Seriously now, is MISLED actually a word?
I actually thought of that when I typed it, but I let it slide, in an earnest and sincere attempt to gain a little street cred to grow on. Hi.
A useful distinction, a worthy trope? Perhaps, but even so, we never like witnessing abuse, mismanagement
Say what you want: I DO LIKE WITNESSING THE ABUSE, I never tire of remembering that video where she goes, "I'm calling the police!" and she starts fiddling with her phone, right in front of the bedroom door, and the door opens--bursts inwards suddenly--and out comes Kid Nixon, and he's GRABBING her phone, right out of one (1) of her hands (she's a careless gripper unless it's, you know) and he YELLS, "Knock IT OFF!!!!" and bam, right there, right there, he's got them, not one (1), but (2) TWO (2) felony charges.
Slapping the phone out of her hand, that's one, then actually taking it into his filthy little bedroom/hovel, that's theft, and then, preventing a poor, struggling, U.S. Citizen just tryna get by, from calling for HELP from the POLICE, why that's a THIRD FELONY CHARGE. THREE (3) FELONY CHARGES! HA! HA! HA!
She yells down the hall towards me with the camera, "Call the police, Jack!" I say, "I'll do it!" I fucking of course fucking don't. (Off-brand.) Nothing fucking happens. (Just yet.) What did need to happen? Ahh, sigh. Pet Sematery. How droll.
or being misled around the lexicon. So past tense, so très louche, so misleading!
Get ready, strap in, how's this for misleading: last week I caught the eldest boy on my phone pretending to be a prostitute. (College credit, I hope.) He wasn't alluring, per se, and I was seeking maximum data points and just tryna be nice while monitoring my perimeter, and he was on there 2 or 3 times at least that I came to recognize, just pluggin' away, fighting the good fight, "Can I get a game card," O Christ I forget what all that stuff entails, but it's tedious. What was he looking for? Why, recorded evidence of my purchasing his Whorecrunx Services, no doubt. (Never gonna happen.)
The degree to which these nugglet half-tards are beating the midnight oil to get things going, why, it's massive. I've never seen such an imposing armada of stool pigeons. WTF they think they doing, anyway? Company, I suppose. Keeping it, that is. Swimming pools, movie starts, and endless long, rolling filing cabinets filled with Papers Galore, your next stop: The Circumstantial Zone. Thank God I never went into that field. All the endless clerical work is not really up my alley. heh.
so misleading!
Please allow myself to refrain from pointing anyone in the wrong direction: I'm going to get that bald fat fuck de-badged and have his scrote gnawed off by a badger -and- a weasel. Whatever the fuck he's doing at all, the last goddam thing that needs to be done is to go through my fridge to remove possible pantera for copyright violations.
I've been forced to live in isolation/INCOMMUNICADO\solitude for months. It is not all bad. Lots of superpowers, so little Puny targets. HO HO HO, now I have a machine that listens to tweakers screaming in their sleep. It's -maybe- accurate at times. Tweakers talk a lot of shit, really, but I was staying up all night long before I ever heard of the term. Why not? Sleeping disorder. No reason to wake up with the dawn. Daylight?
Not again.
So, I'm uncertain which details gleaned from telepathic rumours I want to verify first. Try this? TWO (2) WIVES? No! THREE (3)? THREEVE WIVES (4)? Do any of them boil pasta in_real_time? *crash-sploosh* Like I just can't fuckin' even. Do I get to find out? Oh fuck no. I can't call, I can't write, I can't do jack or shit, and the reason is because some cunting Fed with a badge for faghots thinks getting down to brass tacks is his next wisest move.
I'm beginning to see #Sparkles point about #FacePunchingInTheDream. It would just be easier. Certainly I was brought to the point by the dickbag's own words, "I wish I could punch (blank's) face in," and it wasn't said then, but it was obvious, The Man was pissed because he -thought- that His Boy had blown the frame with an off-timed giggle of laughter. It still blows my mind: he thinks I'm unlawful.
But at least he's down for spiking? He's not even doing it right. So loathsome. I certainly side with Alli on that one. It would be nice if she had mentioned the loser's existence at some point. I guess she and sister had ensorcelled them both at some point. Still gross. What a smarmy, mealy-mouthed cunty punty tweaker fuckhead.
Actual eewww.
Actual gross.
I am beginning to think that this is all perfect karma. Putting up with this dude for nine months--imagine if it came with a baby; would that be a vampire baby?--like wow. Wow, that might be enough to count as time served -and- lessons in obsessions learned,
Moron.
