That's Why I Can't Come To Work Tomorrow.

JESUS.





BLERKKKKSSSSSHHHHHHHHFFFFFFFF.


WHEN I DID A ANN COULTER THING I FUCKING HIT "SET AS WALLPAPER" ON THE GOD DAMN PICTURE. SO I CHANGED MY DESKTOP BACK TO TH' COVER OF ROXY'S "FOR YOUR PLEASURE" BUT WHEN I GOD DAMN SHUT DOWN

SHE GOD DAMN POPPED BACK UP AND I THOUGHT I WAS GOING TO COUGH SOMETHING UP. LIKE AN EVIL LITTLE MOUSE OR A VENUS FLYTRAP made of HUMAN TISSUE AND paper mache.

SO UM I HAD SOME WHISsKEY. IT'S GOOD; IT'S JIM BEAM AND IT TASTES LIKE A TOUR. TOURS TASTE LIKE JIM BEAM GO FIGURE.


So, I can't do another bligg until i finish a new song because i keep blagging instead of writing music because if i leach all my hatred into here then the song can be yielding and pretty like it should be. I need to balance it out for my anthology so THAT that's all set to be released by the time I










jump










off a






CLIFF.












aND INTO aNN coulter's many-toothed pretrimberance.





(I don't know what it is either but it's profoundly creepy)








AAAAHHHHH!!! AHHHHH!!!!

THEY COME IN THE NIGHT!!!!!!!!! THEY COME IN THE FUCKING NIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT!!!!




there's proof, dad gum it.
see, there was this scientist that proved there
are aliens and crop trapezoids.

he took this alien detector thing and went to a
field with a crop hair circle and after a while it
showed aliens. fucking everywhere. the alien detector thing got fucked up and then wouldn't you know it disappeared.


but this guy, this god damn bertrand russell goes and messes up the whole deal when he finds the alien detector and gets in touch with Clarence Thomas and the whole thing was buried deeper than jimmy hoffa's great great grandfather.


no fucking shit. this shit goes on all the time. don't tell me all this crap, this massive Iraq thing, isn't just a CGI extravaganza that's going on while Bush and his evil cronies are making like concentration camp capos and fixing to sell us for mulch to the fucking Procroatons on Xenon Nebula 6. Oh, the deceit. It's like Battlestar Galactica and Julius Caesar all mixed up into one. It's just the god damnedest motherfucking piece of shittest thing.

but what those prickos don't know, like all those that went before them down the millenia, is that they'll be the last into the cosmic mulcher.

wouldn't it almost be a relief to know that the eventual fate of humankind was to be mulched by the Procroatons on Xenon Nebula 6? mulched and used to raise god-knows what monstrous alien vegetation in the alkaline soil of Farm Planet X 333? Oh, my dear heavens. It's horrendous. Horrendous what I see for us.

The god damn hounds are baying.

What happens to us? we just keep buying and buying until everything's bought and then we just sit there and fart. like fat kids with their parents lying murdered in bed and a kitchen full of twinkies. Oh, my sweet fucking christ. Oh, it's unspeakable. Oh, oh, oh.

And I feel burdened by the knowledge. Burdened beyond name.

And that's why I can't come to work tomorrow.