Once, a long time ago, in a life I used to lead, I asked my friend, "hey, like... that really sucks and all, but, hadn't you told me that this kind of thing had happened multiple times to you in your life? Like, over a dozen times? So... what makes this one so gosh-darn different, Sweety?" Open, normally blinking eyes. Staring into hers. Opening my soul to her gaze. Frontin'... absolutely nuttin'. Hell's bells, at that moment, I didn't even now why she had to go to North Mexico -anyway,- in spite of two obviously "on the record" telephonic conversations where this gal and I went round and round AND ROUND about why she HAD to go, and she HAD to tell me about it... in two-hour chunks, on the phone, with absolutely no useful information conveyed. Like, to this day, I'm still not sure... but damn, I bet that trip to Oklahoma
probably should have come up at
least once. (It did not.)
So, she's looking at me, and she could tell that I was, really and truly, absolutely fucking clueless as to what was happening that was so belly-aching awful, like, Christ, some days it seemed like she would -never- shut up about getting taken like a fresh-faced farm girl first off the bus in Hollywood on "Fresh Faced Targeted Individual Day" at the bus stop that was mocassin-accessible, and... she told me, in a rare moment of vulnerability, that she "didn't think that it could happen again." Funny... I guess that means she thought I was either lying or wrong when I said, "don't fucking go, are you fucking nuts?" Perhaps I was insensitive? Could be, Bellgab. Could fuckin' very well fuckin' be. I do have the most sensitive part of my body constantly exposed to exterior air and forced to rub up against the crotch-tight casual, formal, and all-wearable clothing in modern society has to offer someone.., but at least I'm not one of those Never Nudes, amirite? Ugh, just ugh, blech.
Anyway, I didn't really get it, not until just now, when I saw the thread created by Azzerae--you know, the "owner" of this "forum"--in a thread he created titled, "Why I, Azzerae, Me, Myself, no really, I created it, just me, and here's why:" became the punchline to his own joke when I saw that the last post in "his" thread was the one I quoted above, by the one, the only, the marginally tolerable: pate.
Tangy!
There two things I simply cannot believe, and they must be made note of here. Number one... I don't find it plausible that I am the only one here who knows Dark Souls well enough to catch the reference. Not a chance. Here's a hint to those of you who don't play cryptically inscrutable games for hundreds of hours to figure out hidden secrets and basically know other reason... "Pate" in Dark Souls is -never- Your_Friend (BTW,PC:DVR==YF|*BOOM*BOOM*BOOM*SUCK IT DOWN*BOOM*BOOM*), and people with mononyms of exactly four letters and absolutely no capitalization are My People. MINE. Now, that may seem a bit incongruous wouldn't that mean that My People are not... my.. friends?
You're goddam right. They're not, and neither is he. Or she. Or it. Whatever the fuck this twerp running "pate" these days is, fuck that loser, what a douche. Hello, McFly? BE THE FUCKING POSTMAN, DICKBREATH. Like, how do I need to explain this to you people?
I cannot be reasoned with.
I cannot be argued with.
I cannot be bought.
And I absolutely will not stop until... uh, well, actually, that's a good one, because I'm pretty much focused on two things these days, that's all I got the mental bandwidth for, and until this shit is resolved, I am a Man of ONLY TWO SINGULAR PURPOSES. Number one: I need a consult with a Master healer, and if they happen to be an orthopedic surgeon, so much the better, and, number two... fuck my hand hurts, like no shit. Ow! Halp. What was I just thinking was the second thing? I literally can't fucking remember. Might be talking to my five friends again... but maybe that's like a subconscious projection about my hand, like five fingers, like five friends... but, wait, like, have I ever even had five (5) friends all at the same time before? I kinda fuckin' doubt it, boo-hoo-hoo, broken wah-wah-wah. Ouchie. Hand hurtie. (A few seconds pass as I stare at the windowed front door to my home, at which no face with car keys has appeared.) Am I not making this clear enough to you? I guess not.
