KIRO is a mewling pack of low-to-no-talent hacks. They're nothing without Chopper 7.
So how they got this much
zazz on their plate is an open question. Since after the events of today, no one knows anything anymore —except for me! HA!— I think we're looking at another Plate Spag Incident.
Especially since the events of yesterday were, to coin a phrase: ABSOLUT WANKREĒ.
GOOD LUCK WITH YOUR BRAN DOE CLAN OOK-DO OOK-POOK! ß-lated, but not ẞadd.
IN ANY CASE: I love this area that I live in. That whole Coolidge-Chaolixx-Cowlhips schtick, that's pretty awesome, and if it weren't for the alarm bells that would sound off if I were seen to be openly asking anyone in town about anything pertinent, I could probably have cranked out a spiffy historical crime novel already.
None of you care about my future income earning potential though, right? Just making sure I don't get too big a slice of American π for myself without paying as much vig as possible to your thuggy-piggy
übermensch elite, right?
Honestly, I can see why my father became Bud-dependent, as that shit is better used to put out fires than it is to be drunk, and so undoubedly slowed the natural tendency of alcoholic beer to reinforce the rate at which it is consumed.
Consequences, like the human body, come in many sizes. So I've decided to start buying craft beers and then using them to flush my toilet. That way, I shall be encouraged to shit less often... and my now 100% YOGURT BASED DIETARY PLAN IS NOW FULLY OPERATIONAL. Stay with me here: I can't just switch to full-on beer, just for fun.
At this point, every can of beer I drop goes straight to my hips. I have become an extraordinarily efficient biological machine. With beer, amphetamines, and a typewriter, I could have all the fun in the world, and probably never have to take a shit for the rest of my life if I never open a bag of chips.
Since I refuse to exercise alone, beer is off the menu. I'm already at risk of becoming as fat as the hawgs laying siege to my hilltop stronghold. BY ROYAL DECREE: YOGURT IT SHALL BE. Honestly, it's not much of a sacrifice, but I will miss belching up the little Batsquatch nymphs.
Just kidding. Just one sip contains enough genomic material to fuel the gestation cycle; especially as my duwombneum has become the perfect place for pancreatic honeycomb lattice structures to be built for surplus storage. I'll still be letting the bats out... but by flushing my 100% yogurt logs of mostly-human Titan excrement with freshly-cracked craft beers, I'm taking the cutting out of the middleman to the next
next level. To those looking (boo!) at my metadata (hiss!), I'll still appear to be an ill-mannered, drugged and drunken lout. FU, DNI! Yet in reality: MORE INSCRUTABLE THAN UNSCREWABLE, and that's for damn sure.
This is a spiritual battle, and THIS IS WAR. And war is Hell.
For you.
This is what violating everyone's civil rights, keeping me in the dark while putting my life on blast in the footlights, and feeding me TONS of bullshit FOR MONTHS has gotten you, OpFors. Not a mushroom, Clowns, instead:
—MUSHROOM CLOUD—.
This is fun for me. This is what your efforts have bought you. RAAAAAAWWWWWWWR
Get those resumés updated and keep them that way, Clan Brawndō & Bonne Clowny-Dix. Save your disposable red noses after you pull them out of whatever crack you're sniffing up on; they'll be collector’s items one day, coming up real soon now, boogers and skidmarks and all. You're gonna be looking for new work long before I ever do, revenooers. You'll get tired of your pogrom before you ever get tired of me. I guarantee it.
Unless you're an accountant. They're already tired.
So tired.
Nap!
