You are wondering: am I just trash?
White trash?
Black trash?
Asian or Mexican trash?
Eskimo trash?
Any mixed of kind of bastard trash?
The answer: yeah buddy, you’re garbage.
But we’re not the worst garbage.
We are the wayfarers lost in the storm, our ship is leaking and our people are upset. Our friends want PIZZA STYLE ENDINGS and morbid-steak for lunch. We are TIRED of being torn apart by RAIL BUFFALO and fruit-salad vendors. If we can stand up to the FUTURE our PAST will be secured as it was when began our former quest upon the sands of time. Our slime realm goblets overflow with prairie milk and spiced chicory, but we TIRE of the pistols and the beatings and the seeding of our women with vicious bastard kin.
CAN YOU HEAR THE VOICE? – it’s coming from outside.
We are SCRUMBO and we grow frustrated, but why?
We are SCRUMBO and our lands and chickens are taken, but why?
We have too little to care, but too much for our overlords, but why?
Many TENS of THOUSANDS of years ago, a great secret was stolen. The Neanderthal of GRID-4 were invading the STOOB-CASTLE of Queen Nostra. After many years of war, the Neanderthal DESTROYED the Queen and stole her “donut”, leaving behind a future heir in her “panty drawer”. But the SCROLL CHAMBER was safe. The queen had kept her bejeweled scroll chamber obscured by naked women, with big boobs, dancing …
The CHAMBER of SCROLLS contained the TRUTH about broken down men and women, well past noon on their way to evening, and how they “ain’t no good” and “maybe should be taken to a dump some place”, and really vile stuff like this.
The SCROLLS were spread about, to protect them and trick MONKS into copying them …
Then, about 23,000 years ago, XOXS the Blyb-Slayer, found the BALAMOO CODEX or CB.
The BALAMOO CODEX (CB) held within its writings the delineations of HUMAN, and defined what and why the SCRUMBO are:
The SCRUMBO are meant for the pain,
the grinding of it all.
Toss them into the pit with the dog and cat,
let them eat bat and dead turtle.
These are the worthless sleepers,
covered in nugget dust,
covered in jizz.
They cannot LIVE but serve and do so with a smile.
Their days are counted as VIBRANT FLAKES of YELLOW,
falling off the uranium cake,
leaving scars and burning on the colon and hands,
no one understands.
In the dwelling swamp of Deacon Woods and ROBOT NIXON, their memories of stronger times was turning to new kinds of DISCO DITCH burning, yearning. People started buying VELVEETA and TANG and using plastic cards to turn death into mourning. Soon, it would be plutonium and poisoned lung.
At the crack of DAWN the scrumbo loads into HIS CAR, and drives to the sausage-factory to get TWO FOR ONE deals on maggot-loaf and yellowdized tango-gelato. Keevous-types, wearing jeans and acting mean, arrive at the worksite to clean out the hole. Greg had dropped a dead baby down that abyss yesterday, and he didn’t miss, but the baby made it clay. So TODAY we dig the trench with the front loader, Planned Parenthood is coming by for a visit.
So you think you’re OKAY with this SCRUMBO LIFE?
Let’s review THIS from the BALAMOO CODEX:
THERE IS NO ESCAPE FOR THE GARBAGE PEOPLE!
THERE IS NO WAY OUT OF THIS LANDFILL SCHEME!
You might as well find the FIRST squishy,
nice little fishy,
crawling on legs to escape the SEA.
But you make that wish,
and find that fish,
staring at you on a plate of NEW POTATOES and JACKET-WORMS.
YOU CANNOT ESCAPE AS SCRUMBO ...
But there is the PATH of GRINKEN MAN and WOAH-MAN.
If you read on, you will learn that WOAH-MAN is the FEMALE CORN GOBLIN. She rides horses and teaches courses, makes dinner while making love. Her eyes are fierce, but a kindness lingers in her fingertip parade.
