For those who took freshman philosophy or Logic 101 in college:
“When you live on Liar’s Island, there is only one thing you know is TRUE: GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE!” – Dr. Freckles
If you can’t kill Bigfoot …
“If you can’t kill Bigfoot, then what good is he/she?” – Dr. Freckles
CRINKLE-CREVICES …
Your crevice brings pain …
Dingle-berry super heroes line up their SITES to find your CRINKLE-ZONE, and you hide it, even in those YOGA PANTS you wear to STARBUCKS. We see the oils, and the drips, we can sense your baby clock is reading HIGH NOON and it’s high time you had some Spluncton style snake magic.
Snake magic is a special kind of GOOF. You won’t know your own sploof-fig after the rine has been removed and the seagrass blooms. Your HERO SLAVE is done setting up the chains in the woodshed, and your missile-jackson style lover is waiting in the shower, for some “Kelly Clarkson” style love dancing.
I could hold on to your crinkle zone, bearing upon it the great weight of my lead pipe. But your heart is too free pretty bird, and your mind is fit for apes.
My own sklebick-energy could not compare to your HOLE SPECTACLE … Your power juice weaved its ways into my broken hear, and sealed the cracks, releasing CREVICE SORCERY and anal magic.
I could have been a master of THROG-DOORS …
But your whorish ways led me astray, and I found nothing but pills and swamps and lost cowboy fondlers, wanting back into your pants … your crevice gold.
Cantor?
With your infinite sets?
I don’t need your pseudo mathematical bullshit, when here grease river flows, like turtle gravy – and there’s no HOE STOP for granny town types and hicksters from Memphis.
MARK MY WORDS: your hole is for the skeeg-mice.
Puddle flower …
Your purple eyes spoke volumes, as your body sunk beneath the surface of those love-oils. You would take your luxurious bath, as the swans sang songs of bad ice. And NOWHERE is your lover SWAYNE … and nowhere is his herpes.
Most of you are mungit beasts, you will feed upon tripe with the ghost priests.
Nuts and bolts …
“Nuts and bolts are for liars and dolts.” – Dr. Freckles
On WAR
“Angry people do angry shit, and they get taken advantage of by more powerful people.” – Dr. Freckles
My TED TALK on WAR.
Your own Gandalf …
“Be your own fucking Gandalf!” – Dr. Freckles
The Gremlin …
“The Gremlin is the Delorian of Ford Fiestas.” – Dr. Freckles
Total Sexual Mastery
I know 7 techniques that will allow you to achieve total sexual mastery.
I’m not going to share them … not for free.
There’s this part of a woman’s spleegus-area that exudes a greasy black mineral, you bite into that, you gain insight into your own madness.
I can show you how to ungudoolate a woman so that she reaches a 9 on the soob-nah scale of female juices.
Women hunt after my jewel-sauce.
I got 6 kinds of woman for 12 kinds of love making.
I can sense your orgasm, smell it, taste it.
I’ve been making a lot of headway with my 4 primary systems of SEX POWER and PUSSY GREED: a) cup her dinglies, b) embrace her horns, c) crush her with rod passion, d) spew on cue … follow these steps, and you too will have complete love mastery.
“Ladies … want some flesh pie?”
I have love potions baby …
I’m out there in the night, ready to tuck you in.
I can fill your cup, butterfly dearest.
That’s right baby – I have my eye on your booty.
I see your love dreams and can envision you, running through the jungle, scantily clad, being hounded by sweaty prison guards …
I saw you dancing last night, to that new song.
I saw you touch yourself, and you know I was there … watching.
I love you baby.
I’ll give you a salad mixer, if you toss my salad.
Your blood boils as your lust builds,
and your window sill hooker waits,
the metal grates clink as you sink into her chasm.
She screams: “That’s not ice cream!”
And you say: “Nah, that’s NICE CREAM.”
I can teach you about STOOB-JENKINS MAGIC …
Your woman will never know what hit her, as she moans in pleasure-agony, and her sprinctal-zone ignites with juice power.
Is she looking for an old style “beefeater”, but what she says she wants is the “English Navy”?
I was your Steve McQueen style lover, and your body shivered under my great escape …
I shattered your G SPOT with my “sunny day dandy”, and you screamed as though a million suns were burning in pleasure.
You called me your “shimmy McDoogle”, and I said “keep shining river squirrel” …
Your kestrel arc, as you slid my meat pipe into your cubby, slew me baby … and that “twice chewed pork” routine? – damn girl, damn
I’ve seen you – demon lord.
Master of that newer scene, one so mean and lean that no body will stop your witch’s bosom … and such green tips, and lips that shine and rhyme with that moan you make, you know baby …
Can I be your Canadian monkey, if you will be my Monte Cristo Woman?
Is there a greasy place for us?
Role models in the woods …
“You don’t usually find role models living in campers, in the woods.” – Dr. Freckles
Where I’m at …
I’m not sad, or truly happy – just satisfied.
I don’t expect this to change, and I am grateful for what I have.
But it’s hard to say what “that” means. That thing that makes this worth it … the cheap weed? – no.
Something more, and maybe it will electrify me.
But the world feels broken.
I don’t think I care what people believe at this point – I fear for my own faith, some days, but not for the faith of others. Others will proclaim, as they kiss the boot of Satan, that they are “good” Christians.
Know who you are mode, before God.
This is boblimptock.