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Rhesus Pizzas

2017-05-21 21:51:56 by nietzlawe


The world has gone Mad. Its left me feeling staggered like a drunk Mick Jagger. Being chased by the Papas in a Mercury Tracer. At the mercy of newspaper journalists who thrive on driving at the speed of lightning just to capture a single sighting of a simple ton. Worrying about me? You should be hurrying to the V10 Polymers recycling plant, that's if the smell doesn't seep into your thyroid gland. AHEM... Let me just clear my throat, clear the decks, even though my throat is wrecked. Shipwrecked. What next? My hips? Strep pharyngitis? Life is full of trouble and strife but a knife is nice to burst that bubble and fight. Don't waste time worrying about your waistline. Unless you're so fat you need to be hauled out of a house like a shipping container. What the fuck have you eaten? A group of immigrants?! "The name is Immy Grant. I'm here to start a new life, motherfucker." -- "Y-y-you want to s-start a new life in t-this shithole?!" Let's face facts. If a Nuclear Bomb was dropped on Blackburn. Its the nuclear bomb that would get radiation poisoning. "Oh my Dog, radiation! Run for the hills!!" What hills? The only hills I've ever seen in Blackburn are the Green Hills housing development project. And even that sounds like some Cape Wrath type shit. Sounds like the type of neighbourhood you'd rehouse some electronically monitored paedophiles and make a TV drama at the same time. For realz manz. Electronic monitorment. "Now Gentlemen, you must adhere to your schedu.... a-what-the-fuck?! They've scarpered!!" Scarpered quicker than carpet laying cowboys. Carpet Diem - Seize Your Money. Too many rip off merchants in the world these days. Everyone is out to wrestle that hard-earned out of your pocket. And failing that, just having a sneaky feel of your genitals. So many deviants, everyone is in a cult or a gang, I feel left out. Probably couldn't even get a gig at a treehouse club. Fuck it, I'll just stay at Green Hills and play a few rounds of golf. Ignoring the whirring sounds of the CCTV cameras. "Hey, Bob, he's on the green!" What sort of Supervisor wants the job of watching people play golf all day?! Tiger Woods of course. "The best thing I ever did was fake all those back injuries and pull out of PGA Major events, so I could go to rainy England and watch electronically tagged offenders play golf! I'm living the dream goddamnit!!" Living the dream? Or just dreaming of living? Hey, don't knock it. I'm on for a par 3 here. Will I putt the ball in the hole? Find out in Part 3, which I will start uploading in precisely 3 years. The Ultimate Anticipation. Would he make that shot? But more importantly, did anyone care, except the care home staff? They were too busy administering electric shock therapy to patients that were shocked to be admitted in the first place. Kept saying that a T-1000 had been sent to destroy them or summin'. Fucking screw loose the lot of 'em! I've never seen a T-1000, but I have seen Mistress T give 1000 handjobs. Slow, teasing, sensuous. We're drugged on this Pavlonian ammonia. Positively reinforced by unseen Fortean forces. Slaves to the machine, now those teenage dreams are dashed, free time slashed, like wrists. Because human beings feel mismatched and live in a mishmash of wishy washy. We wish it was as easy as bish bash bosh! Jesus Christ! Where is the delightful dysfunction and the rhesus pizzas? Really? Fetus feasts? Neat sliced pieces. Bon Appetit. Demonic treat. Embryonic Paella and parts of patella? Pâté and Nutella. Chapatis and soup. Too much food on the table. Easier to eat with a ladle, body parts come with a label. This one says Bryony. Ahhh, that'll be Embryony! Oh the irony. The 9 irony. That's why we're playing golf. But now my buggy has been stolen. Man, I'm crestfallen. Feel like I've had my chest opened and a tee placed on my heart for Mr Callaway to drive home the message. The bad news... instant heart failure. But on the upside... a hole in one... so every cloud... Silver lining? Or a simple Limey bastard with too much time on his hands? I'm bored and restless, but this is my drug, I feel like Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler. I'm capable of applying torque at will and uncorking thoughts as all it takes is a little provocation to wake the SKIL drill. I'm still skilled. Able to leave you sweltering like a svelte buxom blonde jogging along through intense heat in desperate need of some Buxton. Sweating like a gunman at Hoxton Station. (Another staged one?) After Many a Summer by Aldous Huxley. Brave New World... the ride from here's gonna get bumpy. Trump pumped up like a steroid junkie. Maladroit cunts run our countries. Drag along my sagging jaw through glass until the last of the gauze is soaked in blood. Rhesus Christ! That's why the elderly need to kidnap the kids in recess! To seek eternal life. Time to feel the wrath of Tim Roth's child, as it crawls toward me bawling out its eyes. Want Bok Bok? No? Sod ya then, let me guzzle down this skimmed milk and pretend that its alcohol. Never mind Dutch Courage, how about some English Courage? English coor beer and underage drinking... meanwhile we hand out Peerages to Peeps for Services Unknown. Create Lords. But not Lourdes Leon, or even the film Leon. Maria Ciccone or A.A. Gill whose missing brother still hasn't been found. Ran off into the sunset I believe. Runset. I'd try and solve the case but I literally can't be arsed, and the Mute Man refutes my claims that I possess no motivation to play Columbo. "Can't do it bro, ol' Nietz is in retirement now kid. Flat out on a Bahama beach, eating peachy bottoms. Fuck those speeches!" They say that Nie went bananas coo coo see, baa baa boo boo. "Ha ha, hoo hoo! You're kidding us right?!" Nupe. Not me. I don't joke. Or fuck with the truth, only fuck with Ruth, so... Book of! I'm actually burning up in this Sahara heat. This is the perfect time to worship Tamara's feet. Today. Not Tamara. At precisely 8.15pm. Or 11.11. On the dot. No later, or I'll be shot. "Are you threatening me, Brian?" -- "Think of this as the last chance saloon. A rehab centre called 'The Last Chance Saloon.' To succeed against all the odds, you must be in complete harmony with your evens. Yin and Yang and all that... Yan and Yin lived in a caravan on a Golf Resort. They used to resort to playing with balls made from pure gold and when the balls disappeared down the hole, they were never seen again. This left Yan and Yin totally bemused, so out of curiosity, Yan knelt down on the putting green and slipped his hand into the hole. THAT'S WHEN THE GOOD VIBRATIONS STARTED!!!!!! The solar rays shining down on polar bears in roller blades. We were all amazed. Never in my Opus Deis did I expect to bear witness to this KP4 Witness. And now look...  a red and black polka-dot necktie?! It belonged to Nicholas Gill. Everything has gone topsy turvy except Skopje... could have been worse... could have got scurvy in Skopje from a curvy blonde. Sometimes its scary to skirt with danger and flirt with strangers under the strangest circumstances of uncertainty. Commit eCrime... but nothing on the level of Crimea. So who has committed the worst crime here? Doing time inside your home when home is supposed to be your paradise. Now the world is paralysed by Paris riots and false flags. Long way from horses and paddywagons. Now we have padded cells and expect them to patch up our mental health? How are we meant to feel when institutions that are meant to heal sell us a judgemental self? Condemned by judges that are mental themselves. The criminal justice system is a joke. Dark Lulz.

