"GRAVY FOR YOUR BRAIN!" – Conspiracy Theory (1997)
Category: METASTOPIAN
THIS IS HORGEN FRIED STEAK, as if you could travel through mother Earth’s meat tube and find the wagyu exit out there, some place. These are factually specific related reports of stuff and EVENTS that can only be verified using super atomic laser micrometers and busty strippers named “Jade” and “Chastity” … they’re next up on stage BITCH.
WHETHER THESE WRITINGS ARE RELATED TO ANYTHING OR BOBLIMPTOCK.COM IS UP TO THE MOTHER FUCKERS BUILDING FUTURE ROBOT SEX BANDITS.
METASTOPIAN: when your mind melts like refried metal shavings taco surprise and it’s FRIDAY NIGHT PIZZA ROLL PARADISE, and you live alone … and even your cat doesn’t like you.
METASTOPIA: this overturning churning charnel house of bitter pill wipe-outs and upside-down surfer hotels where nothing figures for the figuring, and you are abandoned by GOD.
Omega Force is beckoning a landmine going off shake off the dirt mortgage your soul smoke that last BOWL because OMEGA FORCE has arrived
Don't be snide don't chide the whale wrestlers if you're reading this beyond the track in the waste-zone near the dying seas YOU ARE ALSO OMEGA FORCE!
OMEGA FORCE soldiers eat fast when we make love it lasts long time the bitches swoon like a loon she screams not mean "I LOVE YOU!" OMEGA FORCE loves you too boo ...
currently the STRAIT of HORMUZ is controlled by OMEGA FORCE FLASH TROOPERS SENT BY SPACE PLANE totally insane armed with knives and hatchets and rusty chains their triumph is a moral victory
OMEGA FORCE SKY NAVIES dishing out brown gravy making a lazy susan and an old HAG lose their legs as OMEGA FORCE DELTA SQUADS show off their bods on the hot wheels display
OMEGA FORCE SOLDIERS are always ready ready for FREDDY ready to get rocking and take the train to funky town crimson gown worn by HER just a bur in your foot but keep running and soon you will see VICTORY
OMEGA FORCE TIME is not normal time it is measured in bullets and brine and cotton weave sweaters and bloody old tampon factories where it gets messy and your home burned and buried is forgotten in the slime
OMEGA FORCE DRESSES like the streets nothing neat or fancy just chancy hookups and love quadrangles made of power puff pudding and red jello we are NEVER SEEN or believed because we skeeve on the edge near the ledge where the rat curdles collect and doughnut masters relent before the coming storm if you are homeless YOU ARE OMEGA FORCE X-RAY BLEEDING EDGE NIGHT WARRIORS!
OMEGA FORCE is PLANTING CROPS! soy and corn porn drops and cum apples peach butt fuzz tangerine plaza with cupped inserts and plastic end caps we planting CUKES and tomaters ... potaters and gravy ... old navy piss beans ... sights unseen by cantaloupe sailors and salad foragers and turd gerkins
OMEGA FORCE SOUP is spicy and exciting containing mint worms and lice bandit sausage the kind of glue goo better than stew made for HARD FIGHTING and lightning fists and last wishes before the flood
OMEGA FORCE PATROLS are in your town right now ready to POUNCE for the last ounce of rainy night FLIGHTS and grease raids and stripper banshees separate from the beast unleashed and fresh
OMEGA FORCE KINGS are hard charging stallions carrying GLASS SPIKES and NAVAL cannon moss no special colors just regal and proud and they're ready as the sun goes down to put on that crown and beat that meat raw
OMEGA FORCE BURRITOS are made of BAT RUB BACON and chigger-cheese they please your belly like a jelly turnip dancer and the answer is POWER POUR and sweet gravy and old tired murder
OMEGA FORCE NEVER SLEEPS we're up all night what a SIGHT to see for you and me those warrior cats roaming foaming unstoppable and angry as FUCK never taking a rest only the best put to the test OMEGA FORCE SUCCESS!
OMEGA FORCE RAINING from above like airborne dagger hawks stocked up on hooker wine and the race is waning and there's no feigning disbelief because it's a relief when the ceiling fails and we go off the rails and drain the wound hear the sound hit the ground like it's training
OMEGA FORCE MOURNS for the scorned whiskey travelers and gypsum gentry teaching wasp class catching sea bass as the wind sweeps the plains and their gains are a forlorn hope a big cope because the enemy is near crack a beer eat a burrito it's neato when OMEGA FORCE is finito
Several of my OMEGA FORCE comrades live NEAR YOU ...
