Uh hey hey hey what th' FUCK now

well daag gane it again, man. Just dammit. How are we gonna fuckin' do it, man? How are we all going to just get alooooong, man?

Been to th' mountain, citizens. It was tall and I stood on the summit and I cried heavenwards and all I heard was my own strident winge, baby. And it didn't sound all that great. Not compared with Mt. Washington, man. Tiny. Tiny like a fuckin' mite that eats the mite's dead skin that eats th' mite's dead skin.

All I want to do is get along, man. You know? You gotta go along to get along, man. And there's just a couple things I need to get along.

Say, for example, I wanted to get along with Dick Cheney. Dude, I totally could. No, man. I'm fuckin' serious. I could get along with Lynn's li'l taxidermy project, man.

But I would have to first rip out Dick Cheney's colon through his cloaca and doublewindsor it around his neck. That's all. Something tells me DICK WOULDN'T GO FOR IT.

Dick Cheney doesn't want to get along with me, man. He won't even meet me halfway. He wouldn't, say, just let me take out one single eyeball and stomp on it. Dick Cheney wouldn't Negotiate, man.

Same with fuckin' Dennis Hastert. I could get along with Dennis Hastert, totally. I am so not bullshitting unto you at this point in time, comrade. We could hang out and he could tell me all about the different varieties of human flesh upon which he gorges himself.

but I would have to first disembowel Dennis Hastert with a rusty compass and I would have to piss in his coffee. Again, man; simple terms, simple terms. I bet that neocon shitbag wouldn't so much as ENTERTAIN it. These fuckers are all take, take, take. It's that whole POLESMOKING conservative stern father thing, man.

Dennis fucking Hastert doesn't want to get along. Guy wouldn't even chop off his finger and lightly braise it in reconstituted butter. Selfish son of a bitch. Fucking Dennis Hastert and Dick Cheney just aren't go-along-get-along kind of guys.

Just like that fucking wrinkly walking scrote George Giant Fucking Dildo Bush. That weasly god damn architect of international reflux. Motherfuckin' Pharma ought to have him on their fucking payroll, man.

Oh, wait- never mind. What was I thinking.

And that fucking hideous human cigarette Katherine fuckin' Harris! Oh, lawks-a-mussy dat some scary polesmikin' crap right that there.


I could hang. I could hang. She could show me how she was stitched together from children's nightmares. She could fix me with her angry little raisin-like eyes and speak her truth to me. No matter how unspeakable it was, how eldritch and horrid and involving ancient Druidic immortality sacrifices and that.

Katherine could relate her story back to th' pharoahs, man. I could listen without judgement.

But I would first have to shove a lamp post up her ass and connect it to a 1000 amp power source and I would have to drag her behind a cart over a thousand miles of dirt road and I would have to leave her tied in th' desert for the scavengers 'n' scorpions.

Simple, right? To the point. Katherine harris you know wouldn't so much as permit me th' audience, man. These neocon phreaks are nefarious; selfish and self-aggrandizing but make one small token gesture towards reconciliation and they shut down like Krusty Franklestein in fucking Prom Night.

Well, can't say I never tried, man. We all make our own choices in this pole smoking life.


Blogger troutsky said...

uh, woah.tears,man, tears,that is very very funny.

12:40 PM  

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