Category: Lords of Boblimptock

I am LITERALLY HITLER …

I literally invaded Russia and shit, and stole the DIAMONDS and GOLD and BITCOIN and BITCHES …

I stole the virginity of the 9 stelvic-chambermaids …

I built rockets from cocaine drek, and left a mark on HASTINGS STREET as the English funken-folk run and hide from flying debris and swamp tree failures.

I knew …

After I read Mein Kampf in college …

And I said to myself: “this is retarded”

I knew I could LITERALLY BE Hitler …

As LITERALLY HITLER, I have formed a 7 million man army of McPoyles, armed with blades and glades and stars and bars … they carry flamethrowers and grenades … they fly paragliders armed with boxcutter machine guns … literally flying NAZIS …

People say: “Dude, what’s it like being LITERALLY HITLER?”

I tells ya … it’s exciting as FUCK …

Constantly dodging bullets, like NEO in the MATRIX, every sloped rooftop hiding some new danger.

I have organized the 23 lesbian sky navies into ONE UNIFIED FIST, and with that FIST we will penetrate the defenses of the BUSTY QUEEN FESTUS and her WITCH MAIDENS of Cheyenne. After several days of wrestling and scantily clad jungle chases, the LESBIAN SKY NAVIES achieve total orgiastic victory. Literally the way HITLER DID IT.

I remember one time, when I was downtown, LITERALLY acting like HITLER, I met up with the supreme LEADER of IRAN.

We discussed action plans against the DOOB-GERMS of Skinctous, and how we shall defeat them AND their porn star ways. But we acknowledged that even though they LIE about having nuclear weapons, they probably have a few hundred by now … IYKYK

And if that wasn’t bad enough, I LITERALLY invaded Chipotle, and screamed at the server for leaving semen in my taco. Something Hitler would ACKJEWALLY do.

But wait, there’s more …

As LITERALLY HITLER, I have built a TIME DEVICE in 2036.

The TIME BUTTON is the ULTIMATE LITERALLY-HITLER plan …

In the year 2035, using money from PROJECT 2025, I built a Degausser for the general causality field …

Like the button on your CRT back in the day (IYKYK), every time I press the BUTTON the timeline gets its static removed, and electrons aligned …

It’s not a perfect process, and many people poop their pants every time I press that fucking button in 2036 … BUT AS LITERALLY TIME HITLER … I have no choice.

So yeah: Literally Hitler says FUCK YOU … I’m Hitler … literally …

As literally Hitler … it gets lonely …

I have needs, and defiling chambermaids as I conquer RUSSIA is not enough for me … I need love, companionship …

If you are LITERALLY EVA BRAUN? – you can call me … I literally hope you do.

I was thinking about how McPoyle almost whacked the guy …

And if he had been LITERALLY HITLER, he would have used Gewehr 98 … literally what Hitler does when he wants the JOB done right.

TRUMP is NOT literally Hitler – this is an insult to all time-Hitlers …

Trump is LITERALLY a scum bag that maximized DEBT, chapter-11 bankruptcies, some money from his parents, and the crony politics of NY State and New Jersey … that’s literally just a used condom salesman … not literally Hitler … so stop it.

Point is: Trump is a used condom salesman, not literally HITLER …

AS LITERALLY HITLER, I intend to take care of “suburban WHITE WOMEN” first … they are a scourge.

They will be rounded up and made to fight in pits filled with brown gravy and rotten eggs … they will be bound in burlap and feathers, and will wear makeup of axle grease … literally the best IDEA Hitler has had since Barbarossa …

One thing I LITERALLY get sick of? – STAR WARS.

They literally made all the movies they needed to: ep4-6

It’s not my fault that George Lucas doesn’t understand how to count … literally the guy pisses me off.

As TIME HITLER, I will construct a tunnel back to 1976, and take out the whole shebang …

Literally didn’t see that coming, did you?

As LITERALLY HITLER, I can tell ya …

Biden suffers from OLD SCHOOL STAR TREK Hitler disease …

Now this next topic is painful, literally …

There are people who cheat you out of jobs and steal your gold.

There are people who RUN HOLLYWOOD, and the banking system, literally everything.

They provide weapons to both sides in every war …

They steal land and food from the poor.

They DRINK baby’s blood …

They CHEW their cud.

They sell their PORN to the lost and lowly …

We dare NOT utter the name, but we must – if we are JUST.

THE DANISH PROBLEM … literally the worst thing in the world.

THE WORLD CANNOT ABIDE THE DANES … not one.

Of course, LITERALLY BEING HITLER? – I have a plan.

I’ve built an orbital battle station, to fight in the GREAT BATTLE BOX to come …

It’s armed with a PLOTON CANNON that fires bullets of frozen whale semen …

It’s a beam, that shoots its load …

Right into the SEAM, and you know what I MEAN.