THE WOAH-MAN is a TIGRESS, she has teeth like cold steel and the power to heal. She breathes in darkness and exhales JOY, and BOY does she make a good stew. YOU GREW to know her, in the garden and the muck, when your TRUCK brought in 400 lbs of manure, and she was never TRUER as she shoveled that shit into row after row … she ain’t no ho.
SCRUMBO MAN has a PLAN.
He can JACK UP HIS POWER MODULE and dig his way to WOAH-MAN’s lurching heart, it’s a start …
WE SCRUMBO MEN must move towards GRINKEN TOWN. We pack up our boxes and leave behind our TESLA/SPACEX distractions. No more GAMER LIFE or STRIFE, our PornHub account canceled, we are tossed by the wayside.
BUT A FUTURE EXISTS IN THE GRINKEN-MAN WORLD!
You can’t take the ridicule and the bullies no more. You have to SHAKE OFF that DEBT-SWEATER and tell the “companies” to go fuck themselves.
No one is coming to take your gun or your pit-bull or your CHEVY TRUCK you FUCK, but your wallowing in life’s sticky transactions makes you prone to SADNESS-VOLLEYS and other sordid entanglements.
WAKE UP FUCKER! – WOAH-MAN is waiting, if you can be brave enough to find her boovula in the night. Her tender valleys will lay open, and you can attain peach-cobbler CLIMAX, but not if you keep sifting through the discarded nightmares of DEATH-BARONS and shallow blonde cock holders.
A GRINKEN MAN WILL:
- KNOW HOW to DIG TRENCHES for dumping bodies
- understand all weapons, and how to build them
- quote SPOONER and RAND at random
- garden and grow potatoes and onions and carrots
- raise CHICKENS and COWS and hunt buffalo naked
- be fearless before the DARK LEGIONS of Vic Jaspers
- have a compound, with concertina obstacles surrounding it
- know how to dress a deer, smoke it, and share it with WOAH-MAN’s family
- use the SLYB MANEUVER when bringing your WOAH-MAN to PEAK-GASM.
The WOAH-MAN can’t be easily captured by just any GRINKEN-MAN.
She’s always moving, and her gait is clean …
There’s a GREEN CUBE below the stairs, it harkens after that WOAH-MAN power track. When you pump up the BOSTON on full volume, she gets wicked and pulls down her panties for that “free ride Friday” style pelvic action.
The WOAH-MAN hurries, but don’t worry – she has a slice of pie left for you. You have to hit the GYM GRINKEN-MAN and learn NEW skills before you get killed …
A WOAH-MAN does:
- the dishes
- whatever I say
- make me a fucking sandwich
- nothing, takes my credit card
- this is sad
YOU CAN’T USE SCRUMBO THINKIN LINCOLN, your UBER ARMY of blue haired freaks are DONE, and the crumbly-bun of septic misery is coming for a visit pal …
You have to STOP acting TOUGH or ROUGH, but be the stone that traps the sword.
Words are BLURBOUS …
CHOOSE YOUR WAR CREATURE GRINKEN-MAN; elephants are so LAST MILLENNIUM …
BOTH GRINKEN-MAN and WOAH-MAN are lost …
So many years ago we set out upon this path, and now we find ourselves in the forest of impossibility. Are time is near, but the beer harvest is incomplete and the blood catchments are nearly full. A firm hand and a holding pause so that our cause can prevail, but you got a notice in the mail saying “get the fuck out, or the COPS will take your home”. You are not alone, for we are GRINKEN-MEN and WOAH-MEN together, covered in diamonds and leather, bristling with fearless action and carrying 55 kinds of throwing stars.
Our CARS will be powered by FRENCH BULLDOGS, chopped up and sent to the mill, our KILLING WAYS will bend to PEACE as the world is renewed and the body dumps fill.
Don’t you DARE SAY “nobody said nothing”, WE DID … we left you a note.
But your broken and soulless enterprises, selling broken homes to devil bastards, is complete and now is the time to sell your shit, GTFO of the cities, and JOIN ME, at my COMPOUND, not too far from GRINKEN TOWN.
G.M.F.Y.I.L.Y.