RETURN THE MAP, YOU THIEVING DWARF MIDGET FUCKS. YOU FUCKING OWE ME LIKE YOU HAVE NO WAY OF CONCIEVING... AND THE LEAST YOU CAN DO IS OFFER THOUGHTS AND PRAYERS. A SONG DEDICATION. A WHORE I CAN PAY FOR IN CASH AND NOT CRYPTO AND CAN BE ALLOWED TO COME TO MY HOME WITHOUT BEING INTERCEPTED AND REPLACED BY A CUNNINGLY DEVISED ROBOT SIMULACRUM. SOME FUCKIN' 'LUDES, CHRIST, THEY'RE THE #2 MOST USED ILLICIT RECREATIONAL DRUG ON THE WHOLE CONTINENT OF AFRICA, AND YOU CAN'T FIND TWO RATTLING AROUND IN AN OLD COFFEE CUP AND THROW THEM IN A GODDAM PADDED ENVELOPE? YEAH, FUCK YOU BUDDY, THE FUCK YOU CAN'T. GRUMBLE GRUMBLE GRUMBLE.
Until I get to the end of this particular existential crisis, which will be a couple weeks, I mean, I have money, I know where to go, and I know how to get there... I'm gonna drive myself in whatever fucking vehicle gets un-sabotaged, A.S.A.F.P., and I know you fucking cuntmongers are used to simply sabotaging permanent-like, and then moving on, but it's different this time, Assholes, and not just because I get to call you "Assholes" now. You're gonna -unfuck- my vehicles, and you're gonna do it -gladly.- (Try it. You'll fucking it like it. Believe me.) Now, believe it or not, Dear Reader... writing all that down and pushing EXECUTE POST SUBMIT is a huge pain reliever. Also a relief: it hurts less to type with nine fingers than it does to Swype with one finger on a cellphone. How often does one use their right thumb when typing anyway? Fuck it, I can just use my left thumb--at least when I get tired of banging on the space bar with my fully erect penis after typing every Heavenly-inspired word that I am here to bring you, Bellgab. It's a sacrifice--I was really hoping to go to the Olympics with my soon-to-be-patented "How Many Fingers Is That?" dazzle manuever, but... oh well, here I am, poor balls totally cut off--wow, those zingers from the wrencher sure showed me who was boss yesterday, yep, and of course--TOTES TOTAL SUPRISE, SHOCK, DISMAY, OMG, LUCY PULLED THE FOOTBALL AGAIN? WOW THAT'S SO OUT OF CHARACTER AFTER BEING A SURLY HARPY BITCH FOR THREE MONTHS SOLID AND CONSTANTLY WHINING ABOUT HIS LACK OF MONEY, OH, TOO BAD, HOW ABOUT YOU GO BACK TO SELLING EXCEDRINE TABLETS NOW THAT YOU'VE GOTTEN YOUR ASS CUT OFF FROM -LEGIT- SOCIETY, ASSHOLE, AND HOW IS THAT MY FAULT AGAIN? FUCK YOU, BUDD3, SEE YOU AT THE GROCERY STORE IN THE MORNING--I mean, wow, I just had no idea that this was a possible outcome, wow. I mean it: wow. You really thought you had me going, huh?
Let me guess: you believed the hype. Kid, I'm telling you... -never- buy the hype. Get her kid sister to shoplift them for you like always. Like you used to do. Like you did last summer! Oooh, let's shoplift again! NOT ME, YOU: LIKE YOU DID LAST SUMMER, AND THE SUMMER BEFORE THAT, AND... well, you get the idea. (p.s.:
Mazel tov, dipshit.)
Now, speaking of which, back to marital bliss: myself being the insensitive and, frankly, wholly insubordinate brute that I was at the time--in my defense, this broad -never- told me that she was -ACTUAL ROYALTY,- which certainly explained the haughty demeanor and general disdain for me at times... I mean, honestly, I was uncouth, and how could she have known, that I came from a civilization that believed Royals spoke Truth--lol, I know, a backward people, We Huns, too bad, you should see me on horseback, Baby--so I know for a fact, that most of the time we interacted... she did so with the certain knowledge that I really was, just a backwoods proto-niglet, barely worthy of kissing her feet... but I loved her, truly I did, and I still do. And, can you imagine? No one ever had before! NOT A ONE.
