PLANETARY STATUS REPORT!

Your crevice brings pain …

Dingle-berry super heroes line up their SITES to find your CRINKLE-ZONE, and you hide it, even in those YOGA PANTS you wear to STARBUCKS. We see the oils, and the drips, we can sense your baby clock is reading HIGH NOON and it’s high time you had some Spluncton style snake magic.

Snake magic is a special kind of GOOF. You won’t know your own sploof-fig after the rine has been removed and the seagrass blooms. Your HERO SLAVE is done setting up the chains in the woodshed, and your missile-jackson style lover is waiting in the shower, for some “Kelly Clarkson” style love dancing.

I could hold on to your crinkle zone, bearing upon it the great weight of my lead pipe. But your heart is too free pretty bird, and your mind is fit for apes.

My own sklebick-energy could not compare to your HOLE SPECTACLE … Your power juice weaved its ways into my broken hear, and sealed the cracks, releasing CREVICE SORCERY and anal magic.

I could have been a master of THROG-DOORS …

But your whorish ways led me astray, and I found nothing but pills and swamps and lost cowboy fondlers, wanting back into your pants … your crevice gold.

Cantor?

With your infinite sets?

I don’t need your pseudo mathematical bullshit, when here grease river flows, like turtle gravy – and there’s no HOE STOP for granny town types and hicksters from Memphis.

MARK MY WORDS: your hole is for the skeeg-mice.

Puddle flower …

Your purple eyes spoke volumes, as your body sunk beneath the surface of those love-oils. You would take your luxurious bath, as the swans sang songs of bad ice. And NOWHERE is your lover SWAYNE … and nowhere is his herpes.

Most of you are mungit beasts, you will feed upon tripe with the ghost priests.

I know 7 techniques that will allow you to achieve total sexual mastery.

I’m not going to share them … not for free.

There’s this part of a woman’s spleegus-area that exudes a greasy black mineral, you bite into that, you gain insight into your own madness.

I can show you how to ungudoolate a woman so that she reaches a 9 on the soob-nah scale of female juices.

Women hunt after my jewel-sauce.

I got 6 kinds of woman for 12 kinds of love making.

I can sense your orgasm, smell it, taste it.

I’ve been making a lot of headway with my 4 primary systems of SEX POWER and PUSSY GREED: a) cup her dinglies, b) embrace her horns, c) crush her with rod passion, d) spew on cue … follow these steps, and you too will have complete love mastery.

“Ladies … want some flesh pie?”

I have love potions baby …

I’m out there in the night, ready to tuck you in.

I can fill your cup, butterfly dearest.

That’s right baby – I have my eye on your booty.

I see your love dreams and can envision you, running through the jungle, scantily clad, being hounded by sweaty prison guards …

I saw you dancing last night, to that new song.

I saw you touch yourself, and you know I was there … watching.

I love you baby.

I’ll give you a salad mixer, if you toss my salad.

Your blood boils as your lust builds,

and your window sill hooker waits,

the metal grates clink as you sink into her chasm.

She screams: “That’s not ice cream!”

And you say: “Nah, that’s NICE CREAM.”

I can teach you about STOOB-JENKINS MAGIC …

Your woman will never know what hit her, as she moans in pleasure-agony, and her sprinctal-zone ignites with juice power.

Is she looking for an old style “beefeater”, but what she says she wants is the “English Navy”?

I was your Steve McQueen style lover, and your body shivered under my great escape …

I shattered your G SPOT with my “sunny day dandy”, and you screamed as though a million suns were burning in pleasure.

You called me your “shimmy McDoogle”, and I said “keep shining river squirrel” …

Your kestrel arc, as you slid my meat pipe into your cubby, slew me baby … and that “twice chewed pork” routine? – damn girl, damn

I’ve seen you – demon lord.

Master of that newer scene, one so mean and lean that no body will stop your witch’s bosom … and such green tips, and lips that shine and rhyme with that moan you make, you know baby …

Can I be your Canadian monkey, if you will be my Monte Cristo Woman?

Is there a greasy place for us?

I am going to be an ATOMIC WARLORD during the time after.

I’m going to slink out in the night for a tough fight, with razors in both hands – I’ll make my stand against the raiders from region-NOVEMBER. Our careless use of gasoline will set the world ablaze, as we raise hell chasing down slunk-flesh and renting out whores … in the time of Atomic Warlords.

If my bones creak from the freak wrestling on Saturday nights, I’ll just drink ol’ Doc Grunkis’ tasty “horse cider” and I’ll be fine by morning, leaking blood and pus from all the holes.

I was never supposed to leave the nursery, bare chested and filled with spunk! But my old granddaddy said “boy, get going, no soup here” – there wasn’t, all the loygan-soup had been consumed, and all that was left was YMCA shower fermented foot debris and residue … and this wasn’t great either. I fled the dworg-folk and made my way to Splunkton, where the women are hearty and the men sing songs.

I was beaten by the HOG FARMERS of Tacoma, when the razzle-dazzles rose up in fury and they shook their fists at KING EARL. There were fires set in nearby towns, and the hetzel-knights rode forth to chop off the heads of pimps and carousing nerdowells … But there were tender moments with Mistress Jenny and her mud style fisting and the “tango and cash” routine she did with her boovula.

She said: “You are my stone prince.”

I said: “You are my tornado flower.”

As our bodies became moist and greasy, we enravaged each other’s stink flesh, while she grabbed my “Howdy Doody”, and I massaged her “Lucy, I’m Home!” … she moaned, as the shaft dove deeper into the cave of wonder. And there was a moment of trembling, as love flashes expanded across her shivering bosom, but the smoky butt writhing soothed our haughty stink.

But I grew tired of her, so I left her in the glass pits of Grobb’s Town.

In those days I rode a tumor ridden brown bear named Rudy. Rudy and I made our way around the peninsula and all the way to Canada. We had chieftains bowing to us, as I lanced their finest and spat blood upon their sacred urns. Nothing was left but for me to RATTLE THE CAGES of the ancient ones, and see if old MINGUS JONES wants to battle with the apes of Seattle for the last cans of chili.

My time would come …

A time of taking out the old garbage, and dumping it some place.

A time of dancing and song, when the lullaby birds sing of newborn floss and the old rotting corpses smell less bad.

You can make your life there, when the sun cracks through …

A special place for me and for you …

You would see that white goo, and say “honey, fertilize my skigg-bag”, and I’d say “baby, I will jelly all over your dover-sack” … and that’s love.

And this was a story of love.