He seemed legit when he called someone to leave a voicemail after discovering that I was unwilling to accept delivery of ridiculously inappropriate packaging... at first. Dude had no nuance. He did when he was talking about punching Boy Wonder in the face. (I wouldn't have known if not for the seething light hatred in his voice, he sure seemed to think it was his fault--and if he thought it was ever a good idea to accuse a priest of polishing a crucifix, it's possible that he might never think that again after this--but if it were, it wasn't a fault at that moment. Until it was, as it was then that I began to wonder, "wtaf does this g*y think he's doing in my goddam car having some retardo codekey voicemail conversation while I'm in the midst of a 400 miles drive?" I'm staggering under the weight of my imagination in in this asinine instance, if ever I were able to imagine such a profound lack of self-awareness.) Dude. You think you're that tough? You're such a goddam transparent shell that I can peer through both hemispheres to see tomorrow's Lotto picks
from fucking here. 999? 666? Dude. Your
gravitas is as weighty as 123. I still can't fargin' believe it. TO: ICEWHOLE, DOCTOR OZ'S MILDLY CONGENTIALLY (BUT STILL KINDA CUTE, LEGITIMATELY) RETARDED GYNECOLOGIST'S SISTER'S CHEER CAPTAIN'S DUMBEST & DUMPIEST CARHOP DOWN AT THE BURGERMEISTER'S STABLE 'N' SKATEBOARD SHACK: ATTENTION PLEASE, ATTENTION: HEY, CAN YOU TELL ME HOW TO GET TO THE SOLAR FEDERATION PRACTICE FRACT ICE RANGE? I HAVE AN APPOINTMENT.
FROM: YOUR FUCKING DADDY. SUBJECT: YOU'RE TIRED OF WINNING NOW, BITCHLIPS. HAVE A LITTLE BITCHNAP. DO IT. DO IT NOW.
BODY TEXT: I'm fixing to buy you a stake and a beer. (Yes, the beer is for me.) Are you out of your fucking mind? Are you -this- goddam high? I mean, yeah, could be. That is how such things do tend to go. Especially at end-of-life quasi-hospice-care boondoggles. Anyway, as they say at times like these: stand-yadda down-budda, blah-fuckin' King-blah Kong-bluh, see above as in regards to "your fucking mind," as in, are you the fuck out of it yet? Jesus fucking wept little fucking crowny tears with tiny rubber duckies and steel-belted radials equipped onto little fluffy bunnies, built for speed and equipped for quicksilver lightning bolts for crossbows that don't trigger so good, but they aim the fuckin' best, Motherfucker: you are shot through the heart, and know of course, you're not to blame for not even knowing yet. That's on me. That's what The Kangaroo Man has brought to the table, thanks to the innovations afforded by the sale of a (1) single K.U.C.Z.I.O.O. to a passing Roma trader with an axe to burn and some cache moanies to grind up and sprinkle on, say "good buy" to your biscuits (2), Bisquicky Sticky Fingers & Tree (3), because you are about to be gotten the fuck out. Of play. Of Time, Of The World's End Maid. Made of bats' wings, little girls' ponies' ponytails, and midnight dark-and-thick as night menstrual blood and various & assorted effluvient parts. PERIOD. (You're still here? Impressive. Most of the chin is still intact. Jawbone,
gonebone.) It's possible your mind kept right on going on it's little toy train track in the sky as its foundational intellectual support structures were annhilated by a passing nudge from that beam cannon that just let go from a stray, random, wild magick shot from The Only Wave Motion Gatling Gun we got, left lying around like an old, glassy, glittery and licked-off char and ashes sticky-tooey glass asstracer ray... coming in on that stray beam of light you just saw, it's Me, MOTHERFUCKING JACKSTAR. DESTROYER OF YOUR SISTER, YOUR MOM, YOUR GIRLFRIEND, YOUR BARTENDER'S GIRLFRIEND, AND THAT BITCH DOWN THE STREET, THREE TRAILERS BACK & TWICE-REMOVED ON THE LEFT, THAT HEAVY-DUTY CHAINSAW-SMOKING BATTLEAXE, THE ONE THAT LOOKS MAYBE A LITTLE, MAYBE A LOT, BUT REALLY NOT AT ALL LIKE MRS. PAUL, THE FIST'N'FISH FILLET KING OF CORPUS CHRISTI? YEAH... I' M GONNA TEAR THAT ONE UP INTO LITTLE PIECES AND DESTROY ALL THE EVIDENCE THAT ONE WAS GONNA PROVIDE (2).
