Seeking Harmony with the Infinite

This morning’s edition of slumming it with Granny is presented by Death Ray Masks… dignified, stylish ‘self-determined exodus’ masques by Rachael Ray. They kill on contact- or within two hours as outlined on this sweet vavavoom sweat-shop-crafted instruction booklet you’ll find when you open to the gorgeous pink velveteen interior of this exquisite masque’s *one of a kind* carrying case *modeled after Ms. Ray’s irl lady parts*!
Glad you’ve got Chuck Norris, among others, to keep the cuntry morally grounded. Granny likes these real men with their real men egg-genders. Granny believes in stern expressions and incomprehensible mutterings. Granny thinks they’re hilarious. You can’t live like an Eastwood when your wood points south Take that for what it’s worth you little wussy.
Granny consults some photographs of stone tablets in times of wringing and gnashing when the thots and prays aren’t cutting it. These stones, the ones she has pictures of, are erected somewhere nobody gives a shit about. Why would they, because there isn’t a cell tower or a Starbucks within a cumshot of it. Interestingly, the stones ARE enough of a pilgrimage point for people to go and get all gay over— or a strong enough motivator for stalwart trolls to drag their red hot hate of peace and reason across miles of wasteland simply to spatter them with home brewed faeces.

One thing is undeniable, however: somebody thought the ‘wisdom’ featured here was important enough to hire slaves to carve it into huge stones and prop them up in some distant, bum fuck place no one gives a shit about.
Beware Die Schneckenmenschen!!! Granny tried to tell you about them but you wouldn’t listen, you little shit! The stones didn’t tell Granny this. She learned this because she paid attention to her life while she lived it. Moment to moment observation. She doesn’t run to the stones for every stupid little thing, neither does she run to God. But you wouldn’t listen to some fucking stones either, I bet. You think you know it all. Good friggin luck with Die Schneckenmenschen in the meantime. You turd.
Boiling the frog. Boiling the fecken frog, kid. They’ll getcha if you don’t C.Y.A.!’ Granny showed you this but it was different when she tried to get the point across. Besides, you’re so stupid you got CYA confused with CIA. You still don’t get it. I can see your lips moving as you read this, that’s how retarded you are.
Granny was no nonsense and told me the more fruity I smelled, the more insects I’d attract. Insects meant more than just ‘insects’ to Granny.
This frog ain’t easy boiled. That’s because I listened to Granny and enlisted in my own one-man army.
Nuclear war may be the panacea from cultural dementia. I AM ready because I’m a convict within my convictions…

and I do my Kegels.
Granny had an overhead projector. She was a woman who had nerve issues and read too many Nietzsches. She would talk to us like we were smarter than we’d ever be. You weren’t treated the same, I can see that much. Why are you still reading this? Because you know as well as I do that Granny passed along more than broken genes and figurines.

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