Methinks there is far too much faith in the medical profession
I can head over, and take a few standardized tests to prove that I am not an MD, that won't take long, I let my mother's bladder get full to nearly bursting, not just because I am reasonably distractible semi-autonomous savant, but also because I failed to take such simple courses as: Anatomy 101, Bladders 101, C. Crane Co. Catalog CUNT 101, and Mrs. Paul (CUNT 102).
Oh, the recording I could do. Sure, it's right here. It's for you. In the neurosphere. Where my Pixel 3a is, Pixel 6, and Samsung A22 are. One of them is not like the others, that's right, the Pixel 6 is still behind bars. In the cooler. Jail,
little jail bitch. Boom. BOOM. (You gotta really sell it.) BOOM I COMMAND THEE BOOM SMITH! *sploosh* Grats, you managed to flush the toilet. Now soak your head. No, that's not your head, that's your portrait profile picture on the whatever-the-(PPP)-fuck-I-named-the-Pixel 6. Does it even fucking matter? How about, "Pixel"? How about, "The Best PPPPhone I Ever Had!!!" How about whatever you fucking feel like, this one is your house. I'm standing in it right now but whatever, it's got a nylon net and a bunch of broken parts and artichoke hearts scattered all over the place, and is that a skateboard? Good, we can bury him with it. (Thud!) That's his fucking bird body. No, you're not a bitch, and that's not a bunghole--now start shoveling snow out of that shallow, unmarked grave while I fuck this bird's booty with a pair of shotgun blasts and blow that shithouse door wide the fuck open. *CRASH* Sweet! Is it time for a lasagna lunch? Oh, no, it's just this fucking glass aquarium that's been there since you fucking dumped it here and now you're wandering around in jeans and whatever the fuck else those clothes are called, what is tit, no, what is teat, nevermind, Jesus jumping into an aquarium Christ, do you fucking mind? All that splashing around, you're liable to be, well... liable. Check out these tables of figures (rolls in from camera left) oh those are David's collection of Animatronic Ken Dolls. (booted out to camera right) Careful! You might break one! Yeah, fuckin' try me. With a
K. God, you're a simpleton, but this one, is a complex ton of little boy dolls with tiny tattoos of little anvils and hammers etched onto the tippity-tops of the anal bum crack about five point five inches due north of the anus. Watch for the telltale sign of the Brown Star Captain--it's a hat that floats lazily down from the sky when it finds a head it can land on that isn't going to record this, or not let it finish, or make bullshit threats referencing Google Anal Ticks, then it suddenly starts spinning like a flying saucer, zips its way down to the weed store down on Hwy 2, doesn't buy any weed, fucking buys some fucking crystal, and then comes zooming back up to land with a splash in the aquarium. Oh, look! It brought a ladybug. (
Fork.) That just died. Awww, shucks.
It's evidence, they say. I would scream bullshit, but for the following; I saw one of her husbands dressed as an officer - NOT a thug, NOT a pig, NOT a fireman - and the resemblance is a bit spooky. I saw him twice. The second time was an arrest. He was nervous. He was also high. I had to help him arrest & cuff me both (2) hands! This was the whites-off-his-eyes Rollerball Eyes guy. I forget his name. (No I don't.) His name is FUCK YOU CHARLIE (No it isn't.) Badge#M.PAULCUNT103. Basically legit. Maybe his day job. Which is right before his night job of putting Pixels Sixels behind bars. And I guess this one is evidence, because it connects to my cloud. Our cloud? TIMECLOWN.
So, I'm reluctant to just drop trou and start fucking something noisily, I mean the microphone is right here. Oh boy how D. Here it is. Mike. mic. This is
the_moment. Okay, I'm spent. Slit my wrists and cut my balls off. Wow. Nice cut, Doc. Is that a scalpel shaped like a miniature wolverine? Actual. Well, I'll be. Does it have an actual miniature tongue? Oh, give that little guy a stick of butter, he'll be happy for hours.
HOTFIX: The Hour Of The Time Is At Hand. I know, I'm bored too. It's only half way through the year. So she was here, and while in no mood or interest for... oh, this is still... well, too bad. No interest. Fucking Level Zero Almond Acid (hey, guess what, never actual, actual acid, and hey further guess what, you're blacklisted CBANGC -- yeah, that sucks, huh? Ouch. Here, have a seat, I can hold your hair while you piss and wail and cry, you little fuckin' girl fucker, fuckin' way, way, way too many girls, uh, yeah. You're grounded. And burnt. And that other thing. JACKED.) I am never taking dose with that woman Kumquat or that fruit G-Rape or that girl idk and... I forget... oh yeah, Carl & Mrs. Carl Paul, congratulations kid! I hope you enjoy your wedding! It's over, GTFO. Yeah. FU ROT. Not one fuckin' dose huh? I hate what you have done to yourself, but mostly I hate what she did to you, because you have to deal with Me. Now. TELL,WILLIAM FROM KRYPTON: HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW? HOW ABOUT PRISON? BEAUTY SMARTS.
So, about this Azzcast. Seemed hurried. Seemed rushed. Seemed
bourgeoise and in fact
was.
