold of me… I relent. Scrubbed so much, running to stand still, it’s been absorbed through my derma. Excessive, concentrated contact’s bound to get you every time.
My hunger, power and judgment grow.
There are those that might as well shrivel up and blow away without the adoration and lavish praise of others, the same holds true for the opposite, one of the singular best reasons to live is to enrage others. We all need a purpose; everyone should have a hobby. If yours is kissing ass, GREAT. And you, over there, if your sole (soul) purpose is to commit a series of arsons at banks, SO BE IT. I’m willing to die… are you? Of course you are.
I still get blamed for inciting Arnie to burn down that Target. But, he and I both know he’s no dupe or follower. Living on the mountain has done him a lot of good. He hates New Mexico, socially speaking and rarely has contact with people outside of the compound. He’s very active when he’s in town. He agitated during that other crackpot movement Occupy Wall Street. The revolutions in the past few decades have become thinly veiled pretexts to screw, party and fuck shit up with impunity and no real focus… that’s how he slips in his sabotage. Most Americans are too soft, lazy and narcissistic to keep their own lives together let alone participate in a real revolution. He invited me to monkeywrench OCCUPY and I politely declined. They could fuck up their movement all on their own.
I wish I wouldn’t have declined his offer to shack up in that abandoned mall, however. Bad call.
Gunshots ring out. The goo’s oozing through pores in the structure. It’s an every day thing lest this house be incorporated into its mucilaginous essence.
Oh, the black goo; it has officially woven its way into my fabric. I’ve been scrubbing walls and floors on a daily basis. I choose a couple of walls a day working my way around. Thing is… I’m spastic. I have to be totally engaged or not at all. On or off. In other words: I’m always doing something and, when I’m not, I sleep. Drugs regulate the circadian rhythms. The sun’s influence holds no sway in these parts. The moon on the other hand…
I’m working steadily to change my biochemistry so the moon doesn’t affect me either. Because, the planets can just piss off- this one’s at the top of the list. Leave the gas giants alone. Let the metal planets be. Set the controls for the heart of terra infirma.
This place smells like spent meat.
But I don’ wanna join yer Kanty Kunt Parade!
Do you want to be taken seriously? That’s your first mistake.
(Suggested drinking game: John Wick Parabellum: a shot of hard liquor for every time someone’s shot in the head)
I’m an artist with a machete, a painter using undiluted lead.
Breaking Brains Outreach Ministry to the rescue with our gats & hiding in the fescue.
Blood sacrifice, bone loss.
Violence is mother’s milk to my fellow infants. We suck that shit until our bellies bloat in oversaturation. Is it any wonder that Arm and Hammer is a trusted, best-selling brand? An icon that should be on our flags instead of stars and bars.
keep the bars…
they’re kind of important to us too.
Where impotent prayers fail, ammunition picks up the slack.
Join the blood bath; it improves the complexion.
We ARE in a national dialogue about complexion, are we not? Is it a dialogue… or a scream fest? Is it a scream fest or a death wail? A funeral dirge with the *phat beatz*… A smooth and creamy blend of both? Mmmmmmmmm. Creamy.
Cast your die; throw your disembodied bonce into the ring. The deaf leading the blind pulling the mute in a caged caboose. Let’s run that kind of a train.
Let’s GET IT ON!
Studs n sluts, guns n cums. I love my nine emm emm rifle. I used to love my dick until he turned traitorous. My war torn heart enlisted him and ever since that time I’ve been waylaid. Sound funny? It is. Laugh yourself into an unmarked mass grave then get back to me.
Whadda I care?! :kissing_heart::kissing_heart::triumph:
*audience gives standing ovation- gales of laughter*
Thank you, thank you. Sit down… sit down. That last bit was dedicated to my buddy out there… he knows who he is so I don’t need to be a signifying monkey. Cheers, bruh! I love you, dude. Not in a queer frilly shit-eating disease-spreading choad-choking anal-wart-infested on-your-knees-whenever-you-can filthy felching dip-sticking snow-balling tea-bagging cross-infecting faggoty way either
so no worries.
It’s all good because it’s all GOG. There are those in the audience who don’t even believe in THAT. They believe in a vacuum— vacuums are very real.
Anyway… Happy Fourth of July 2020! Anybody have big plans?
*audience golf claps*
*somebody says ‘Netflix and double murder suicide?’*
*audience roars and claps louder than ever*
Vacuums also suck. Totally in a Hoover one-point-nine-horsepower clean-your-carpet-cracks-n-crevices dual-cyclonic-action telescoping-wand multi-surface hepa-filtered bagless kind of way.
*one elderly woman is removed from the audience on a stretcher*
I’ve been looking at her the whole time and I’m not surprised… she called it quits years ago… a lifetime of crying is sometimes more than enough.
Personalized justice- swift, severe and with impact. Choose a fit and style that is perfect for you.
Racial mixing? Check.
Produced by Jews and Italians? Double check.
This cartoon has it all.
It’s only five minutes in. This is absurdist electrotheater at its most insipid. Bestiality? Yes, yes and yes. It’s ok, because they’re anthropomorphized. A cop out.
Moralizing tropes going nowhere? Absolutely.
I’ll focus on the bestiality… because it’s offensive, degenerate, disgusting… and it makes me a lil turgood. Or, maybe I’ll focus on the kikes and guineas because… same. Likes attract mites. Howza wowza! This is livin!
Condiment Kang, Toilet Tissha Queen…
on yer mark…
TAKE YER THRONEZ!
Fly yer dronez into my leaning tower in a golden shower of sparks. Maybe heaven is like a liberal, anything goes Hollywood cartoon. Hell, the same: they live side buh side in a duplex in The Bottoms. The Bottoms is slightly better than The Hilltop, if that tells you anything. Imagine. World catastrophe. I’m overlaying this image on the cartoon. The result is satisfying.
Cop out with your cock out. Cop Cocks in Socks. There’s a parade of them. They’re very proud, but it’s NOT a pride parade and don’t fucken say it is because I’ll tickle your prostate with my nine emm emm carbine barrel if you do. OUR BOYS IN BLUE- OR OLIVE DRAB OR BLACK AND YELLOW OR BLACK GREY AND SILVER OR RED AND BLACK OR BLACK BLACK BLACK AND BLACK- ALL THE PRIMARY COLORS THAT ARE THE BASIC INGREDIENTS IN THE HUMAN COLOSTOMY BAG- NO MATTER HOW VOCALLY HOMOPHOBIC AND PENIS FOCUSED THEY ARE- ARE NOT FAGGITZ. THEY’LL BLOW YOUR HEAD OFF AND SODOMIZE YOU WITH A BASEBALL BAT TO PROOF YOUR PUDDING. DO YOU NEED PROOF IN YOUR PUDDING, PUNK?
I only obsess about them. You know, big, uncut nigra dicks.
Like… even in my dreams.
I find out all the faggity things you can do to a man, all the colloquialisms, you know, and go on 27chan and smear as many queers as I can before finding out what the darkies are up to… what they’re doing with their dicks because they got a lot of dick to sling… and they start slinging it large and YOUNG. Fascinating stuff, I tell you. Look… I… I’ve been in locker rooms not that I was checking out the bananas, bruh: I’m not a sick queer. I’ve seen pictures, too. Pictures that make me feel like I’m eating maggots and want to puke, yet, I somehow cannot refrain from fisting them down my malfunctioning gullet.
The root cause of lingarectal reflux.