“The problem with DENMARK is there are too many DANES …”

PRIMA NOCTA

PRIMA NOCTA

PRIMA NOCTA

And if you say:

“Well shit Hitler, literally Hitler, you’ll just make whale-Dane hybrids …”

And my response:

“Then maybe they’ll crawl back into the dark and ugly sea from which they sprung …”

Literally how Hitler rolls …

One more thing …

I am literally Hitler.

If you think you know what happened on 7/13?

(you’re literally retarded)

As LITERALLY THE HITLER?

It will be MY JOB, MY GREAT WORK … to bring together ALL HITLERS … !!!

There’s Zionist Hitler, obviously – he owes me 5 marks.

There’s black Hitler and Chinese Hitler …

There’s Eskimo Hitler, he’s really cool …

There’s Jamaican Hitler and Mexican Hitler …

Japanese Hitler is our gravitas.

And last, but not least, Filipino Hitler …

Spoiler: he looks like Steve Perry …

It’s my JOB to bring together all racialist Hitlers …

Even SHARK WEEK HITLER is welcome …

(not Karen though)

HOWEVER …

We’ll NEVER FORGET GAY HITLER … ever …

And now the MASTER RACE … the RACE of HITLERS … is born …

If we freedom really hard, Elon will take us to MARS.

If we freedom all day long, we’ll have in our hearts a happy song.

At journey’s end our friend DEAR BEN, will tell us a story of dankness and Zen.

Our freedom souls burn with light, getting ready for a MEME LORD fight.

If our freedom world glows with love, it’s cuz we sniff Stalin’s glove.

When our freedom gets kind of tight, we skin the harpy in the night.

Freedoming comes when your mind is broke, it’s no joke, you walk on down to Brim’s Tavern and meet Brownie Boy and the other ZED masters, they’ve been sucking on blues all day …

But hey …

We are FREEDOMING so hard, and one day we’ll freedom on Mars.

Anyone else feel like they’re freedoming right now?

I’m freedoming so hard I’m about to shoot liberty goo.

I keep FREEDOMING with SEA-FLOW?

My testicles start to glow …

And I’m the envy of every bro and ho … and Joe, living in dough-town, with a frown and a Kenny Russel butt plate splint.

There are 8 paths to Eagles style love making. You’re driving your Maserati up the coast from Frincton, CA. You stop at Dooglie’s cone shop, where your woman tells you she’s PREGNANT – and, bonus, “it’s your brother’s”. You leave her there, to contemplate FROOG-STYLE sundae cones, as you drive faster up that coast highway, till the mugshot women find you, dried out and desperate, not far from San Diego – and your cart hauler spirit is dragging fumes.

There are more cat tears in your sea of love than love bars in your ocean of beers.

There are more bat turds in your chili bun, than your honey bunch munches on sparrow marrow and glass hog candies, on WEDNESDAYS.

THERE ARE XORX MINES where the witches lurk. There work is complete on each NEW FRIDAY, after the scarlet moss settles and the bustle of the endeavor is over. No more COOL TIME CHARLIES for these minx bitches … And if you could hear them scream? – you’d know some lucky “Mark” or “Chad” got had, and ended up in the VITAMIX, and is ready to feed TRIX the CAT, with a hint of cilantro … and they don’t mistreat hoes no more.

There are 2 obelisks glowing on Norg Mountain. The topless frolickers sell pterodactyl wine, and the sun sets on the last empire of COOM. My lost lover found her way to that green valley where the elf merchants danced and the wolf masters sharpened their swords for battle. Sure, the battle would be held in the empty expanse, beyond the great desert, where the puddle flowers bloom. And my jeopardy chances are low, and THERE ARE ways to overcome skuzz-terror.

There are OLD STYLE PANDA EXPRESS stores in Grinken Town, not far from where they held that Satanic ritual 5 years ago. Dusty boots and grease stained jeans march slowly, onward, to SCOMPTON and the trumpeters of BOBLIMPTOCK can be heard miles away. The RED BEAR hides in the woods, awaiting his prey fury; it was his cane soul yearning for that JEDI style sweet and sour panda that made the darkness come. And once the recipe for MCNUGGETS was revealed? – all the joints stole the point and injection molded SADNESS into silicon forms. And out comes these things, made of panda and chicken, and you’re finger licking good at acceptance now … your 5 stages complete.

There are Mexican jumping-beans hunting the walrus near the Castle of Steel …

There are jack-o-lantern beer badgers making money off of wagering: which surfer will be eaten by a shark FIRST.

There are TREE DOCTORS, stuck in the bush, as the lush undergrowth bring out the lusty hands … and the grabbing and stroking leads to 9 months of captured effluence and sewer baby nightmares.

There are TORCH CARRIERS, in South Carolina, wearing coffee filters and chanting “MAGA … MAGA … MAGA”, but their custom underwear is leeching asbestos.