From Rhesus pizza to physically and mentally smashed to pieces. We don't think this bastard needs this! What next? Being forced to wear an Ashton Kutcher t-shirt? "That'll putcher in ya place, boy!" C'mon! we don't need much of me being pushed to breaking point with aching joints and muscles, disappointing couplets. Swinger couples pointing and laughing, before swapping their partners and looking more happy. Swinging on tyres like monkeys, tired. Rhesus Monkeys hired to do the jobs of humans. Sitting in offices, twisting in chairs, photocopying their butts, fucking around until they pass out and have to be Rhesusitated. There you go!! Who said comedy is dead? *cough* Coughing is the new laughter! "Nah, dude, its a sign that the whole thing was a disaster. You may wanna rethink your strategy." What strategy? Winging it? Bringing it to the fore, like a poor man's fingers. You've been asleep during this whole millenia, drugged like Melania on meldonium. Meldopey fucker that you are. Perched over a desk, burnt out, lost that edge, struggling to get the words out. And that's not even the worst part! ... Oh wait, it is. Things could be a lot worse. You could be older than Jim Bowen. But isn't it ironic that this chronic fatigue is intriging? Something beautiful about peaking when you are at your weakest. Sleeping but your wick is lit. Wake up and your dick is burning. Subliminal learning. Chicken shit, David Icke and Bill Hicks, fixations. At the time. Now we have no political rebels. What society needs now is a damn miracle. Or maybe to get physical, like back in the Poll Tax riots. The fact is, that shit has taken its toll, and our lax attitude has allowed changes of this magnitude. We have been magnificently chewed up and spat out. Taken advantage of, like used sandwiches. Man this is, enlightening to say the least, seeing the noose tightening, but you Zionist Jews ain't frightening me. Keep trying. I Joke I Joke! Everything I do is lighthearted so why put a target on my back? Je did not commence this. But je will finis it. Ryan will open all Iron Curtains and let in some light. Light literature can be literally influencial if iterated in the right context. Take a seat in my assembly, as I assemble, these words, and turn them into terms understandable to all entities. The message will soak in eventually, whether it be physically, mentally, or just by accident. Instrumentalist of this entropy. Fundamentally fun, like I have a hundred Helix pencils all spiralling in unison, idly moving, creating a universal, lunation. A moon cycle. Now you see it, now you don't. The Continuation of Lunacy is beautiful, human beings, nature. And with it... Nietzlawe here to prescribe the use of humour. Whether or not you subscribe or like the humour. Nietzlawe gonna write regardless. Heartfelt or heartless. Felt tip pen ready to leave its marking, spray paint walls like graffiti artists. Not defeatist or an easy target so be ready as I get ready to leave this Bahama beach and resume the barmy. Make you think we're part of the illuminati, but all we do is ruminate, and animate our human traits in any way we can. Its important to leave enough room to play. It keeps a motherfucker sane and motivated and I ain't no automaton. I also ain't a mason. Merely a masochist, but clearly a catalyst all the same. This is all a game to me, this brain I was given was just as random as the name I was given. Eyes that see and ears that listen. In essence a five sense prison until I say my final bye byes. That's why patriotism doesn't mean shit to me, because we're just temporary vessels. There are no enemies in this state of being. Just a waste of fear... So without further ado, open the curtains, Bob. Playtime is here! Lay mines at Minehead and claymore in Laymore. Need I say more? "Yes. You must! You must continue the Lunacy!" Okay, let's pack away the deckchairs and Tarot decks of Rider-Waite and ride away into the sunset. Its better than hiding. Getting ready to write, with your eyes wide awake and pupils dilated. No Pen Intended to leave a high percentage, offended. I think the greater number of people upset, the more splendid the splendour. An hour of venting your spleen can take the edge off a sour mood. Its like letting off magazine rounds. In Madness We Drown.

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