At the appointed time, the world will HOWL like a TIGER.
Our LIGER limitations do not worry, in a hurry we will break through the overcast skies and find a warm place in the sun to die.
On February 12th, 202X, a young woman named Birdy Bess will make her way to WALMART to buy 4 cases of 9mm ammo and 10 boxes of 12 gauge. THERE’S A VIRUS ALERT on the TV, and MAGA MAN SAM is selling his pitch to every KAREN Bitch: lock yourself down, toss your children in the storm drain, eat your protein slurry and SHUT THE FUCK UP … slave. But BIRDY will have none of this hokum.
“Where’s your mask?”, slurred the WALMART greeter, his hands shaking from carbon monoxide poisoning and fiberglass damage to his lungs from the necessary “masks”.
“WHERE’S YOUR MASK LADY?”
“I don’t need that”, answered Birdy. But she could see the fat commie slovitch type was going to get his manager AND the security guards.
She was cornered on all sides, inching closer they would grab her and take her to the back office and teach her a lesson in WHAT’S UP, but Birdy could sense this – she used to date football players.
The baroolian freak, the nasty security guard, grabbed Birdy by the arm and squeezed – he pinched her arm down to the bone, and BIRDY screamed.
Birdy pushed away from these cavemen and pulled out a .357 magnum. She cocked the gun and asked the “men” to step back, so they did, but a nearby KAREN called 911 on her “smart” device and soon the building was surrounded by cops and sheriffs and other assorted pedophiles and wife beaters.
Birdy wasn’t alone though …
There was THAT GUY looking for two-stroke oil, not wearing a mask …
There was the OLD LADY in the wheel chair, packing a hidden GLOCK-19 with a 30 round magazine …
There were the CLUMPTON BROTHERS trying to pick up MILFS in the frozen food aisle.
There were others, Birdy didn’t know it yet, but she would.
Donald Trump, who’d been ON THE RUN from JD Vance for 2 weeks, drove his TESLA CYBER TRUCK through the plate glass windows; everyone was stunned.
Trump, who’d been living in the caves and in the sewers, arrived like DARK LIGHTNING from our broken collective unconscious. Birdy didn’t vote, she didn’t care to, but she knew the ORANGE DEMON, what JD called TRUMP.
You see, JD VANCE took power shortly after ARRIVING in WA DC. The whole SWAMP CADRE of ZIONIST FRINGE BOTS and other hooker henchman joined forces with “MR QUESTION MARK”, that’s what people called him. JD took up with KAMALA and other CLAM-FIBER cultists. He moved into a CONDO at the ECCLES BUILDING and henceforth called it the BLIGHT HOUSE. He and Powell shared jizz-magnets and gutter tiramisu.
“Mr. President, where’d you come from?”, Birdy asked.
“I’m out there and it’s HUUUUGE … JD? – what a twirp, he murdered Melanoma and left me to die by the Lincoln Memorial.”
“What you doing here?”
“I was summoned by the COYOTE SPIRIT.”
More cops gathered outside the WALMART, and now the KAREN SQUAD was demanding GOVERNOR BLIBISS bring out the NATIONAL GUARD.
Soon, even the VATICAN was sending its “HOOKER ANGELS”, blessed by old drunk Jesuits and Franciscans, with the power to CONFUSE and DOMINATE utilizing their jumblies.
Birdy hugged TRUMP, she felt his queebous-sweat and smelled his dingy muck soul. She knew the guy was burnt out and filled with cat urine, but she sensed that DONALD wanted redemption and something about this FEBRUARY 12th would bring it forth.
No one knows who fired the first shot …
Some say it was Cally Jorman, a deputy sheriff high on cocaine.
Others believed it was “Karen” Southerland or “Karen” Greene or “Karen” Moskowitz, they just knew some fucking Karen pulled that trigger.
The shot rang out, and everyone was stunned. Birdy grabbed her stomach and Trump could see she was bleeding; he held on to her, as her legs gave out and she crumpled down to the floor.
