I am here to tell you about that elk I shot with my buck-19 40-06 style monkey cutlet.
You never consulted me about your gluten free diet of herpes bears and castaway SEWER BABIES. Those were the times when we fried our mussel broth in turpentine basters and sourdough screwballs. I could have broken your FAITH, revealing to you the RED DWEEB HONEY and biscuit bop.
After I got home I tore out my jake-saw and kleeve-hammer. I beat that damn elk to pulp, then severed drisket-cord and drained the pog-fluids. There is a wrenching smell when you cut the intestines wide open and let the bile and poop mergan spill all over the precious hunctous meat of the elk. I cover myself in the MERGAN and yell “YOSEMITE SAM I AM!” to a busted out smeared out gray sky of nothingness … empty nasty bullshit. We tossed the hunks of flesh into dirty bags and tossed that shit in the walk in freezer.
After hunting we usually rub ourselves down with forest brine and fungal swabs. Our stirgen-girds are usually stiff and pulsating, as the wench-women unleash their jugs and prepare succulent meats and other orgy bacon. The CHEESE SURPRISE happens by accident, and everyone is gone … totally mortified by the resin gloop.
Last year?
I killed 500 elk, harvested about 25 pounds total of usable meats and sausages. The rest was worm ridden, tumors and gizz-bugs. You could see the death of the world in the sinews and bone caverns empty of marrow and black with dusty old reaper burns.
Can you imagine?
The game warden came by my tent.
She was saucy and filled with spice gleam.
I took her on a journey, on those musty bags, and skoobulated her boovula with my SKIRG-rod. She quivered as her large BOOBS shivered. It was SATURDAY NIGHT style lovemaking on a Tuesday in Scompton.
People don’t know how to hunt the bear-butt french-fried monkey-bat, and it shows. They go to the woods with their sawed off shot guns and their .454 CASULLS, all to shoot gin-geese and nugget-chickens. But for monkey-bat? – you need some kind of .700 nitro express, exploding.
I could take you on a hunting trip. We will hike 34 miles past the forbidden zone on Hanford Reservation, where the leaks are spawning new kinds of clawed beasts that hunker down in the shadows and exude fumes and monkey herpes and rabies style urine piles. We would camp near the old abandoned reactor, there we will keep warm from the radioactive decay in the cooling tanks. When we return? – our women folk will be AWESTRUCK by our glowing melt spears and she’ll put on the Brittany Spears … IYKYK.
I HAVE ORAL HEALTH PROBLEMS, my mouth smells like ass.
I am your lost Eskimo Brother …
Stop hoping for the dopey ending, Mickey Mouse ran white-slaves for the CARTELS and WALT DISNEY perv’d his way to the top …
I was THERE FOR YOU in the time of BEAST MASTER LOVE MAKING and your former priest lifestyle brand was rejected by the EAST SIDE GANGS and locked in love tentacle boulder type boovula paradise.
When I was a little boy my dad talked about the tubes …
It seemed as if everything “went down the tubes”, including loved ones …
Grandpa died?
Grandma?
All went down the tubes.
Where’d the tubes go?
That’s a question you ask if you want to get tossed down the tubes.
The weird glowing alligators are back …
Nobody wants to talk about it, but it’s a mess. The JUDGE issued orders to all local hunters:
“GO OUT THERE YOU FOOLS … GRAB YOUR CAT AND YOUR SCOOTER, GO TO HOOTERS FOR THE BLOOMING ONION AND THE CATTLE MUSK. LOAD UP YOUR 77-06’s with BRISKET BEADS AND KELP GLAZE. HUNT DOWN THOSE WEIRD BLACK HAIRY ALLIGATORS THAT LIVE UNDER THE OLD ABANDONED MILL. LEAVE YOUR WIFE AND KIDS BEHIND WITH JODY.”
With that, the flare was fired and the night sky lit up with the torches and RED ROCKET party monger surprises. We broke out the PLUVICTO MEDS and gave each other reach-a-round injections into the nutt sack.
The fishermen were taken ABACK after JUDGE ZLORN declared the “black and hairy alligator” enemy NUMBER ONE. The cutters were dumping the diesel gravy into the streams, and MAYOR LOOG took pictures for the paper. Nothing dissuaded me from monitoring the cum-droppings in the local slough and then sending data back to COLUMBIA RECORDS music club.
That was my hunting trip.
Wisconsin monkey salad …
Wisconsin monkey salad …
Wisconsin monkey salad …
(on sale)