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Nietzlawe's vision is blurry, the future is scary, nobody cares so stay wary. But don't get aerated, because fear is overrated. Don't be afraid of the flouride in the water, drink tap water, Trap Water, like Joseph Fritzlburger who trapped his daughter and slapped her everytime she rapped on the walls then subjected the poor soul to a life of torture. Life is all about routes, taking routes, you started there, then somewhere along the line became madder than the March Hare. That woman, you frogmarched her to the Arabian harem, without a carem in the worldem. This is all just slapstick for twats and pricks to lap this up, then clap in unison at my words of munition. Nietzlawe's new vision is not blurry anymore, it's quite clear he writes near the knuckle, fuck wearing a seatbelt, time to unstrap the buckle, and suckle on a bunch of teats, I'm not as poetic as John Keats. My vision is much more bleak than doublethink and doublespeak. But if you're troubled by what you say, then 1984 has already had its effect on you. Say what you feel, its meant to be. You develop an urge in the penis - its meant to pee. Don't deprive your vocal chords from making sound molecules. Parannoyia. Nietzlawe's vision for the future? You don't have a future, maybe I should just shoot ya down in flames with lame excuses. Spruce this blog up like Sprite and say what I like whenever I write, right? I feel like I've taken a plunge from a great height, took a stage dive and got swallowed up by a great white shark, that's torn me apart, mentally and emotionally, like being plagued by that Hum in my eardrum, which rarely leaves or rakes up the sick I heave up. Some days I lie pondering, I'm fond of things that make me think. Force me to have these visions with crystal clear precision. These Odd little Odes I wrap in codes that only few can transcript and find the hidden message or meaning. Maybe its time to visit the Message Parlour and give a macabre massage. Toss this abracadabra caber and wave to a frog that's poisonous. A cane toad, Michael Caine's pet, made out of rattan. Spent all night in the arcades like when I played Rastan at Pontins and had to insert coins within ten seconds or lose my progress in the game. How the fuck am I supposed to find 10 pence in ten seconds? "Mum! Have you got ten pence?" -- "10.. 9.. 8.. 7.." -- "What for Son?" -- 6.. 5.. 4.. 3.. 2.. -- "Its for this arcade game called Rastan, if I don't put 10 pence in before 10 seconds expire it'll be game over." -- 1.. GAME OVER -- "Okay, here you go Ryan, 10 pence to go and continue your game." -- "Thanks Mum!" -- *A short sprint later* "FUCKKINNGGGG HELLLLL TOOO LATTTEEEEEE!! NOWW I HHHAVEE TOOO STARTTTT FROMMM THE FUCKINGGG BEGINNINGGGG.. ARRRGGHHH!!" Arcades were the bain of my life, but in a good way, like when you go to McDonalds makes you gay and eat food that is overloaded with calories and you know its wrong, but you do it anyway, just.. because.. you.. can! Better than the KFC which is scruffy where I live, Colonel Sanders, what have you done old chum? You built an institution where people spit and cum in the food then do a runner and escape to a paradise where paratroopers dice with death and eat greasy breakfasts with heathens and stroke fluff and fur then diss Beyonce for wearing iguana. That's probably what David Icke means when saying the Illuminati are lizards. Its better to wear women's clothes like Eddie Izzard, and Linda Lusardnipples. Who cares about a bit of side boob if a woman is wearing an outfit made out of dead animals? Its in bad taste, like a Peter Jackson film. I understand why PETA are upset when they see a SWEATA made out of animal skin. Why couldn't Beyonce use banana skin? How would she like it if we skinned her and used her ass a face mask? And everytime we talked, it looked like a fart. All these products like L'Oreal and Maybelline, how about a product called Maybewewontwearmaybelline? We kill animals for food which is fair game, but perfume and handbags? Scumbags with Handbags. Its impossible to make the world perfect, the more we try, the more imperfect it becomes. Nietzlawe's vision for the future is scary, and that's without his reading glasses. In my finest broken foreign accent, "But I don't be needing glasses." My eyes get sore though, as long as I can see for the next twenty yurrrs. Yurrrs [slang for years]. They say the visionaries are the ones who don't sing from the same hymn sheet. But those who don't even go into churches to sing from an hymn sheet in the first place are the true visionaries indeed. Other visionaries smoke weed to release their acetal locking mechanisms of repression in order to space out and write technically gifted albums that stand the testicle of thyme. Everybody by default thinks with an invisible but ever present consciousness of repercussion. Therefore, the gate is only a quarter way open, like a door in a voyeur's house. It'd be horrible living in a house with a voyeur, "what cha keep staring at old man." -- "I'm watching you enjoying your lunch." -- "Well fucking stop it, you creepy bastard." He did, but then five minutes later the eyes of the painting on the wall started moving. Vwoy Ughhh. Don't have a clue what I'm doing in the haunted mansion in the first place.. I think I rented it from a guy, H.P. Lovecraft, then he laughed and ran off with an Algerian girlfriend and went to live in Algiers... allegedly. Despite looking like Michael Phelps, he took performance-enhancing writing drugs and penned Arthur Jermyn with arthritis, how did we write this?!?! With arthritis like I just fucking said... He didn't have any illnesses or allergies, but he did allgedly have an Algerian girlfriend and lived in Algiers. Its all liez Nietzlawez its all liezzz!! Lies maybe, lline, the very essence of my being. Man, its all bollocks, I'm retiring from the Blog Game and going to become a Chef. I'm going to eat pussy like Hugh Chefner. who cares what the punitive puritans think? Let's live how we wanna, I'll marry Juana if I wanna, ain't noone can say a dime mayn' gon' do what I likes, gon' write what I like, whatever is on my mind at any given time of day. Not gon' shy away from what I'm' tryna' say, you can repress us, but we'll find a way, even if you sign away our freedom in some improvisional law-making. But its better to be free and controversial than introvertial or smash a convertible into a converted Christian. Born again Christian, a lapsed Catholic. the religion collapses and I laugh at it. Just believe in yourself, nothing else is required. Instead of spending your Sunday mornings in a dusty gloomy building, go and sit on the peak of an hill and rejoice and look at what nature has created. Not the man in the church who wears a dress and has an imaginary friend. Or maybe he just likes to imagine that he has friends. Bible Bashing? yeah, he's probably hitting people over the head with it, then raping them. Seriously, the Great Outdoors is much more cathartic than farting around inside a tall cube of mortar.