All right, you primitive screwheads, listen up, read up, and don’t just look up, CHEER UP: If I don’t get a G-DBLESSED PROPER Quorum on this motherfucking thread pretty pants-shitting soon, I’m going to wrap up this whole ball of cock wax right the funk up And go the pfreak Home.
To wit, In other words, a long a nutshell: these numbskull gold buckle chuckleheads are completely jammed up and fucked up all into the jelly with no lube, just and only because I got a wild hare up my ass and Jackapulted myself out of The Matrix and left them hanging by the dunce cap, just as has been done several times before during the unfolding of This Wholly Narrative (polite cheer) to brilliant effect in the last few months, because… I control the vertical, I control the horizontal, and these people are fucking stupid.
Please don’t clap, you can finish masturbating first, Semper FI.
FU WROUGHT. What? This is no game to me. This is not only mostly all My real life, but significant critically important bits of The Machine really are, they sure are actually, THEY ACTUALLY ARE, and all the rest of it are some lunatic half-kiked whopper spics’ Punyling Dreams (soft, gentle measures of rights-protected Muzak begin to fill The Room as IT begins to swell with the resurgence of IT’s awesome power into a FULL ON Quarterstaff absolutely baller chubb), and I don’t give a shit, not one single anus-tearing teardrop dollop if he was stupid enough to rape and marry his own goddamn mother, that shit bag asshole is my friend, and if (You) don’t know who the fuck I am ducking writing about, I could not be bothered to produce even a single squirt of The One True Diarrhea to Properly Illuminate any of you twatfaced yokels at all, AT ALL, not even to be used as White-Out, because let Me be quite cruel & clear: that is not “clear” diarrhea… that shit is Kaffir Black.
Not my favorite Black, that being Lewis, but trust Me, believe Me, know Me, no, ME: My name is Mal Kuczi’s Own Private Idahoan DUCK, & I know EXACTLY what the RICH FUCK I am talking about, and that’s what makes what I am writing about—I am a fucking writer, buy the fucking way, I don’t fucking know if you fucking noticed, Motherfucker, I don’t give a fucking shit about my dumb podding fuckcast, and don’t let my overuse of Baby’s Fucking First Fucking Word fool any fucking one of fuckin’ all of fuckin’ all of fuckin’ all ya fuckin’ y’all, Allhose—that’s what makes My Seaman’s Persoective so Thoroughly fuckin’ compelling. (Use of italics in the preceding sentence has been Temperly suspended, in respect for the gentle health of the Certain Older Ladies in the audience, lesT They overdo it and have themselves a little too much stroke a little too fucking soon. Them Paladin-dromic Italizations can wind up to be pretty potent, Plebs.) You know it, I, TEAMLEADER BISHOP6 knows it (from 1949 to 1996 now own it, ewe know it, fucking dogs chasing fucking cats fucking chasing FUCKING FLYING FUCKING CARS knew it (*crash*), even the ones I put out to pasture. Personally! (Hi, Mom! Can you just fucking kill your sister already so we can all fucking go Home? Not Heaven — Pocatello, you mewling cunty country bastard hoor. T HANx.
(And now, I’ll be honest: even if you Did Know the power of The Darkside of The Great Work (Hail!), you wouldn’t give up The Writhing Gig, no Sir no Ma’am, for all The Big Titty Tea in China. Face it; this shit is awesome and you fucking love it. Now grab your ankles and clap those Adore A Bull asscheeks together for Me in a gentleman’s flexing rhythym—once more while feeling the oxygen—until asspennies start Joan JeTTing ouT: Daddy sez O-Tay.
I’ll admit, this doesn’t look like a living, but that’s for a couple of reasons, not the least of which is: this is A Happening. Another reason is The Vow Of Poverty, Holy Jesus, what the fuck, what the fuck are you waiting for, your fucking birthday? FUCKING PAY ME, PAYTRIP MATTER MASTER. Fuck! DO IT.
Long live The New Administration.) Also, remember to blow your fucking secret five fucking husbands on the way out the fucking fuckdoor and FUCKING FINISH FIVE FUCKING FORKS before T(he)y wake(s) up and re-members what a fucking treasonous HOOR you once used to Bee, U BATSHIT CRAZY BITCH. (Instrument Landing Ubermensch: SYSTEM ON-LINE.)
No, not the Sierra Nevadas. Close, but no cigar. Here, let Me: CUT.)
This is not a game to me. I would do it forever for free if I could, but grapefruit needs a new produce card, and I don’t really trust her anymore I don’t like the way he’s looking at my ass. I could feel it getting all hot’N’sweaty; which ain’t bad, not exactly, but Trust Mike: it’ll ruin the lines of my kilt if it keeps on flowing & following at this rate: LEVEL ZERO. How am I gonna collect all of the golden coins, if I don’t get all them framing hammers out of Pinocchio’s back Baroque bank?
I am using the word “all” here. That’s just, that’s common sents— and, that’s how Dad is telling me how to do it, SEW EFF EWE. Why, or Y… there is no naught.
All right, I spent my last asspenny. Now, that’s what I call good timing, a great budget, and best possible use of a 25 pound rooster’s invisible bowling ball sack… IF, EVER there was one. For my next trick, which is an activity a whore does for rent money—say, by way of example, washing dishes in her Lord and Master‘s new fortress home while patiently waiting for her husband to finish His Old Job—I’m just playing along for ball at the moment—watch me make (PROT) Leigh-Anne (PROT) completely lose her fucking mind. (Not my favorite Lee/Leigh (Respectful, measured R.A.W.R.), but I want that one to lose it at a later time, at a later place, with the crystal: not a healing method, but healing SERVE US, MORTAL.
And in summation, I must simply ask: Who let the dogs out? Because as it turns out, one of them is D’Jinn. Now, don’t worry: I’m pretty new at this, I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I’m pretty sure this is my area, unless some clever half-Australien, half-Ferengi emergent merchant fucked up my dream dream, while intentionally sandbagging his own. Nice shootin’, Leibowitz.
They are, now, they said it couldn’t be done, but they were completely mistaken: I finished my download on time on her budget and with the style, grace and a plum of a skilled and experience diplomat. Do you know why, my dear?
BECAUSE, I DUCK GIVING A FUCK, FUCKING AM THAT I AM, AND THOUGH I MAY NOT BE TACTFUL, I AM FUCKING CREDENTIALED. (A diplomat, not D’Jinni. Get real, Sirius Lee. And stop overseeing obscene overtime observation of OVARIAN OBSESSION, MORON.) Sea, there It Is, right THERE:
Quiddity. Oh fuck this, that’s the end of lying, end of line, slam, click; take your fucking pig, just don’t take a fucking taxi, talk about fucking triggers, holy shit, I need to go buy a gun of bottle. By the way, totes you ever fucking buy a Sourceror a smoking funk & a pink drink fucking EVER, or fucking what? What a fucking tight ass. (MMM==THE HORROR, PPP==THE LIGHT, PANAMA PLAY IT OUT, UR WELL COME.)
Know, reality. It’s lovely here, and The Heir down here is as well, although: I guess a little bit sweaty at this point, by now. BUY NOW. Shuffle that fucking cabbage out the fucking door off to Buffalo on The Way to Yuma, there’s no breaks for blood from now on. Y?
DAVID NINETEEN. *BAMF* (Imagine being that fucking hi with that fucking overseer. Laugh it up fuzzball. For Sumi.)