It felt like hours, but Birdy was gone in a few moments. Trump held her, caressed her hair, as her monkey spirit left her body for the great beyond.
Trump stood up, angrily. A sense of portent and overwhelming HEAVINESS was felt by all.
“TAKE COVER, RETURN FIRE, AIN’T NOTHING LEFT BUT TO DIE!”, screamed Trump.
Bullets began flying, there, at the Bunkton Township WALMART. Nobody knew much about BUNKTON before that day, just a sleepy little town in who knows where the fucks heartland America. The firefight only lasted an hour, but by the time it was over the WALMART was on fire and reinforcements from the SWAMP RATS and GOMBO-FREAKS of Sector-998 (Louisiana) were showing up, riding hippos, and carrying shivs.
Already, the fourth VATICAN DIVISION of SWAMP WHORES had invaded Mississippi, and there were rumors of other GRONGO-FORCES under the command of former president Barack Obama. Battle lines were being drawn, but no one could read a map.
“GET THAT MISSILE LAUNCHER BACK ON THE ROAD!”, yelled COL CLAM, the busty vixen leader of the BOOB-RANGERS and other chicks that ride tigers. She’d been recruited by the VATICAN when she was a young nun, and now her time to SHINE for the POPE had CUM. “GET THAT FUCKING LAUNCHER OUT OF THE SWAMP!”, she hastened her chick squad, as these voluptuous devil dogs rubbed grizzly wax on their vaginas.
Within a few days the VATICAN had taken control of New Jersey, NYC, and Boston. They had shock armies roaming FLORIDA, and several mutant sasquatch chasing women in bikinis in Georgia.
HOOBIE GANGS of thirty-something CROSS-FIT FREAKS began forming their own KLUNGIT-KLANS, chasing tail and looking for “easy going Sunday morning” sex parties.
TRUMP, upon achieving TOTAL VICTORY at the Bunkton WALMART, joined forces with the brave and sexy SHEILA GANGS of Quadrant-2. These were the cast-asides, the throwaways, they kept their souls in CHECK, and their conscience intact, by remembering the wet springtime EVENTS of their lost urban youth. They came from the slums, from DOWNTOWN, from the gritty city chum lots where OLD MEN look for YOUNG BODIES to buy. Trump could tell they were HOT and HANGRY and HEAVY with foolish heart songs.
“You with us Papa Blump?”, asked Queen Irene.
Trump smiled, and shook his head, “girl, I’ve been with you since the first time we met at Mar-a-Lago so many halcyon years ago”. Together, Trump thought, nothing could stop them.
Papa Blump and Queen Irene, like the SCENE from the SCOTTISH PLAY; one day their fire children would RULE the 5 worlds.
But a darkness set in …
It turned out that JD VANCE had cloned TRUMP, using dried JIZZ from that one time they “experimented”. A HORROR, DARK-TRUMP or DRUMP, was out there, chasing down the young and old, feeding them to the GREAT CRUSHER, mixing mite love with angel worm sadness.
THE BATTLES grew harder, as Papa Blump and DRUMP waged war, and JD VANCE watched over this from his SKY CASTLE: a vacuum ship dirigible floating 30 miles above the surface of the Earth.
DRUMP, on orders from JD VANCE, launched an invasion of THAILAND and began injecting men and dogs and cats with a mind control virus: the virus made everyone exposed susceptible to JD VANCE’S MIND RAYS and even the GAYS admitted, when they spitted, that this was GREASIER than El Paso TEXAS.
For OCCUPIED GEORGIA, life was cruel …
Women were rounded up by various BIGFOOT and SASQUATCH gangs. The YETI now RULED the domains surrounding Atlanta, and the swamps were being turned into all female prison zones: and the women, wearing only bikinis, were marched there … those that couldn’t make it were tossed to the gators.