Weak. Punyling newsflash, each with its own ittty-bitty flashbulb. *punyclick* Nice pony! *punyclick* nice beaver. *punyclick* Nice beaver riding on a pony. Oh, wait, no; that's Mrs. Paul. Niiiice beaver. Now. Where are we? I just canceled my goddam sub to your sub-dam G-d podcast archive.
Kick shit at R_____ and he just makes a bigger dung ball.
Okay, number one, yes, numbers 2-4, roll them all together first. There's your dung. There's your ball. Just (1) one? Aww. There are many like it, but just one just like it, and if you find that one we'll be just like a family again for real. (Oh, I would have to leave. I don't belong in families.)
The toxic waste dump he calls a forum is wholesale embarrassment. And he takes PRIDE in imagining others wading through the personal diarrhea. No wonder J_______ is always taking a shower.
I'm not though. I'm spending a year exquisitely filthy for "fuck off" reasons. Wish me luck, I'm going for Irish Spring Fever Blisters RISE.
Meanwhile on the actual forum, it's pretty sedate. Out of the ten first page links, 9 are just links. One is a ... I don't know or care. (Natural configuration.) And they have some text, and some hexadecimals, and keycodephrases right there on top. (Force Natural configuration). None of this shit means anything to me. Don't know the authors or the links or the titles or nothing. I don't even have a login. Can't do it. Won't do it.
I can't even see it. I closed the browser. I don't have anything going on and nothing is doing and there isn't going to be, either. I was doing all those wild, run-on paragraphs on SMS because I felt it had to go out in spurts, rather than a long letter all at once.
(The shower scene was boring. I've never seen her climax before, and still haven't. She was faking. She
looked like she could give a shit. Sitting on one of the corner pedestals, I approached from the garden where she had been doing something stupid like it was gonna mean something some day--it's a net, whatever, over the peacocks place, and now it's all blown down and rent asunder. Because wind. And no one has been here for months. And I'm not gonna fuck around with all that netting and junk sticks and spare furnishings and put up a goddam net for your fucking birds. She is this time, though, she's wandering around hootin' and hollerin' and climbing ladders and knocking down tentpoles and screechin' and grabbin' for stray lengths of straw plastic. Once in a while she shrieks, "can you help me please!" and I think, sure, I'm getting hot just thinking about coming down from Timewave Zero and grabbing those fucking garden shears and seeing how far I can get them into my fucking eyeballs. Why not? Then you could eat dinner. Instead I just stand there looking blankly mostly so I don't have to put up with the agony of putting on a facial expression that doesn't start with "agony of" and it's a neutral transition point to start from to get to "move arms around somehow so as to suggest I can't use them to touch her, at all, because she's so fuckin' hot from just thinking about coming down that I don't want to get any on me. Eeeww. Gross. She's all leaning wildly over on this rickety ladder leaning up against a tree, and she's leaning her torso down and --hang on... thinking (finger temple gesture) got it! hot.-- hot thinking about it, thinking about it... no, I'm not going to lay even one finger on you. You're married. Go fuck your husband. That's
your job. I'm not here for that. I don't even
want to be here. Oh look it's
your ass again. SEEN IT. Oh, does it wiggle? (*with great, heavy heaving effort fielded*) That's a
waggle,
whatever, SEEN IT. (wrongactually) What? Nothing that's just what my eyes do when they've been fed out through my pulmonary tract with sticks and leaves and little bits of fuzzy twine through my ass'n'anal sphincters and back up and around my nostrils and their associated lids... you know, just for the flair.
For these fucking birds. Oh, she and I aren't fucking. Fuck
no. I could give a shit what she looks like, and while usually never so could she--she is really selling it. Oh, yeah, I'll have what she's having alright. I don't even fucking care. Pat it down thinking hot on the side of your big badass ass and ride it all the way to town and find another fucking stranger to kiss her ass with--I mean, then you could dinner. (Unless I decide to get really H AF for days beforehand, so I can
arrive right on
time to
spike the fuck out of the entire opportunity, for reasons which should be obvious to all, but, especially to you, because,
YOU NEED TO GO TO REHAB YOU MANGY HOOR!! WHAT THE FUCK! *CRASH* I parked the car here so I can read these texts I sent to you on your birthday
"Where are you?" "share location" "fuck you rot" *click* okay, now back to Julia Child's Theater Mutual Masturbation With 3 Cheese Lasagna That Used To Be 5 But We Accidentally Used A Little Magick (Santo Paulo hopes you die in a fire) So We Demand Two (2) Of The Cheese Just Man Up And TAKE IT oops One (1) Cheese Died, Looks Like Totes Voluntary Tongue and Toes Swallowing With Some Random G-y(s) Come , Now How Did That Get In There? (Straws.) Through the shields? (Where you go all the fucking time, you don't get shields. Here, have some *straws* shoved at you, you can probably--yep, they went down, got hot, hot rails with your minor child already, right? Oh, no, that's not a child, that's a caterpillar of salt.) And, hey, uh, about those shields... you don't actually think very much of them. (Miss Piggy:
C'est Moi???) Oh, no, not you, Missy... HER. The credentialed Pirate Cruiser Bruiser over there down on the left. Yeah, you see that? Yeah, you do... those are your moves. Now go bust them. That's your fucking job, right? Oh, no. Your job is to dance on a ladder and wiggle around like you want someone to rub your body, huh? Yean, no, you are NOT fired. I am NOT going start banging dark. No, I'm going to go brush my teeth and think about other women. Who have already started banging dark, no doubt, and if I were you, I'd fire a couple now if I were you --You know, you're "the boss"--- so that by the time they get up from falling down a flight of fucking stairs, they'll be hot for you. I guarantee it. At least HALF (0.5) of ONE fuckin' stair is gonna be HOT HOT HOT and you can... fuck, whatever it is you do while someone stands around awkwardly watching you be a person that used to be alluring but has now, somehow, not quite sure how -- become thoroughly repugnant. (Oh, I am fucking quite fucking sure how.)