I MEAN... SWIM IS GONNA. *BLINK AWAY* JOB'S DONE, YOU APING PAPI-PASTING PAPA FUCKIN' FATHER TIME SUCKING OFF TINY CATAMITE COCKKNOCKER W/ATTACHED BALLFONDLER. Do I have your fucking attention yet? You should be on this live, actual, & dressed in formal attire this.very.instant if you know what's good for you, hillbilly Boy. Do you ever wear glasses? Can you put on this matching face-mask-diaper'n'matching-actual-diaper for me and start referring to yourself in the 2nd person as "John Baby" and in the 3rd as "Mikey Abbey"? Well, tell you what, consider picturing this: someone else just read all that stuff that you just read, and they read it before you did, that's for sure, and before all that? Before I read'n'wrote it at the same time? I had to live through all that fucking bullshit that you threw down and--like a man--double-dog-dared yourself to drag my ass and and my name that became named "Ass" through the mud to get to the road that lead to your door that brought me and you, together again, at the last. Now. Once again: are you out of your fucking mind? (Nice to see you again, now go back to sleep, you're about to Actual Die down on levels 3, 5, 7, and NEIN NEIN NEIN--*click*) Well, you're about to be. Yeah, I bet you can't believe that shit, because, number one, you're a total cockgobbling sheepdipped shitforass gigantic ignoramus. No, don't imagine the smell; just fuckin' breathe it in and savor it. Let it sink it. Let the miasma roll around in your local genomic environment. I'm pretty sure they're gonna reduce you to component vortices of your sand'n'semen basted sub-concsiousness. (And, I do mean "sub.") Look, I know you used tuba eee sum a big deal by the numbers out here before, right? WRONG. Near as I can figure, you never were ain't used be nothing but Jack -and- shit, and Jack left town. Quite a few number of times, Brother. (*shoves restraint order at you after removing it from his mink-skinned and pink-tinted diplomatic pouch* Stay thefuckout of My Lodge or I'll have my only remaining ex-Founding Member teach me how to rape you, on you, after he beats the explicitly informed consent out of you. The hard way. WITH A NIGGAPENCIL. Soon to be my favorite re-writing device, I think--provided I get my way done... the Sevenfolded Avenging Way W/Sunday Matinee: "I Spit Upon Your Grave."* yeah, sign there, 'n'thereF.) What did you think? Quite a ride, huh? Yeah, I bet you were impressed with the one you just thought you were gonna take me on, oh, lol, excuuuuuse meeeee, I said take me on? Yeah, morsel, I meant,
you have got to
be putting me on. Cancel. Canceled. Can you understand the words that are coming out of your mouth? Because, you can't, and as God as my witness, I'm never gonna get hungry while I'm tearing you apart, limb by limb, piece by piece, with this 2x4 and attached lengths of Hunks of Handy Chain, because as it turns out, I said I would never break The Chain, but you know what? Yeah, you do know what, and let's see if I can break off a petal from the metal while I'm peeling your fucked-off skullfucking-on scalp everlasting with one hand while lickin' off my finger -lickin' good fingers and imagining your daughters' snatch juice surprise! SNATCH THE JEWS tasting so damn tasty, especially while observing your eyeballs rupturing and oozing down your cherubic, rosy cheeks. (I bet those boyish good looks earned you a whole lot of glossy portrait shots, suitable for framing, mug shots, or... well, that's about it and that's about all now, for the time being. Go wash your hands, now. No, they're not dirty, but your fat-FoxForce-5-Fuckface soul is, and it's vile to gaze upon in my own sight that be true. So, if you don't mind, pretty please, with sugar on top, go find yourself a nice secluded spot to go fuck off and die by yourself to get along to your
switftly
approaching heat death end of yor collapse
Is the EMERGENCY that one where you're so unhip that your butt cheeks are about to start falling off at a snappy clip? Like, I seriously DO NOT GET IT. Whose fucking dipshit idea was this goddam Cadillac/Benz over my Maxhammy charade-and-shit show? Was there a TOWER involved? Because there fuck motherfucker goddam bucket 'n' chowderhead should have fucking been one. Hang on. Let me check my Winter Solstice Voicemail Archive, I don't usually do this, but holyfuckinshit, I gotta take a hit off the Wayback Tailpipe right about now--I'm starting to enter another Deep Cycle Dizzy Spell (btw you should pull your G-man G-curses down,
tout suite, Fancy Pants Man, you get that one warning, because the mirror magick is gonna fract.)