With her fashion sense and keen eye for nailing moving targets, I know, it seems implausible, but apparently everyone else had fallen in love with her for her various attributes... whereas the first thing I loved about Grapefruit was her charming, very antiquatedly-seeming--to me--belief that she was gonna actually gonna pull off that talk she was slinging with that walk of hers, with ANY walk a biped could manage. And, great G-d almigthy... she actually did pull it off. And had she been able to maintain actual loyalty, rather than a simulacrum of such, she'd still be pulling it off. I cannot blame her for not doing so, because I truly believe not a single person she was ever allowed to meet and form a genuine personal connection with was ever able to even remotely approach the simple level of dedication of devotion that came as naturally to me as breathing... because I knew she was a Tripartite being INSTANTLY. When she told me that her mother could possess her body, I INSTANTLY knew what that meant, "Holy fuck, sometimes it's her mother possessing the body and fucking me. Whoa. Now THAT is A KINK. Hot damn!" And I could tell that it was difficult for her to tell me these things... and for the most part, I understood that. I still do. It's easy for me: my Venus is in Taurus, my Native sign, and it is the most steadfast and loyal Sun/Venus combination that can be expressed through the symbolic language of the Zodiac and its assorted symbols (it's a language, you fucking morons, it's not magick.), and I love her more now today than I ever did before... and, I don't have to fucking pay her bills, buy her shoes, put up with her family's bullshit, or even open stuck jars or fetch high-placed objects. She has thugs for that now, and God bless them, One and All. She has obviously learned how to be loyal to -someone- by now at least, and I admire that, and I always will... and assuming that pesky brainslave vulnerability she has implanted in her can be removed (I can do it from here, actually--I am an
actual Sourceror, you dorks, read a book or two all the way to the end once in a while, eh?--but not without her consent, go fig, ironic,
n'est-ce pas?) and in spite of how implausible as it may seem, she can fuck anyone she wants to get her rent paid, I won't think any less of her at all. I mean... she's a woman. How could I
ever think
any less of
her? (Her handlers are smarmy twatfaced little bitch-baby-boy thugs and they should all be hauled out back and fucking shot at dawn by Dawn with whatever slow-acting poison she chooses... I am not picky, and I am quite biased, but whomever is in charge of Grapefruit these days? THEY ARE FUCKING STUPID BEYOND ALL BELIEF.) I would still be happy to protect her and her family's interests... once the Tribal Council convinces them that I'm not the fucking problem here--THEY WERE, ARE, AND WILL BE UNTIL THEY MAKE SOME SERIOUS GODDAM CHANGES TO THEIR VALUE SYSTEM. You know value? She's one of your treasures, and you fucking abused her while blaming me. Nice job,
Hosers. How did that work out for you? Well... I'm withholding my judgement for the time being. Talk Soon(tm)(R).
Until, like, her protection grid got shut down--by her own choice and consent--and her staunchest ally was abducted from her home at gunpoint by a baker's dozen of assorted Officers, Agents, and D-Bags wearing Stolen Uniforms, lead by some Portuguese pimpmonger--current whereabouts, ID, and National loyalty "unknown, and we don't know who deleted everyone's body camera footage either, sorry, NO REALLY, we're fucking sorry," (I fuckin' bet they fuckin' are, ay-yup) and thrown in jail on Christmas Eve, after she said to me, "That's it fucker! You're going to jail!" right after I said, "Honey, maybe we should call a crisis line," and right before she got on The Magic Talking Box and said those words that every man whose immediate family had been killed by State-sponsored civil bureaucrats during their ill-fated attempted to seize more ill-gotten gains for themselves and their immediate flunkies, toadies, and "Family" members ended in, what for them, must have been quite the disaster, and after that, what every survivor of that epic-level level of
totesfuckinbullshit wants to hear: "I think he's trying to kill me! *click*" And, that as they say, was pretty much All She Wrote when it came to Grapefruit's spiritual aegis. Shit, Lady, you don't value my protections? Okay, well, you didn't have to call the police... you could have just, like, you know, said so, and then: MOVED THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE. Or, paid rent. Maybe, it would have depended on whatever bullshit story I got fed instead of the truth, which even now... well, thankfully, I'm still hazy on a lot of that. I'm still just
speculating. Let me ask you this: oh, wait. That would be "contact." Oh, dear.