There are times we get trapped by robot boomers and nonsense coomers and zoomers wearing onesies and picking posies by the way …

There are GREAT MINI-VAN squadrons, of white women with frowns and dead eyes and jaundice from too many boosters. They form gangs and look for BIG TRUCKS and BIG GUNS and big winnings at the broken slot machine near 7/11.

There are light bringers, from thousands of light years away, who have ships of crystal titanium and jergin-style meat cushions. All the bodies get dumped.

There are the lost KENTUCKY COWBOYS, those who hunted DICK JAMES and WAYNE TORPSON. They had these six shooters that fired .700 nitro express and nobody messed with them, ever. After fighting and drinking all day? – they’d hang out at Trev’s Pub, and fight and drink all night. Kevin, the sheep thief, burns with that dinnertime frustration and the triangle clings, and the buffet party begins at Donner Pass.

There are faerie tale wonders, stuck in between hurricanes and tempests.

There are dolphins which talk to squirrels.

There are SKY HAWK SHAMAN reaching into your pocket, to sell you a SKY HAWK dream.

There are too many ways to die …

There are too many waiting to live.

There are …

And then …

There are not …

Until there is someone to take out the trash, there is …

And there are …

Something weird is going on in Sector-19, something scary.

We’re sending out forces to investigate, but already we are receiving reports of “Wisconsin type love making” among the groblon-herders and there are concerns that the color-breasted harvel-wolves will go mad and attack random farmers planting corn.

Stories of migration and shaking, as if the Temple of the Dead Spirit has split in two and the last soldiers were killed in Scompton. No one knows why the monkey-sauce restaurants have stopped serving Danish people, or why the last Earl of Sweden is hungover and near dead in Stockholm. Xenii musketeers shower lead upon the rampart, but we’re still not sure how many “hairy Karens” are left roving those greasy streets.

We’re sending scientists and sorcerers and witches to the center of this thing. They’ll travel in tunneling ships and hoor-barges and by hyper-tube. Their equipment will be the latest in REI survival ware, with various bloob-guns and hex-grenades and a few of them “bouncing Betty’s” the kids keep talking on about. The scientists will keep notes and sketches, harboring fears of the Bishop Cycle, and the other star travelers from Mars. They’ll send word soon, and then that dread mystery will be solved.

Some people fear it’s about that new BUTT VIRUS that’s crawling up the pipes …

Sector-19 has had out of control roach-scurbing and bubbly body wash victory soap. There are dead henkel-birds all across the roads and muskrat trackers are getting lost in the subways, stepping on needles, doing the “blues” and then jumping into the train. Can’t be sure about the snake venom treatments, some people are drinking bleach mixed with sand and glass in order to expel their personal demons. Sector-19 is falling apart.

Gord-forgers, unleashing New Zealand bee-pollen bull testicle extract MAGIC, will lead the Uug-Too Tribe beyond the edge of infinity. There will be strange demons along the way, and huntress widows and old clasping freaks. The crab will settle upon the mud, as Seeg-Ruun builds his palace upon the golden mountain. But this will give way to transcendence, and Sector-19 will find peace.

(something from 2018)

I am issuing orders to all YORGON FORCES. It’s time to sharpen knives and load up socks with rocks. Take your jimbly-balls and tiger-shakes down to quadrant 43. At which point encircle the Drog-Armies of Forster, while wheeling on the rear of Bogon the Ror-Guergen. Seek out opportunities to harry and torment our enemies, bury the bones near the masonry pit.

I’m issuing MORE orders …

I am sending the lesbian sky navies out to hunt in their magnificent vacuum ships, dressed so scantily. They will patrol near space at 20-30 miles up, seeking out targets of lusty opportunity, keeping the HURG-MASTERS under pressure as Lord Synd rallies our forces near Boston and sends the color guard to Ringlet-prime. Sure, the women of the sky navy will be ungunjoolating themselves as they do battle, but that is as it should be.

I am sending the submarines on PLAN-JELLO-PIE …

They will move dreegen-fluids to the front line, so that our scar-fighters can maintain the front in good standing. These subs will run quiet and deep as various robot fish-people hunt them, and hunt them they will. Sub commander Carl will lead an assault upon the OCEAN PALACE of QUEEN GOPRA and her various sklag-warriors. Authorization to use wacky fission devices is given, start scraping the americium out of smoke detectors immediately.

A full assault on objective WHITE FIRE has begun, and General Woob of Grid-2 is in charge. He’s moving giant trebuchet and fire throwers to the front, he’s got a shit ton of diesel and a couple old tanks and 5,000 pounds of cocaine so he’s ready. The general has sent out scouts and is already moving up archers and the various swamp creatures from Denver. The attack might last years, decades … millions will die … all for the wrath of pitiable soul named Chad.

I’m ordering the milk maidens to prepare the great gorbly-bath. Skazi-herbs and goat-grease will season the great hole, as busty women wrestle violently to be the GOOB DUCHESS and to hold on to the magical refrigerator that contains all my jizz.