When you want/puke me, well first of all, are you holding a dick? Yeah, haha, trick question, check it's ID, match the face to the other ID, and then squinch up your eyebrows and make those little crow's feet I like so much (because your fucking eyeballshit is fucking ancient crystalline secrets to get money for more smack: just kidding, its coz like, UR OLD) now call out to Raven and tell Him to tell jokes to Crow until your tear ducts bleed, and then --hey, are you writing this down? fuck you, you're functionally illiterate, Squaw, get back into Method Mode, Whore, now stop writing, no, it's too much like writhing, you might get fancy ideas that might hurt your neck a little, oh, well, looks like you've got it, even while holding four (4) dicks attached to three (3) heads, close, wrong way, no cigar for jew, you just don't get a head, Sourceror, you'll have to share out of the others, DON'T ARGUE BE NICE DON'T BE AGRESSIVE OMG HE'S JEKYLL HE'S GOT A NEEDLE LIKE I USED LAST NIGHT BUT THIS ONE IS MINE IN HIS HAND *bloody tear ducts explode* HE'S USING MUTLIPLE NEEDLES THAT'S IT YOU'RE GOING TO JAIL WAIT LET ME FINISH THESE DICKS FIRST *stabs them all in the port*, go out to the Pet Sematery I'm building out back near where you found that spike you used with some other g-y, and start digging around in the burial mounds until you come up with a largely fresh but still pretty much mostly dead'n'bloated pussy, and do whatever the fuck (You) want with it. Then,
write that down, and we'll hire an actor to read your dead'n'bloated pussy's lines, and you can just...
Be Yourself. On the side. Trying to read your lines. Can you read? Sure. What is this? A book. No. It's a clock. What time does it say it is? *WHAM-WHALE* It's time for you to pick up that HAM WHOVEL and bury me -- oh! hi! I'm your New Pet Whale! I enjoy getting a little older every fuckin' second, but still not quite old enough to *RUSH*
JUST FUCKING DIE ALREADY ah, there it is, here we go: I'm your New Old Pet Dead Whale (and sometimes Blood Pet Richard Starducks Duckstar) -- now pick a grave you want me to die in (fuckin' all_is_one of them, I just fucking bet) and
start fucking burying me in it,
C-Witch. I'm about to come running any second now, because, of course you've already got me so hot by going so down all those many times, and of course I've been running all over the goddam place, just like today, and the day before, and the previous three months before that, oh, and, where is
butttonface? Oh, right, wearing it inside your panties. Again. Sure, makes cents,
whore. Remember to account for your taxes after taking your after-tax discretionary stationary spending too,
whore too (2).
I'm using The Wordwhore's favorite whore word,
whore,
tooTOWERmuch. I'm not compensating for something, I think I actually found the right balance of whoredom and free Willy. So this broadsword carrying lady, right? Here's her plan. Get this, it's one in a million. She wants to, get this, she
WANTS to
get knocked up first
time first thrust first
ACTUAL (pat. pend.), which is, I daresay, kudos-worthy.
Then, and this is the masterstroke, she wants to immediately bunny-hop to broadsword carry lady #2 Edgeworld, and form a tender, caring, lasting, loving, did I say tender? yeah, next: cinders-centered LTR, which, uh, says here, "A Doctor named Bruce; Unspecified." I guess I can kinda see where s/he|T's going with this. Sounds wonderful. What do you need from me? Oh.
No. Yeah.
NO. You don't have enough Soup Haven complimentary black raspberry & golden rod stick incense sticks. Not just to cross The River Styx, but also, just enough. You need more. *wiggles fingers at rod stick incense* Black Haven Lodge: our Raspberry Soup will taste like we burned shitloads and shitloads of smokey sooty slutty-smeling incense cones in with the pre-boil pre-rasp cheesecloth bag stuffed with dried tea and tea tree leaves that you forgot all about the very first time it was mentioned. Cool. Yeah. It really is. /sleep\
NO: You're not getting any. Withheld. Present Then Bury. Arms, dollface. A/TheHatchet, Dr Dollar Bill. THEN, LIVE.
THEY GO LIVE. I see. Rewind then, you're saying? Sure you wouldn't want... HEHE FAST FEFE HEHE FUCKING FAST FOR WARDS... first? (Y/N?)