I'll just wait. This EMERGENCY won't last forever... but my honest adoration and adulation will, and not just because this is the best goddam shaggy dog story I ever heard of, I genuinely care for the people involved, ALL OF WHOM have bitten off WAY, WAY more Big League Chew than they were expecting from what was thought to be a mere Hungarian snack food. "Melts in your mouth, not in your hand!" Yeah, well... I expand. In either. Assuming I'm not being berated by some lying harpy-esque BeastLordWoman pretending to be in charge still. Again. Ever. Jesus
wept.
Now, keep in mind--whatever or whoever that person is now, at the time, she was a very, very disturbed woman... and she was -legitimately- pissed at me, and she thought she had -legitimate- reason to say those things. She believed that she needed to do that in order to survive... BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER WILL DO TO A PERSON. And all--ALL, the word I am using, Bitches--ALL OF YOU DAMN WELL KNOW IT. So. Not so fuckin' funny now, is it? Oh, only a year ago, you and your ilk's clique wer just on top of the fuckin' world, weren't ya? "Oh, we got him this time, tee-hee! He's goan go to jaaaaayyyyyyyllll...." Yeah, I sure did... and it's a damn fine jail, to be quite frank. If I gotta end up spending a year there as a result of past consequential actions being taken... well, I won't be fuckin' gettin' raped, that's for goddam sure. My booking photo is already up on the inside of gym locker doors. Believe it,
MaggotGab.
I am the goddam Prize. And my dick works. And I can cook. AND... I CAN FUCKING READ. (A rare skill these days, it would appear, you you drooling Mongoloid mouth-breathing fuckheads. Go screw, and see if you can do it without using any of my yearbooks as a goddam starter to play House. (Seriously, you people are fucking scum. ACTUAL SCUM. Why can't you be like me? Oh, right--
literacy. Well, look... there is hope...) And you dorks don't even know who I even like anymore, since I've taken the bold, forthright step of no longer shouting out full legal names and social security numbers at point of orgasm, you know, like I usually did when frenetically masturbating alone with no goddam friends in-or-on site-or-sight for the last DOZEN PLUS MONTHS. I just can't even. Puny? Y'all are like Pepe Le Puny, all of you, just fuck off and stay that way for once, I mean...
Christ. Seriously, don't you have any respect for yourselves? Well, start today!
You're listening to a Hungarian, and that... is a good start, at least. You know who was Austrian? Hitler, Mozart, and the fucker who invented Sarin nerve gas. Hungarians? Well, let's see... me, my dad, and mother, and that should be enough for any of you, at this point, to fall down on your goddam knees and start worshipping like were an actual fucking cult. Like the Baghwan! Shree Rajneesh, remember him? Look, if I wanted to dance around in a toga and have braindead followers throw money and flower petals at me, I would have fucking done that by now, but, you wanna know what I want now? Like, right now?
I WANNA TALK TO MY GODDAM FRIENDS, MOTHERFUCKER, AND ANYONE STANDING IN THE WAY OF THAT OBJECTIVE WILL ONE DAY HAVE TO ANSWER... TO THEM.
I WILL
NOT PROTECT YOU. So start whipping up more burner IDs and burner phones and burner passports, you whiney little bitchgang of bitchtards, because the sooner the demands of my friends are assuaged--hey, they're calling for me, Shitheads, it's not like I'm breaking into a convent here--the sooner I can get on with my real life, which, by the way, was never meant to be anything like this... but it looks like there was a job opening for a wily, mad "Hungarian coyote," which you probably know by some other name in your dialect... which, at a guess, is gonna end being linguistically equivalent to "Dire Wolf."
Pit bulls I've never met who are owned by complete strangers to me, raise their legs in salute without pissing as I walk by. I AM THAT REGAL, FUCK-0s. So, hey, what, hey--you wanna ban me again, Tone? Bring a badass router,
Buddy.)
