times coming …
they don’t care
when the YORGEN-DWELLERS will rise up out of their mist caves, carrying pipe and bat and pillowcases filled with rocks …
there are millions of these disheveled freaks …
hunter-eagles scarred by hornet-fire …
they don’t care how many rounds you have
I saw the SEVEN SPIRITS dancing near the ancient urn.
There were cherry picked maidens carrying axes and waxes for baking the siren pie.
MOD TYPE Bergen-Yanks, stinking of whiskey and burnt offerings, take their time looking for your honey bee codex and the lost angel tantrums.
I could see the coming demon army.
Covered in grifter-sweat and hungry faced malcontents wielding the MOLOTOV DRINK and ridden with Danish mold pastries.
There were 2 kings standing apart on a hill, the last born sent them a message:
“Stay long in the woods before morning.”
THEY DON’T CARE about your ANGRY EYES and your wife’s smelly cooch.
They are hungry and tired and strung out.
For every box of ammo you have there are 500 of them.
For every hour you can stay awake there are 2,000 of them.
Your family is hidden in the dragon swamp.
think now
I am not your friend.
I am your nightmare.
I am the FIST of ULTIMATE FURY coming at you with dangerous glances and legs of iron.
My trash burden is your YEARNING for Yul Brynner getaways with your “sideways Debra” and her luscious things.
You have GENITAL CRABS.
YOU ARE DONE
THEY WILL ATTACK IN WAVES!
After the 6th wave you will be eating toilet bacon, and watching the fires burn in the distance.
Your water will turn brown and fetid.
Your woman will dream of stinky-cheese heroes and her eyes will turn to the sun.
You have been abandoned by dogs.
I don’t like it when the “happy adventurers” during some post-apocalyptic WOKE ASS butt show go around “helping” people … ???
WTAF …
You lure them into death traps …
You harvest their skuzz oil and make the women your wonder slaves …
You have an entire paddock 4-this.
It’s always some KUNG-FU bullshit where the “traveler” provides wisdom and protection to some waifish minx or her harlot lover covered in spazz grease and dead catfish.
Your BODY is a party magnet, and your world just unfurled as the merchants sell the wares …
Loss, endings.
all the women I groove with have OF accounts …
they splay their vitals while ungunjoolating their boovulas with discus snacks and gerbil perspiration …
Yellow volleys of guzz-wax come rolling out, as the OH-FACE gives way to toxic razor mash …
The GASH always wins pal.
I hate going out in public, time is so close …
you can smell the muttering despair
the worst part for me is seeing the seething toil of the growing swoil, the insolent mass of tottering toil …
a boil that must be lanced
not by CHAD, but a RAD BRAD with an old flame thrower
TAKE YOUR TORPEDO LIFE AND FLUSH IT MAN
(that’s what I feel like out in public)
THEIR LACK OF CONCERN BURNS HOLES in your CHEST!
They don’t care …
They don’t worry …
They’re in a HURRY to NOWHERE VILLE man … like ROBOT JAPAN for Barbara Streisand …
(is that her real name? – I don’t think so)
There’s more to this …
There’s a LORD HOGIS that runs the storm drains. He’s in charge of barley distribution and hog slaughtering and the Ne’er-do-wells rounding up HARLEY CONCERT BASKETS for hookers and arrant knights looking to PARTY HARDY with PAM JARDEE and her naughty nurse patrol.
I feed it.
I feed the soul pain.
they don’t care … never ever
I like raw dogging the skog-chasm “West Virginia Ferry Master” style …
they still don’t care
I currently inhabit 87 different segments of the multi-present … I just fucked Farah Faucett in 1976 … gonna go fuck Tedra Owen, in 2033 … you don’t know … I do …
voted biggest natural boobs 2032 …
very few people care
I believe you live in a nutt monkey squalor with 4 wives and 3 lives and chives for your onion and coyote-cheese soup …
I believe you met with Johnny Carson to map out the multi-dimensional invasion plans of JERSEY CITY and Pittsburgh …
Nomad rangers will die brutally now.
… but they don’t care …
Wanna know MY super power that makes ME special?
I can remote view anyone, anywhere …
I see you when you poop …
I know how greedy you are with that toilet paper …
I saw what you just did … you turned on the sink but didn’t wash your hands, so your gf think you did … but you didn’t …
she’s been banging your friend PAUL when she says she’s going to HOT YOGA … oh yeah … it’s HOT …
and so little concern from the uncaring barbarians of sector-0003-bravo …
I can remote view you pooping and peeing on the toilet. That nasty throne surrounded by brownish meal-crabs and lizard toe frosting … a urinal cake surprise.
And yeah … you just left a MESS on that toilet at the bar …
(you not gonna clean it up dirty bird)
THE METASTOPIA HAS ARRIVED …
bring forth the gird-nerdlers and the waffle house matrons …
bring the mead of time …
whether Boblimptock is or is not, we shall no longer care …
My manifesto is done, and though I could do rewrites and new editions, I will not …
I will TOSS all my pink slime surprise into a new and final category … it has no relevance …
but I choose to see the dark chaos as a friend named Mr. Chuckles-McGrew, a giant tabby cat …
He is my tabby cat friend …
He is the “LOOK AT ME … LOOK AT ME … I AM THE CAPTAIN NOW” spirit leader.
