I woke up today and, like most days, thought about how very much I would like to put someone's shit into someone else's ass hole.
Then force that person into shitting on the original involuntary shit donor's hand, coercing them eventually into hand-feeding their own shit BACK into their own ass hole.
I suppose one day I might realise this dream once I master the art of somehow luring two people into hanging out with me at the same time, given that most people don't seem to share the same love for Wet Chess as I do. People really are filthy minded meat puppets. Its always more about the reader than it is about the text.
I must go and tend to my incontinence as it looks like a golden tsunami just hit my computer desk and the keyboard is aqua-planeing all over the shop.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Saturday, June 2, 2007
Quincy, The Carrier Pidgeon.
Today, I said my goodbyes to Quincy - my beloved carrier pidgeon...
Oh, how sad I think I was. He looked at me with his beady punch-me eye for one last long moment and then he flew away. In a sense.
By flew, I mean struggled in my meaty, unforgiving hands as I snapped his matchstickesque neck pipe clean from its original (if not ideal) position..
I know what you're thinking. If indeed you think at all. But before you start stabbing the emergency number for the RSPCA with your lentil grinding, raffia sandal-weaving, crystal worshipping, dread lock creation tools of fingers you should really turn down your Creedence Clearwater Revival and listen to MY side of the story.
I was merely in the confusing act of checking my watch, streching, adjusting my pant AND attempting to deliver my standard carrier-pidgeon farewell salute all at the same time. And I coughed and then everything went strange...
Watery bird-blood cascaded over my hand like a crimson symphony. Feathers snapped off at unforgiving angles and ended up in my mouth hole like a dozen substance-less doughnuts. Really feeling for Quincy at this stage, I felt it inappropriate to spit out his bird pelt and so I had no real choice but to chew at them hungrily. Getting nowhere. But TRYING, nonetheless.
I was in a bit of a pickle at this point and Quincy only had about 30 seconds of awareness left and - feeling terrible about this little boo boo and desperately wanting to go out on a good note with Quincy, I could think of nothing more rooted in the halls of justice than to remove my own clothes in an attempt to make Quincy feel less alone and compromised. Luckily, I had - by sheer serendipidous coincidence - worn my velcro fastened train conductors outfit that day and managed to noisily rip it off in 3.2 seconds. A new record.
Quincy, by this stage appeared a bit distracted by his own sudden, volcanic blood loss and imaginably tender neck. Not to mention his plumage which seemed to have exited his birdish skin in bulk and was dropping slowly and gracefully all around us like terrible snow. Or death confetti. In order to grab his attention, I was met with no ideas except one.
So, there I am - smearing Quincy all over my slap slap naked torso and thighs KNOWING that this is what he would want. What he would NEED.
15 minutes later, after a waffle and a coffee and a shit, I lovingly and thoughtfully disposed of his body over my back fence. How should I know that the children living next door were out playing tea parties on a kiddie table right under Quincy's drop point. I heard the silly immature screams, the horrified utterances of retarded parents etc. but all I REALLY can remember is the wet slap Quincy's body made as it connected with the pink plastic surface of the toddler table.
And I must admit, I came. Like windchimes expelling Femme Phlegm if your simple minds can imagine such a beautiful thing.
All I can say is that this little stuff up reminded me of something very important in life. accidents happen.
Just ask your screaming meat-husks of parents.
Anyway, tootles.
Its snack o clock.
YOUR CAPTAIN.
Oh, how sad I think I was. He looked at me with his beady punch-me eye for one last long moment and then he flew away. In a sense.
By flew, I mean struggled in my meaty, unforgiving hands as I snapped his matchstickesque neck pipe clean from its original (if not ideal) position..
I know what you're thinking. If indeed you think at all. But before you start stabbing the emergency number for the RSPCA with your lentil grinding, raffia sandal-weaving, crystal worshipping, dread lock creation tools of fingers you should really turn down your Creedence Clearwater Revival and listen to MY side of the story.
I was merely in the confusing act of checking my watch, streching, adjusting my pant AND attempting to deliver my standard carrier-pidgeon farewell salute all at the same time. And I coughed and then everything went strange...
Watery bird-blood cascaded over my hand like a crimson symphony. Feathers snapped off at unforgiving angles and ended up in my mouth hole like a dozen substance-less doughnuts. Really feeling for Quincy at this stage, I felt it inappropriate to spit out his bird pelt and so I had no real choice but to chew at them hungrily. Getting nowhere. But TRYING, nonetheless.
I was in a bit of a pickle at this point and Quincy only had about 30 seconds of awareness left and - feeling terrible about this little boo boo and desperately wanting to go out on a good note with Quincy, I could think of nothing more rooted in the halls of justice than to remove my own clothes in an attempt to make Quincy feel less alone and compromised. Luckily, I had - by sheer serendipidous coincidence - worn my velcro fastened train conductors outfit that day and managed to noisily rip it off in 3.2 seconds. A new record.
Quincy, by this stage appeared a bit distracted by his own sudden, volcanic blood loss and imaginably tender neck. Not to mention his plumage which seemed to have exited his birdish skin in bulk and was dropping slowly and gracefully all around us like terrible snow. Or death confetti. In order to grab his attention, I was met with no ideas except one.
So, there I am - smearing Quincy all over my slap slap naked torso and thighs KNOWING that this is what he would want. What he would NEED.
15 minutes later, after a waffle and a coffee and a shit, I lovingly and thoughtfully disposed of his body over my back fence. How should I know that the children living next door were out playing tea parties on a kiddie table right under Quincy's drop point. I heard the silly immature screams, the horrified utterances of retarded parents etc. but all I REALLY can remember is the wet slap Quincy's body made as it connected with the pink plastic surface of the toddler table.
And I must admit, I came. Like windchimes expelling Femme Phlegm if your simple minds can imagine such a beautiful thing.
All I can say is that this little stuff up reminded me of something very important in life. accidents happen.
Just ask your screaming meat-husks of parents.
Anyway, tootles.
Its snack o clock.
YOUR CAPTAIN.
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