I mean, not as bad as The Great Texas Two-Fer Carnival Of Tunnels Of Texan Love Bugsy debacle, but really... not much can get worse than that, holy shit. "Take my wife... to a bank near a casino in Oklahoma, and, make it seem
spontaneous!!!" I mean, she fucking calls me up on the goddam telephones, across interstate lines, hello RICO, hello Suave Racketeering Incorporated... and she LITERALLY ASKS ME FOR MONEY SO SHE CAN "ESCAPE." And the instant she finds out that, though I would of course help--Jesus, I'd get out and push if it meant I got another chance for more Polaroids--but once she finds out that, by a strange quirk of fate, she called me on the phone, for the first time since leaping headlong into a yellow cab driven by a robotic Ethiopian, she finally calls a few days later, her alter-ego "Spacemeowmaid" has been shitting up the forum (that was back when we were on the one forum with the blue colour scheme, remember?) with all manner of incendiary bullshit that was just as obviously not posted by her as it was obviously meant to get a rise out of me... and there I was, cool as a cucumber with a cell phone, and it went exactly like this:
riiing-ring, riiing-ring, "Hello?" (I didn't think it would be her, why would she call me? She everything at that point, the job, the rich husband, the scheme to dominate the world... everything but a trophy out of me, I guess.)
"Hi! Jack! I need money!"
"Well, of course you do, honey--you're a woman. What's going on?" (I know she has no idea that I know nothing, because I know by that point she had figured out that I might have been more accurate than not when I said, "are you out of your fucking mind? That man is -never- going to give you a job," although I suppose by definitions... well, maybe he did. /toteshrug How should I know? I only know what I was told... which was A VAST RIVER OF BULLSHIT STARTING FROM DAY ONE, MINUTE ONE, POINT BLACK PERIOD. Yeah, duh, red flags much? Boy howdy!)
(Exposition through illuminated narrative continues.)"I need money, I want to leave Dallas, I need to go to Oklahoma"--"wow, really honey, that's great, what are you going to in Oklahoma? You know, I remember we talked about that, once, actually a few times, a long time ago, before your father threatened to kill me and flipped out, called me a cocksucker in front of a minor child, and never ever willingly spoke to me again, but you know, he's old, and surely just plain jell-"--"SHUT UP JACK, LISTEN TO ME! I need money and I don't have much time--"
"Oh, well, Darling, I hear you, I hear what you're saying... and I must interrupt you during your rare moment of candor, because you should know that just as you called, I am right now standing in the basement of my family home, which has no internet, as I turned it off, and it stopped working, and the only data I have is on the phone I am talking to you on, and it's a shitty burner phone with no capacity to even load a web page even if it had data, which it doesn't, and although I adore you, I would do just about anything for you, and I can tell you need help... but as it happens, I drove here from the other place and I left my wallet there--
THIS WAS ACTUALLY TRUE. LEFT MY WALLET IN MY OTHER PANTS. AT THE EXTENDED STAY AMERICA. HAD NO MONEY ON ME, NOT EVEN A DRIVER'S LICENCE. COULD NOT GIVE HER ANY DIGITAL ANYTHING AT THAT TIME, AND ALTHOUGH I HAD PLENTY OF MONEY--AND STILL DO, FUCK-0S, SO GO SIT AND FUCKIN' SPIN, YE DAFT CUNTING FUCKHEADS--THERE WAS LITERALLY NO WAY I COULD HELP HER AT ALL... as even though I was standing in front of my Quantum Node--the computer I had been using in the basement of my family home for the preceding 11 years or so, it was there, and working fine... but NO connectivity.
So I would have had to, AT THE MINIMUM, driven 30 minutes to get to the hotel room where her cat was, and my clothes, and specifically--my wallet. I would have given her the clothes off my back--and still would, some would fit I bet--but that's not what she wanted... she wanted MONEY. From ME. MY money. Hrrm. I wonder... was I the first person she called? Who was the -next- person she asked? Seems like she had some friends with money, and her kids had money, and... well... I guess I'll have to write that question down. If I ever get to ask questions again, that seems like a good one. "Hey, did you need money, or did you just need my ID tied to a digital forensics trail in another state?" Hopefully we'll both still have the security clearances that would be required to be allowed to still even respirate after knowing such super-critical information. Supersecret information, no doubt.