Trauma and stress impact memory: short term and long term. The effects might not be permanent, but then we don’t really know what continued trauma can do to parts of the brain, we’re still learning.
Bottom line: if you feel like you have brain fog? – you might have it, I think I have it … I think a lot of people I know have it. If you think I have the magical explanation for this? – I do not. I can only suggest that you unplug a bit. Get a flip phone, take more walks sans technology. If you can afford it, adopt a dog. Maybe a cat. Cooking isn’t just about healthier ingredients, it’s also about switching attention to something that doesn’t involve WW8-death-butt-viruses.
My power fork with spork yoke and broke-back grease I will never cease to bring you the ground meat from the seat of the sweet treat alabaster.
I make these slime tubes for less than $2.99 and it's fine because my girl my woman spirit grabbed the onion god and her BOD was HOT STYLE picante type ever after.
The flesh burden it's hurtin' and your own cost to the boss and the mayor is too much so the factory churns and burns with old Aunt Mabel from the stable to the abattoir a craftier cheese.
I can't stop wanting that frothy wheel after the meal my teeth yellow and raw stuck in my craw the bone mantle the grizzle the muscle gird and then the SOUP from the poop pipe one swipe and it leaves with ease.
I make burritos at midnight from the discards of Texas toast nightmares.
My WOMAN demands HOT POWER LIVER OINTMENT type burritos, for prices that make sense. I use the old meats, left at the CHEVRON in plastic cases and old dirty Jesuits.
I can make you a burrito for $2 ...
It's guide-sleaze and you smell the breeze to find that chugger-loot.
You'll scoot on down to the EMPORIUM and buy some gut-slab, then go to the razor-bakers and purchase that 50% asbestos flour for making fine style tortillas ...
JOOG-FLESH and pond-walnuts are the toppings, and these grow near the abandoned chemical plant ... the one where those nuns went missing 5 years ago ...
The whole thing takes no time to cook, using arc-welders and acids ...
For two bucks.
When we were young hunters?
Chasing the milk-sow and the journey-ass of S'compton?
OUR BURRITO MASTERY transcended the fecal pleasures of LORD CASTRO and the other incidental subway turds that girded their loins for tender metal flesh.
We'd add AVOCADO, but it was jungle paste and paint flakes.
We'd add lettuce ... but the lettuce was strumpet-skin and hairless dog lice ...
We'd ask for ICE in our soda, but our sodas were imaginary and our water was brown and real.
Our burritos were cheap and plentiful.
Our women were full of crabs.
BURRITO MAGIC?
That's what she called it, when she grabbed my nuts and shoved her free hand up my ass.
In a spastic clutch, we'd hutch over and share the mule offerings of mortality, as the anus bled and my balls turned blue.
After many minutes of pain, I'd shake it off and leave her happy-valley replete with cave gifts and gumbo-grease and milk-duds.
Many of the septic tank babies came by this way, filled with hopeful din and then dumped on the sidewalk for the creepers to feed on.
And all of this was for burritos.
But the doob freaks, the ones that eat brown-slick, they are the worst of the GERGEN-TORG wiggle farmers.
My third burrito wife? We thought we'd mated for life. A strife world, bejeweled in vibrant tones, and boned beef, as she queefed, leapt past the dome, and then we could roam, like nightmares, at the county fair, made for two, a burrito wife for you.
For the heat? - we eat burritos made of saffron and bear-steak.
We spend the mornings hunting boar-salamander in the curry swamps, as Pajeet finishes his shift at the Country Inn.
In the evening, we wear bornet-gowns and douse ourselves in pigeon-whiskey and burn away our sorrows.
My last burrito was STORM-ICE and glazed hornet wings. We ate these damn things under a blazing orange and smoky sky, as the MIND-TIGERS told riddles and the fiddler calmed the crowds.
Ministers in torn clothes sing songs of coming days, and the haze breaks and beyond there is a DRAGON called BURRITO MASTERY 9000.
Women, forlorn by lost love, point their naughty fingers at the smoke and chant "he's woke, he's woke, he's not broke" - and the golden shower commences and the women slather themselves in goat urine.