The battle will be complete, when the last maiden suckles upon zoom-spice.

I am issuing orders to KUNG-FU HEROES!

Grab your num-chuks and butterfly knives and shurken. Take the castle by first taking the guard tower, and shower upon the MOOG SINNERS all the wrath of Eegis the Mort. Remember to send those soiled materials to the Doctor of EEK, and let him sort out the protein.

I am issuing orders to the Klungiit-Armies and Crumbly-Gangs …

All HOBOS …

ALL WURB-NERBLERS …

ALL GINGOUS-FRUIT …

RISE UP … time to create chaos in region-5 will the slingo-pickets hold tight against Emperor Solz. Remember your training, playing video games and drinking code red … your dark marrow is coating … your fecal juice is LORE.

RISE UP AND FOLLOW YOUR ORDERS HAGLAMITES!

(all else is unclean)

I am issuing orders, so WISE UP NED!

If you can grab a spear made of old rebar and swing a pillow case filled with d-cell batteries?

If you can grab that jug of torpedo sauce and take a swig and jump full bore into the force of fire-snake-power?

You can form a gang or a clan or a sect.

You can mumble in vague phrases and let nothing burn but pain …

Your mind will split open with mold and your soul becomes walnuts …

And this is the only damn WAR you get!

This is your WARNING ORDER.

(this is your strife)

[Note: this is an EVERGREEN SUBJECT, and I may have ranted about this before]

If I became a porn star?

My name would be Rick Bigington …

I would have the main hustle in the valley, not far from In-n-Out, where my moobie-girls hang and sell strong-juice-donuts to the local cops …

I’d harvest the jelly and oil up, and when the camera turned on? – I’d turn you on … if I were a porn star.

They’d say .. “hey BIG RICK”, as I slung my dick for a stack of lettuce … and my girl Histy would do meth with me, in the park, after dark, we’d both have a NARCAN injector ready.

The honey-butter oil they’d rub on my man boobs would be filled with histamine minty freshness – as vapo-rub spore-gasm leads to nitrous type butt magic. And her tummy-gasp would sell DVD’s in CHINA – and most of the galley tribe would be stuck on “Who’s Miss Charlie” … our number debut HIT.

As a porn star, I’d develop a new MULTI-STAGE guru-type butt-muscle program with progressively re-shapening tube sock wrenching.

People would CUM to my seminars, and even TED would invite me to give a talk about “power drilling” and “West Kentucky Goat Stroking” … and other dignified subjects of totalistic love power.

As a PORN KING?

I’d buy a vineyard in some burnt out N. California crispy town, where the mungit-slaves feed on scale-flesh and the old dabblers shamble towards Grinken Town.

I’d call the vineyard “COCK CHUDSON”, in honor of a great actor who made a movie once called SECONDS, and how that story is like this story …

I’d shift PORN style, and reinvent myself after spending 8 weeks at a THAI monk guru spa …

I’d do a new series called: The English Dock Worker

I’d show up at her door, asking for money for the old dock workers, and she’d be in a t-shirt and underwear and ask me if I knew how to get on Instagram … it develops from there …

My girl and I would switch from meth/coke to cougar-snake venom, and my girl would have to inject this shit directly into my testicles … after my 3rd heart attack and 2nd zipper surgery.

But it would be my vineyard, and we’d do another “English” series called the: British Investigator

All filmed AT the vineyard – smart.

I’d be in tweed and all Scottish-Welsh bullshit … and she would be dressed like a nun … and my job would be to find the truth … this script writes itself.

As a porn star, one day I will die.

And it will probably be from pigeon-monkey herpes cancer, cuz, let’s be straight, that’s the end game for old burnt out porn stars … sleazy as F … dirty bird cave dance.

And on my death bench, as the seagulls poop on me, some old busty female hobo will say:

“Sir … how are you?”

And my last words will be:

“How’s your cable, Mabel?”

You’re all KESTER-FLESH MONGRELS for eating your grape salad and drinking that tangerine spritzer. Your tall hot skin-sack tells you kind things about your everyday living, as your giving heart turns to diesel fumes and my broken pipe leaks acid.

We’re striking …

We’re tired of your bullshit and your crap.

THIS IS A STRIKE because the formula one racers are stripper style bacon steaks and most of the people in charge are eating CHEESE while the rest of us eat fermented whale semen cake.

We gotta STRIKE, WE’VE HAD ENOUGH!

I’m tired of sleeping on mold-mattresses and living on the edge of a hooker nightmare. I know the world is spinning, and some joker is hiding his or her gold in their snatches … It’s what is going on. But we’re striking because we want diamond studded dildos and rhapsody style puppy mills.

People will say: “Why the fuck are you STRIKING DAN?”