So, I told her all this as quickly as possible, and when she understood the situation... she made an audible "pfftt" noise at me over the phone, and then said... and I'll never forget this, she said, "You're completely useless to me," and then hung up. *CLICK*.
Hadn't heard from her in days. Had, reportedly, allegedly, and some might say... "verifiably"? Been sexually assaulted at that point, but may not have been "raped," and my not have ever been "raped," because... well, Texas law is some funny stuff. Anyway, yeah, that person? Called me looking for money, couldn't get none and no amount of wheedling could have changed that. I mean, shit, I would have been happy to have CashApped her. Maybe she should have called her little bitch-ass "son" who would one day end up flipping out and attempting to pummel and punch me about the head, shoulders, and ultimately a full-on death-strike focused two-fisted punch to my solar plexus, right where my hiatal hernia is... which I also just totally shrugged off like it was less than water off a duck's back. But I'm sure he had money... and was also fully enmeshed in whatever bullshit was happening, because she and he routinely traded phones like they were partners in crime! So, I guess... hrrm, well, maybe I found a blackmailing vulnerability. Hrrm. Should I report this? :ponder: Well, maybe later. It's probably just, like, academic now, right? I mean no one has taken my statements so far, why would anyone start now? At this point, what difference does it make? (Author's note: A FUCKING LOT. FOR REAL... though not so much
to Me.)
Because, for one thing: <Doakes>SURPRISE, SHIELDS MOTHERFUCKER!!!</Doakes>. For another, I love the kid, and he didn't mean any harm, he really didn't... I was being kind of a snot that day, and he's got legitimate behavior issues. And--Venus in Leo. Ugh. And Leo rising for a mom? Christ, honestly, he's really awesome... how, I have no idea, but probably some special concoctions those cunts who think they own Whidbey Island keep for special for themselves and their "chosen friends," ugh, you know what, they could have the goddam Fountain of Youth and gumball machines that spit out caviar and blew to boot for only a nickel, and I'd still say, "fuck that island." What a bunch of snooty fucking imbeciles. And fuck "Little West Langley," too, and their fucking port town named "Clinton." Like, give me a fucking break, what, did you think that was cool, or did you just not have authorization signed in triplicate to come up with any new names? Wait, what am I saying... your island was there before Virginia, right? Oooh, such grand traditions. How about this for a tradition, Whidbey Island--fucking go get fucked and blow me from a distance, and I'll tell you how great you were next time you need some fresh Intel, you fucking datamaggot fuckhead Island-puke
losers. Anyway, I digress, and I'm sorry. I was sorry that day, and was less so that day, but as I'm a fucking adult, I knew how to deal with that situation, which was to look at him dead in the eye and say, "Dude, quit punching me, I'm fucking invulnerable and you're slowing me down from my moving my stuff out of this CIA traphouse that your mother convinced me we needed to live in, so quit mugging for the cameras, Kid: I love you, and you have no power over me." Okay, I admit, I didn't say all that then. Also I didn't know that he was being routinely possessed--like as one would a soulless golem-like creature, but different... this was
an Island golem, so, you know, same thing, just... exclusive and oh-so-
fancy.
Now, I'm not real fancy as far as men goes, and I bet lots of people loved Grapefruit before I did... but I did it
by choice, not because she was so damn
irresistible. But I am fucking invulnerable to unrighteous physical assault. Just face facts, Bellgab--the Army has, why not you? You ain't that ducking special, F.A.R.P.A.
Now, not so much that she was no longer irresistible, but let me tell you, no matter how much one might love another, there's only so many times one can be treated like a peasant footman by one's lover before, let's just say, some of the shine comes off the apple, you know? Because she either really did need my help and cared nothing for the impression left behind, when she heard "no wallet" she just... silenced the call. *poof* Like she was never there. Maybe she never really was.