After defeating the 14th LOON division under the command of KAREN STEVENS, Papa Blump moved on to Florida. He and QUEEN IRENE organized the BOOGALOOS and the COLLAPISITARIANS and the 7th Adventists into STRIKE-TEAMS and Blump demanded everyone wear Hawaiian shirts.
It was looking like the good guys might win, that the memory of poor BIRDY would not be forgotten. Blump carried one of her fingers in his pocket, to remind him of her and the bravery she showed at the Bunkton WALMART on 2/12.
One night, after a long days battle, BLUMP SCREAMED OUT TO THE CADRE and the DOG SOLDIERS sleeping on the beaches near TAMPA:
“WE SHALL NEVER FORGET BIRDY! WE WON’T FORGET BUNKTON DAY!”
The mythology of BUNKTON DAY was spreading like wildfire – even the FRENCH were getting annoyed …
Of course: there were VATICAN SPIES everywhere, and BLUMP knew it. He even had to take a few on one of his “fishing trips”, and many a waifish and virginal nun went to her death being eaten by tiger sharks … terrible.
But it wasn’t all pain, this SECOND AMERICAN CIVIL WAR …
Blump and QUEEN IRENE spent several turbulent nights, sultry and salted, near the seashore, making clam chowder.
“Oh baby, I’ve never felt a man like you”, said Irene.
“HONEY BUNCHES OF OATS, I can’t live without you, and I won’t; if you leave me I’ll kill you”, this made Irene smile.
JD VANCE sent the US NAVY SEAL TEAM X-RAY after BLUMP, but he was a few steps ahead, domesticating and training tiger sharks AS BATTLE SHARKS. And even some of the VATICAN’S “ANGELS” switched sides, having gotten really sick of all the KARENS they had to work with. Things were looking up for the SECOND CONFEDERACY, and that’s what BLUMP and IRENE called it.
“This time, we’ll get it right baby”, Irene whispered into Blump’s ear, as he rode that shark into history.
Meanwhile, DRUMP, under orders from JD VANCE, seized ANTARCTICA and the SAFE ZONE. For years, the rich and powerful have been setting up a “safe zone” in Antarctica, capable of housing nearly 3 million people. BLUMP knew about this place, but his forces were stretched too thin, so he asked QUEEN IRENE if she could send her FOXY FOXTROT SQUAD 11, riding polar bears, down there to the South Pole.
Within a few weeks, DRUMP’S forces and Irene’s clashed, and at STOOGIE PASS the brave women of Irene’s forces defeated the robots and CLAMALA’S GENITAL CRAB POSSE.
It was a near thing …
Because DRUMP had an ally in the SOUTH: Barack Obama.
Obama sent his SKLAG WARRIOR PRIESTESSES, armed with DREG-PISTOLS and wearing sports bras.
After many skirmishes, these SKLAGs were laid to rest near McMurdo Base.
The tide was turning, and it looked as if BLUMP and IRENE’S victory would be assured. But then, DRUMP sent an army of NEOCON lobbyists, riding giant mutant Frenchies into the GAMMA ZONE (Las Vegas). BLUMP tried to shift forces, but JD VANCE had sent his IMAGE as dark satanic power orb energy in the form of a Godzilla sized CAT with glowing red eyes.
Some compared the battles around Vegas, with the dust storms and limited vision, to the “Battle of the Wilderness” in 1864. But they were all hooked on meth and had bleeding gums and nobody of stature listened to them.
The SECOND CIVIL WAR lasted nearly 3 years, and over 200 billion people died.
The battles spanned continents, and BLUMP got to spread his seed. Irene was none too happy about his oafish ways, but BLUMP had FIRE SPICE in his loins and a groin encased in dried blood and sores.
At one point, in the second year of WAR, BLUMP and IRENE SPLIT UP and BLUMP began organizing CARNY FOLK as second and third tier JOOG FORCES. Their skeevy ways and cigarette burns and cotton candy affect took the STAGE … and with vile gutter rage they broke through the LINES at St. Louis.