And you know what I say: “BECAUSE YOU ASKED THAT SIDE-EYED QUESTION MR FUCKER!” … and then me and my buddies from the UNION find that dude, and beat him with rods … dump his body someplace where secrets are always kept. That’s a strike.

We’re striking because the RIGHTS of MAN, defined by Lord Clovar, have been violated …

We were promised beer-donkeys, robot-beings, half donkey, half robot, half beer, wandering about filling your glass with cool refreshing beer … this never happened.

We were promised 2 show, and 4 no-show jobs for that guy we did that thing with … you know the thing where that stuff that was left over from that other thing got taken care of? Not far from that place we went fishing last year, after the storm. That was a bad storm, when we had to do that thing to that guy.

We used to have sandwich and stew and chili parlors, where old grease freaks from the bowels of TOYOTA KENTUCKY could rub scleavit oils on his sores and drink moonshine with Tennessee whores. We used to be a proper country, and now we have to STRIKE!

There was a time when the hard working AMERICAN MAN of vigor and mineral spirits and aluminum siding was RESPECTED … because he had lungs half filled with asbestos and a heart racing from too much plutonium.

We striking because you drink your LATTE with your fancy BRITISH NAMED FRENCHIE … that beast is rancid and unviable … we’re striking because of THAT.

I know a lot of you think you are fancy.

You’re not fancy.

You are a kettle-worm awaiting a destination of diseased monkey paste because your slime village is the nest of all murder vipers. And we coming …

We coming to STRIKE!

STRIKE NOW, WHILE THE IRON IS HOT!

If you show up for this strike?

Borrow coveralls from your pal Frank, he has a real job, working on cars …

If you can’t borrow Frank’s coveralls, buy some of your own, but splatter them with diesel fuel and oil … it needs to seem like you work hard.

Make sure you have a grimaced look on your face – do not smile … STRIKERS don’t smile.

If a SCAB shows up? – you pick the scab … pick it, take it, put IT in the trunk of the LTD … drive to a magical place of empty forever forgetting … near the swamp.

But you show up to my STRIKE? – you gotta be read for anything …

Please pack some knives, and a fudd revolver, and maybe sock full of rocks and a bat … be prepared to swing and beat your way to justice … don’t let the factory manager get away with it.

Because we’re striking.

And we’re done with it.

“gravity” is owned by Gravity Corporation …

When you “fall” you pay them their fee.

When Gravity Inc says “fuck you, pay me”

they might actually break your arm or legs

(I know this)

I carried the straw for your 4 star wedding …

You took my garland and exchanged it for mead …

I dove straight into your impossible meadow …

You went to our bed with another fellow.

I yearned for shelter in the mountains of moss …
You put us at risk for cherry lip gloss.
I stood on the hill amplifying your love.
You took a ride with Bill and wore a rubber glove.

I said stop betting on end game losers.
You said don’t get into that bad cop’s cruiser.

I said find guidance from the frost king of Texas.
You burnt my heart with diesel fury, and then drove away in your LEXUS.

I built you a castle not far from Spain.
You said you wouldn’t stop doing cocaine.

I flew with the eagles in the Valley of Sheeb.
You looked at my costume and called me a weeb.

I stroked the onyx cougar and gave her my lead.
You found me in the garden, remember what you said?

I found a brown stain, you said it was yours.
You said you found pubic hair from one of my whores.

I took a long walk with Fister McGhee.
You shaped a new clock for timing the sea.

I fiddled with glory, in a codpiece of steel.
You sold are 3 babies for a crystal meth meal.

I tried to find witches to cure your disease.
You laughed at my quest and did as you please.

I rode a large bear to save you from death.
You spent a “hard weakened” with my brother Seth.

I couldn’t stop thinking you were the ONE for me.
You smiled as Brian covered you in pee.

I got lost in the deserts of Zoob.
You created a shortage in genital lube.

When the Moon went wild and I told you to smile?
You wandered with Lyle near the caves of Zune.

I stroked your Persian rug.
You spent the month with a eastside thug.

I ran the watch in the time of the apes.
You took my soul and squashed it like a grape.

I met your mom and she walked me all the way home.
You took my money to get another loan.

When I forgot your last heart with Marta in tow?
You walked the street like a dirty ho.

And if I mistreat you I can’t see the light …
You are my window lark, I give up the fight.

Fly away little bird …

Fly away sky-hawk woman …

Find your splendid home in the woods.

I’ll find my cave in which to linger.

This is Grinken Time …

In the AGE of BOBLIMPTOCK …

The kindred-dread of many minds,
spreading deeply from behind,
hurried voices soon shall find,
that rind,
left behind,
by the hobo kind.

You could have been a cocaine hero, raging with a voice of drymbly and bleeb. You could have sunk your teeth into tomorrow, but instead you sip the tea of old Keith and his barley excrement.