And she'll -never- believe me, because it did seem really unlikely, right? Me? Leave my wallet? In an Extended Stay America with only a cat and an empty bookshelf with room for five Bibles staring vacantly across the room at the two beds that I will likely never speak more openly in public about ever again as I have today, because... anyway, it was Divine Will. I had not planned on staying out long, didn't plan on buying anything... and, left my wallet at "home." With her cat. And a bag full of bombs, drugs, Democratic Party ballots, and... oh, just kidding, I didn't have any of those things left, she took them all with her.
goddam, I want to tell more of this story so bad, but really, it would be crass, at this point.
Wholly crass.
But also: very tasty.
Tangy!
But at this point, I would have to say... that it was the involvement of losers like this chump, and Stephen Baskett, and... oh, a few more names I could drop, but these two are amongst the dregs of Humanity--arguably--but that's enough for now--I mean, who really gives a shit about pate anyway? Dude's a straight-up order-taker, no balls or even any
chutzpah at all. And, "Steven", shiiit dawg, no one by that name even fuckin'
exists. So, that's alright too. Besides, what's he gonna do, kill one of my cats? Yeah, no, probably not. Anyway, I'll be honest, I'd rather be anally raped than sit down and eat a meal with either of these two loathsome pig-toadie reprobate flunkies, and that's a fact. Eat with both of them? Shit, how about if someone rapes me while those two eat a meal together and review the performance like Siskel & Ebert? Because at least then I would know that whoever was behind me thudding away on my pelvic floor, at least it wouldn't be
either of
those two colossal fucking morons. (lol Doe Bay needle junkie groundskeeper... DUDE YOU BECAME BILL MURRAY IN CADDYSHACK HHAHAHAAHAHAH. lol)
Nevertheless, it must have really sucked for Grapefruit to have to come to the dawning, sudden realization that... lil' ol' me, that all these fucking chumps told her so many shitbag stories about... I, Jackstar, Michael jafd Clifford KUCZI-Gomez-g, am a pretty goddam big deal, and, thanks to whatever the fuck has been happening in Europe (details are sketchy out here in The Wild West, but... apparently some of you thought "Atlanta" was on North America, huh? hahah, you yokels, you're adorable. Anyway, I don't know why, or for what, or even of what, but... hey, I'm a Royal now too. Maybe someone found an old map or someshit, or maybe more of my estranged family that thinks I'm dead or not even worth thinking about died in a poison gas attack or something. Who knows? Not me.
I am nothing without my castle anyway. And this, this place: this is a farm. This is not a castle. And all we grow here is vermin, bile, &
the best goddam Vengeance Strikes that "Planet Earth" HAS TO OFFER US, MORTALS. GRRRAAGGGH. MAD HUNGARIAN MAD! GRAPEFRUIT MAD! RAAAAAWR!And, it's not even a home. And I can't even leave it. I AM BECOME CINDERELLA, SWEEPER OF FIREPLACES, as I've found that's a great place for people to use (and leave behind) their drug paraphernalia, :massivefuckingrolleyes:, yeah, bring a case, motherfucker, and make some more jokes about putting me in prison, too, now that I'm a -real- Royal, such jokes are only all-too appropriate for a Monarch of my stature, grandeur, and Grand Life Aesthetic.
Stay tuned, Bellgab. Do you know how many stories I have like this left? Ho ho ho: LITERALLY ALL OF MY STORIES ARE LIKE THIS.
And for now...
only on Azzgab.com. You know, that little shit should really have sent me some 'Ludes by now. What do I gotta do, rob a fucking bank? Why would I rob a bank? Is it a bank that uses 'Ludes for money? At a wild guess, fuck no. Then, double-fuck no, KNOW: I'm not going to rob a fucking bank to get my fucking 'Ludes, now am I?
See, all this time... you all thought I was kidding. I said I wanted 'Ludes. You know what that meant?
IT MEANT I WANTED SOME GODDAM QUUALUDES, AND I KNOW YOU CREATED THIS WEBSITE AS COVER FOR YOUR ONCE-LUCRATIVE DRUG SMUGGLING CO-ORDINATION OF ARRANGEMENTS, MOTHERF-- *
click*
Just my two cents. Just throwing this out there--spitballing, really. Lucky guesses? Sure, I'm pretty, why can't I be lucky too? Bread crumbs, or rice at a wedding? You be the judge, O Literate One (1).