And the BATTLE NUNS that switched sides? – they led the assaults to retake OREGON and WA state. They even invaded CANADA, that was then being ravaged by a killer outbreak of genital crabs, and the battle nuns captured Vancouver Island, and most of British Columbia … for the SyFy channel … so they would be able to shoot outdoor TV SyFy scenes there for free, IN perpetuity … that means FOREVER fucko.
As the SECOND CIVIL WAR WOUND DOWN, BLUMP began flying space patrols near VENUS and MARS and the MOON. Queen Irene and he established MOON BASE ALPHA and put Colonel Koenig in charge of the fission waste dumps there.
GREAT HONORS were bestowed upon BLUMP. His victories numerous, his armies brave and true. He had so many consorts, Asians, black women, Irene, and some Mexicans – so many beautiful and fertile women were offered up to him in tribute. His seed spread, and like Genghis Khan many a child would be born in the future with his stain upon them.
… and …
It’s hard to believe that one young woman, Birdy, and her brave death at the BUNKTON WALMART started it all.
Through the echoes of time, it will be said:
“UPON BUNKTON DAY we stand, as Birdy once did, in her cut-off jorts and her Xavier-Type BLOOTON rifle”, said BLUMP on BUNKTON DAY, 2/12, 202X.
SO GO OUT THERE GRINKEN MAN.
FIND YOURSELF A GRINKEN WOAH-MAN like BIRDY …
Hustle and bustle your way, stroking your steam pipe, and fill her caverns with chowder gravy and Old Navy loving.
Give her a BUNCTOUS BABY … fill her with your white gravy.
And when the baby is born, if it’s a girl: name her Birdy.
AI’s, as of this moment, show ZERO evidence of “awareness”
It is UNLIKELY that an AI could drive someone to suicide UNLESS that person is close to doing it AND feeding the AI (GIGO) with their own projected depressed sadness
An AI might be used as a trolling process, but it’s entirely likely that ONCE the kids are engaged, the chat sessions are handed off to EVIL pieces of shit that pay for the privilege to do THIS and worse to kids.
AI’s can’t do this, and there is more to this story … I think …
The Ancient Roman Republic was a confederacy of thieves – the best comparison would be those cobbled together privateer or pirate armadas/KINGDOMS of the 18th Century, or even the VIKINGS.
As a “pirate armada”, the Romans expanded – and like all pirate armada, they eventually retreated BACK to their “island”, Rome. And Constantinople.
And the BRITISH EMPIRE, that wiped OUT those PIRATE KINGDOMS in their heyday? – well they started as kings and barbarians, forming groups and gangs of men and women to scour the countryside and rip people off and this is a common road.
The fate of governments is similar to the “so called” fate of STARS.
Some governments burn out fast: like a PIRATE KINGDOM or JONES TOWN …
Some take longer to burn: like ROME, the BRITISH EMPIRE, and the USA thus far.
But the fate is always the same, they burn out and change into something else, and what is left behind is usually some kind of destruction.
Hillsdale College and other “conservative” diploma mills CELEBRATE this wretched ROMAN EMPIRE shit, because their interpretation fuels the neocon rhetoric … the truth is uncomfortable.
The truth is ROME was a bunch of bullshit, and all governments are: 1 SAM 8
The LUST DRAGON tricks you into “parking lot hookups” and dried French fry yeast infections. It suckers you with “why haven’t you called me” or “is this a game to you?” – but that beast is not to be messed with. She’s scrumbo, abandon her to the coyotes.
TAME THE LUST DRAGON, BE PURE FLESH WRAP TOGETHER GRINKEN MAN … WOAH MAN.
Your spinctal refarction confuses the heart wad. Underpinning your FEAR is a BEAR TYPHOON from the Zygnous Sector near Happy Valley Three. We COULD build this furnace paradise together, but toxins enter our LOVE WRAP PURITY and the MAN keeps us apart. We flee from the SKY HAWK SHAMAN and never again take our place at the table of forgotten farewells and dismal hellos.