After many years my son, you will find the glory board and jump your way to SPRING MADNESS, as green shoots give way to chutes and ladders, and you get sad because nothing really matters. Your broken skull is potato skin to the gods, and your own morsel is but humble offerings to Chronos.

“WHAT TINGLIT MERCY IS THERE FOR THE THIRST-DURGEN?”, screamed Horz, the last THIRST-GURGEN and FIRST LORD of Tryb. He rode a horse of rage and fury, his saddle was made of onions and coal, he smoked a bowl after locking up his old man in the Sanikan, for a honey-bucket surprise.

As your limbs heal and your voice finds balance, the daughters of Histos will leave their pleasure caves and wander forth to find their mungit-mates. Sure, they will wrestle in mud pits for total busty dominance, but their bodies will be oiled and Brazilian style krazy, as driving Miss Daisy turns to Duel – best to pick up some extra fuel.

I can see the endings are empty too DEAR SON.

An age of fun and games gives way to consequences, and stumbling blocks, and crevasses hidden from the snow king.

Your meaning now is in BOBLIMPTOCK and those folk you can raise up to hunt scratch-dear and lamprey-rats.

So find that mud pit mountain dear boy, and seek out a lifetime supply of hookers.

Don’t feed a hobo …

He’ll stick around and find your wooden heart. As bird spray fills the air, his poop chute will overflow with whiskey time nightmares and beef jerky memories.

Your own gundiz-rune lover will have her tulip-pizza, and the straggling ghosts go awry.

Don’t feed a hobo …

His honey jar produces scandal glass. Tired street rats hunt the last parts to make it surrender, but the scourge of dorg-ass fills the sky …

And your walnut-house woman lives her best life, in the smoke and ashes of this take home menu.

And no scorn.

If you feed a hobo?

The 5 paths will split into 6.

6 will be divided by 2, giving 3.

3 cloud monsters will hunt the dark minstrel, as the clowns scurry deeper into the heart of the Earth. Guide stone fury fills the seas and the boiling spreads and the one eyed bird sings.

If in feeding a hobo, you find yourself stuck with a house of pain?

It was your vain attempt at domesticating the beast. His YEAST fills the caverns and spreads the infection, and your own inflection point is reached, as you scream:

“FUCK YOU HOBO, GO FIND THE SCARRED QUEEN AND BE HER SERVANT!”

But tears in reality break the scheme, and shame of insane trolley masters sends you careening towards doom. Get off the tracks? – not for you snack stranger, not for the gumpton-flesh either.

The hobo will find his veal stew.

A typical hobo carries switchblades and Vietnamese money.

He wields the battle axe, hunting street bear and grouchy fishwives, all looking for easy style Kentucky love nests, all hungry for beef steak tomato.

His chest is covered in dead yellowjackets, and his veins flow with Trixie dust fancy. He is ready to pick up that lead pipe and take a swipe at any old lamp herder. He is willing to steal your Casper wench, and lead the STROHGLIN-VOLK to safety, where she is, in the storm drain.

Hobos sing songs of forever time …

He hears the whispers of dying hooker soldiers, all tired from the battle and awaiting Valhalla …

He gets into swordfights with the pirates of Slyb, as the ever changing coordinate system wreaks havoc with his navigational beacon … tiger-swamp women are still after him, dressed in stripper uniforms and carrying dildos covered in lube.

The hobo knows how to speak dog and cat.

The hobo holds meetings and the pigeon and wolf attend.

At the great turning of night to day, when space captains find darkness in the dawn? – the hobo wanders the FEAR DESERT and haunts the boomers at WALMART and HOME DEPOT. He gives you that LOOK, and you clutch your purse, your wallet, and you keep walking … “just keep on walking”, is what you hear the hobo say … as his face crinkles, and the sadness glows.

HOBOS are CLEAN by being UNCLEAN.

They have the flesh of leather and dirt. Monkey-fungus fills their bones and their minds are filled with ant larvae and tardigrade stink bugs.

Their hands shake from drinking, and thinking, at last they might find a place? A home?

But they roam because they cannot stay, and their day will come when the earth opens up and the demon army rides on crystalline rivers and armored hippos.

So don’t spend time waiting for hobos to SAVE YOU – they got time for no one, and not YOU ever.

They will form clunket-armies soon, not far from where you shop for whale supper.

They will sharpen sticks, and pick their noses, and build campfires of Styrofoam and treated wood.

You will hear them howling minutes before they come, you will see them scowling as you grasp your fancy gun, the sun will shine one last time for frolicking code monkeys and stern looking house maidens …

But nothing will be heard as the fire spreads, and no more time for chicken McNugget heroes.

Can you find some time for fresh water living?

Can you cook a soup of marrow and snake?

Can you grow possum-fruit in the gutter, because your mutter is no longer here? – she drank too much beer in the bowery with pops …

If you can? – can you see what it’s doing to you.

Your freshly minced and diced conundrum.

So don’t feed the hobo.

Don’t be afraid to die.

Don’t feed the crying aqualung …

Don’t speed past your dreams, as the seams split.

Because nobody is waiting for you.

And nobody keeps the light burning, except you.

Men want women that tangle with fire … That stand at the gate, you know they can’t wait.

Men want women for the wanting and the hustling, it’s a game of chance, a fancy new groove, she’ll bring the lube and you can’t stop the house from shaking.

Men want women who live in the sky, carrying their timber wolf selves in their pocket, with a rocket, and a chain … one they attach to their slave named Blain.

Men want women that wear leather over the heart, with stern will and stubborn gaze, they braise the pulled pork patty with a love-blow.

Men want women who know about soup and stew and baked bread, they want women that can do math and build a plane and bring you joy, you know this baby.

Men want women who are warriors and queens, that will fix our machines and cook us a nice hot meal.

Men want women who stand real tall, look good at the ball, and have a shot group that’s super small.

Men want women of iron and lace, who carry burdens without care, their pie wins the state fair.

Men want women who stare into Hell, shaking their booty, and ringing that bell …

We want the woman of the forest, hairy legs and shorgon-fluids dripping from her moistness …

We want women to be the pincer movement of spirit, where mother-boys give way to men, and lost socks are found.

If you make a healing salve,
from dead cat and old calf,
you bake the bread of bone and blood,
then chisel out your rendered cud …

And from that soup,
your mind will see,
a healthy face,
for all to see.

Refrigerator parasites,
living in a hole,
smoking a bowl,
losing your broken soul.

Tired of the sky pain,
living in the toxic rain,
the MAN says I’m insane,
but he ships in crack cocaine.

I pedaled on my trike,
undeterred by the slog,
and roaches chased my ass,
as I swallowed broken glass,
and the sun was nowhere near,
my urine filled with beer,
the old duded called me queer,
and his insults? – they did seer,
in the juices,
for the gooses,
stepping out, on, truces.

Your mind laser did a thing,
and then my cell phone rang,
“Charlie McGibbons gets OUT TODAY!”,
OH, YAY!
We’ll have a spread,
where they bury the dead,
crazy ZED will cook up the meat,
in your seat,
staring at the bacon heat,
and living on jizzle-gases and grease.

I sped by with cherished ease,
the sleaze followed me,
beyond the sea,
beyond the hills,
tormenting me and my bell bottom spirit.

And candy man nightmares stare,
dithering bad boys lay siege to Grinken Town,
the mayor frowns as desert winds blow,
and you are on the go,
not too slow,
with your trike – one gear, never fear.

The dark soldier lurks nearby,
you can hear his horrid sigh,
a slouching beast of iron and smoke,
he ain’t no friendly bloke.
You think you’re broke?
wait till the deals are made,
wait for the KOOL-AID,
wait in the musty cave,
it will be your grave,
and the soldier will give a speech,
storming that final breech,
Nordic whores stand at the gap,
sitting on your lap,
you tired old sap – it’s crabs man.

“I SAW THE MOON PRINCE!”,
said Sadie Bintz.
Her heart is clotted,
her mind engrossed,
a book left open on her desk,
some paper written,
ripped,
soaked in cow’s blood and glitter,
she doesn’t litter,
she takes those bodies to the landfill,
after she and her cat have had their supper,
then she takes an upper,
and passes out,
massaging her boovula.

The TRIKE sped on,
from old burnt tree,
to New London Town,
a gaping wound,
an out of tune song,
you long for the stew,
of dead cat and mold fern,
a stern goo,
that you eat on your feet,
and you stand blindfolded,
on the edge of the WORLD,
a heart spun too fast,
a dandelion in the grass.

The frontier is dead,
the tires are melting,
the snow is haunting,
a grease is spilling into the stream.

A mind BEAM glows,
as coastal cities swarm with rats.
And the BAT KING stands tall in BOSTON,
as cast iron critters deal cards in VEGAS,
and the last of the sewer monkeys builds his rocket,
something in his pocket,
labeled: “LOVE”.

“SHUNT THE CUNT!”,
cried Milly Stamp.
She ruled the final quorum,
she had a hopped up forum,
her spirit was geared for dance,
but her enemies road black horses,
they whispered tired old lies,
they wandered mystery courses,
and had ships of jelly and sawdust.
Some rusty old MONK,
slunking to the docks,
drunk on muskrat wine,
looking for a good time,
sees Milly and stops …
For a night,
for a drink,
till he sinks below the waves.

I fell asleep by the stream,
reflecting eyes of darkness seen.

I cursed my land,
I fed on sand,
my jaundiced heart could not start,
so YOU left me to die,
in the snow,
far below,
and yet I still crawl towards the fight.

I filled my cup with forest green,
and sent the poet three more notes,
lost in noise,
hanging with them boys,
too many broken hearted,
too many fierce hounds,
sleeping on the ground with our hooker lovers,
not too hard,
pull that shard from your windpipe.