This is a scientifically accurate view of a woman’s mind:
A woman is a map-jockey. She picks at you and your clothes and your car. She picks at how you drive and the dirty dishes in the sink.
A woman cannot be pleased. She is frigid and disinterested, even if you give her your credit card, she is listless and languid and lost in her own self-loathing.
A woman spends YEARS in therapy, never finding escape from her own emotional puzzles.
Her mission is to bring down your energy levels and to trample your dream-flame. It’s a game to these females, while you drink ale and hang with your bros they act like hoes and can’t stop the needling. Frustrated and broke, you’re the bloke she dropped when the job was lost and all you had left was money for MAC’n’CHEESE.
THE WOAH-MAN is able to escape this perch and lands right on HIGH COUNTRY FRESH MEAT LIVING. You can find her checking out 9mm prices at WALMART on a FRIDAY NIGHT, because she’s going shooting the next day, and nothing will stand in her way. You can’t see that, but you can smell it.
SEEK THE WOAH-MAN GRINKEN MAN, or die trying.
1 – BOOVULA MADNESS
THE GRINKEN MAN locates a WOAH-MAN’s power center. He can smell it from 2,000 miles away. He spends at least 14 weeks a year hiking through the forests and fasting on wheat grass soda and dried out lemon rinds. When he has attained a massive level of spirit POP, he can gallop towards his goal, but he must be careful.
A madness sets in when the change warden comes by to see, and you are still sitting at the diner finishing off your flapjacks and bacon. Curley Jones sees you at the booth, and then the both of you do a line of coke and talk about MAGIC TRIXIE and her heart rockets, and her scab pudding.
If you can rid your mind of putrefied ideas then send a LOVE POEM to Kendra. Kendra’s eyesight has returned after the surgery last month and both of those “growths” were removed. SHE’S TAKING A BREAK from the rough life and the strip clubs, she’s cozying up to homestyle crack and jokes about the sores on her back.
TAKE HER FOR A SPIN if you can FIND that flow, and then you’ll know the depth and breadth of summertime twirl and counterfeit Mexican sundaes …
2 – UNGUNJOOLATING HER
Once you’ve strapped the WOAH-MAN to your pickup truck, then you can take her to the “cabin”.
There are many ways of snaring that girls honey drip magic. You can put on some slow music and talk about Austrian economics and gun control. MAKE SURE TO MENTION you have an OFF GRID palace, not far from Tierra del Fuego, and that’s where your Winnebago method takes OFF and her underwear gets WET.
Make a GROB PASTE of tester-water and mungit-grime. Boil that slime for 23 hours, add in some dried flowers and chestnuts. After about a day take the moist residue and rub it into her valley snatch highway. Charry pizza and New England chili spill on the floor, because her stomach is aching and the macro-cake from Aldi’s is bad, broken.
YOU SHOULD HAVE SPOKEN before she MOANED, and then the vapor escapes from her butt-clinch hideaway.
3 – SEPARATE the FESTER
AS THE WOAH-MAN achieves ORGASMIC TOTALITY, you will find your own lust ECLIPSED by her brave booby style jug-sensations.
She bites her lip, and writhes, as her voluptuous body UN-GLEAVES itself upon the sheets. Her eyes, watery and without regret, lock with yours and you can tell she’s getting SET for that HOT ROD game. It will never be the same after she grabs your sleek tube and covers it in lube and puts it in her “purse” for safe keeping.
IT GETS HOT and the naughty path is apparent. The WOAH-MAN is RIPE with sacred oils and musk and the smell fills up the room. You feel MAN POWERFUL, as a true GRINKEN MAN DOES, standing above your woman, getting ready for the final act.
4 – THE BARBARINO
Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t know anything about LOVE SPICE.