You shouldn’t drive a CAT D6 naked to 711 to buy ZIMAs … you can … but you shouldn’t.

You shouldn’t test the waters … the waters are filled with giant lamprey that suck out your blood and bring you to a dark cave where helmet monks and mungo-freaks sing songs of never ending torment … so NO … you shouldn’t man.

You shouldn’t turn your nose up at CHEVRON food. Maybe CHEVRON FOOD is the only oasis for some of us in this food desert. Maybe canned food contains all the nutrients and heavy metals you need to live a full life … you don’t have to be an ass about your organically grown potatoes … go eat a cold can of chili, and live!

You shouldn’t hang out with DORBO-HERDERS from quadrant-2. Their minds are confused by crescent berry love making and genital mold. Don’t …

You shouldn’t do what your wife tells you to … choose the path of heroes and ignore her banshee screaming.

You shouldn’t “bend your knees” when you’re lifting something heavy … you JERK IT … just twist it … with your lower back … and then take the disability AND the Percocet.

You shouldn’t rent movies because Dane Cook is in them … I know you want to, so you can round out your night of binging CREED songs … but don’t. People already know you have crabs.

You shouldn’t go to Ramona’s on Friday night. Sure, you met her at Denny’s, and she has nice boobs … but don’t do it … she is a huntress and a cum maiden … she wants to grow your protein morgis in her towel closet. And you might end up falling in love, but her ex-boyfriend, Gary, is probably going to kill you and steal the baby and Ramona.

You shouldn’t mess with the witches of YOOBLOSS. They carry hiss viper swords and look to the mud paddies for their swirling and gusto filled lesbian orgies … come on man.

You shouldn’t grow that plant. That plant was sent here from DEBRIZ-PRIME in the Gromulan Sector. If allowed to thrive here, the python and the snakehead and the squirrel will rule over QUADRANT-GYPSY in REGION-DOOG … and then comes the hooker wars, that necessarily bring on Cthulhu and the KEK rebellion. Stop it with that fucking plant you bought on sale at Home Depot.

You shouldn’t go up to a woman in a bar and say “hey baby, want to sample my black and tan bean pudding” … you can say it … just might not work.

You shouldn’t listen to Linkin Park or 3 Doors Down or Nickelback … You shouldn’t listen to CREED or STRYPER … if you listen to COLDPLAY, then your mind is contaminated and your woman is a whore. Fuck off with your “world music”, I don’t care. Fuck you … fuck CREED.

Don’t use FACE FILLER …

You shouldn’t get surgery …

You’d think I’d stop hunting the grog-freaks and the donut-toads.

You’d think I’d give up revenge schemes and stop sniffing glue …

At my level?

I don’t use condoms …

Women should be overjoyed to have my stroog-spunk percolating in their grape lab …

At my level?

I need women, 20 of them, to clean my house. They clean all day, and cook, wearing t-shirts, and flip flops, and that’s it … no underwear … nope.

They bend over a lot, and I sneak up from behind – it’s so romantic and sexy … Quest for Fire shit … right Rae?

At my level? Women spend days, scantily clad, in a jungle prison run by busty lesbian prison guards … just to do battle with each other in swamp pits in order to be my cum blanket. That’s my level TATE … or is it taint?

At my level?

I have swelter holes, filled with ky jelly and tabasco sauce, and my women massage themselves and become spicy in the hope that ONE OF THEM will bear my next tube spawn …

At my level I have women who fight each other, randomly, to compete for the joy of wazzalling my deeg-shaft … and that’s HUGE.

At my level?

Women cum from miles away, just to smell my rotten underwear and my old sweat rags and dingly-cloths …

At my level?

My dingus-fruit is gathered by greased up milk-maidens, ungunjoolating themselves in the pouring baths where gapes are cleansed by cream and wheat style whiskey …

At my level you would get it.

We had “magic fingers in the bed” – you are lost.

New pickup line …

“Hey winter-mouse, if you’ll be my love sweater, I’ll be your spunk cannon.”

Ladies: would this work on you, at the bar?

YANTIS moves fast down the trail, the one behind your house. He hears your farts and counts your poops. He seeks after hustler jelly and hooker style anal hookups … with lasers … and hydraulic lifters.

I’m gonna start raising coyote/raccoon hybrids … it’s gonna be the NEXT big pet … except for the weird Ecuadorian parasites they will carry and their minds being filled with ball bearings.

Coycoon or Raccote … any name suggestions are welcome.

I need to plant hoil-beetles, and harvest the nutt juice from cactus-hawks. My women will massage their boobies as they plant corn in their nunya-pit. I can see myself riding a brown horse of enormous size, and packing a 12 gauge hand-cannon called “Nectar of Peet”. Sure, I might get stuck in my own power-hassle, but my love-cadre will give me spunk-clans and other rort-cream.