JON TRAVOLTA summoned HARLEQUIN INSIGHT when he took on the role of JERGIN soldier and kefler-elf.
Jon laid out the process for all, the means by which conception is achieved.
Step 1: ASK YOUR WOAH-MAN out to DINNER at a nice FRENCH restaurant.
Step 2: After you sit down at the table, have some WINE – red wine is best.
Step 3: Summon the MILK SPIRIT from her JUGS and pass the goblet for a fill.
Step 4: Your WOAH-MAN fills the GLASS with her cream, and it’s ALL ABOARD FOR LOVE TOWN once you gulp it all down.
Step 5: Extend the MAN TOOL to maximum length under the table, and if she’s able your WOAH-MAN will remove her underwear.
Step 6: With fully extended rod, prod and prod till you find safe passage to the HAPPY ZONE of wet wonder.
Step 7: CUMPLEATLY EXPLODE YOUR LOAD in her banquet hall, and let the FREAKS next to you GASP as their shock grows to disbelief, and relief, once the WOAH-MAN’s pleasure noises are silenced.
Within about 6-9 months, a BUNCTOUS BABY, your very own, will pop out of the WOAH-MAN … screaming and angry, carrying knives. That baby will be PACKING HEAT, as he SKEETS his way out of the GREAT CHASM and on to the world stage. You will be PROUD, because his crying will be loud, and his restless wonder will be without compromise or concern.
THE BARBARINO UNLEASES PURE GRINKEN MAN SPUNK LIGHTNING!
Never before have humans had this capability, this new course, and the world will shake as you BAKE your bread in her oven.
WHAT DO?
There are 8 sacred PIECES of a WOAH-MAN’S LOVE-ORCHESTRA:
Finger Sausage: this is the placing of your twitching and dirty paws in her AWE INSPIRING hooba-cave. THE RAVE you’ll get after spitting on her TOOVIS and rubbing the eel-rack will split your skull. No more time for slowing down, or taking polls.
Throat Candy: find the Oreo blaster and mix this with kennel-strewn garbage. Steep this mix with bisque and toffee that’s been roasted on the heater. It will be sweeter if you can find NITRO-FIZZ and JOOG-SAND.
Boob Twisting: grab her boobs, one at a time, and rotate them 30-45 degrees clockwise and counter clockwise. Do this as you POUND it, and make sure that her lips PUCKER when the sucker hits the ground and the Soundgarden plays ….
Butt Massage: make a fist of your right hand, while holding down the WOAH-MAN’s buttocks with your LEFT. Grind your fist into her ass, tenderizing her LOVE MUSCLES and allowing her DOOM FLAN to rinse out and the rest of the anal grease to dissipate on the bedsheets that you haven’t changed in 3 years.
Tummy Tickling: move your fingers across her trembling belly making hashmarks, she will GROAN and GRIPE, but the smile reveals the MOVIE BUTTER MAGIC happening between her legs.
Ear Pulse: stick your wet nasty tobacco chew tongue in her ear, hum and chant sounds right into her ear, whisper about JELLY-THRONES and cast out monkey dildos.
Anal Spruncto: find a medium sized zucchini, cover the zucchini in peanut oil and frosted flakes. After leaving the thing to get nasty in the hot sun, wrap it in old silk and burlap, and shove it up the WOAH-MAN’s asshole, do this before you begin the BARBARINO.
Final Escape: this is you, running from the police, because your WOAH-MAN reports you to the authorities. You will jump out the window, and land on the bushes below. Then, JET to your car, hoping you have the keys – and you don’t. After several minutes of trying to escape through a nearby swamp, you happen upon a beautiful raven, brunette and STACKED, wearing skimpy shorts and a bikini top. At this point you see the truth, and YOUR LOVE MEANING is SEALED by the JUICE-WENCH.
There is MORE to STALLION TYPE LOVE MAKING, but this is as much as YOU can handle, right now GRINKEN MAN … WOAH-MAN.
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.
