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Entry #361

Paragraphic Violence

6/19/13 by nietzlawe

PARAGRAPHIC VIOLENCE

If you are easily offended. Please stay, we're all friends. Words are merely that, just words. You could say the most mean-spirited things, but be the nicest person on Earth. If Mother Teresa dissed your Grandmother, would you be pissed off at her? I don't think so. Now sit back, settle in, double check your seatbelt. We are about to go on a ride. A ride of epic proportions. We will take this journey together my friends, through the Promised Land. But not the PROMIS land. Seems that everyone is a terrorist apart from the people who use a sign that reads 'NO TRESPASSING BEYOND THIS POINT.' Well isn't that fan fuckin' goria.. I mean tastic.

When was the last time you ate a flaming carrot? Why did you claim the ferrets in the great animal house fire tragedy? But it wasn't that great, it never topped the Superb Fire of London and the Outstanding Inferno of Hell.

But animals did perish. And today, we are all here to say a prayer.

Even the atheists turned up!...... To gloat. OH.

Can't fuck with an atheist, they don't believe in shit or fall for phoney fairy tales from Ye' Ancient Folklore. A true atheist is open-minded, relaxed, instead of being like a slack-jawed yokel believing every preachy yodel in the street, being handed leaflets about finding your spirituality. You're more likely to find spit in the streets of China. I've found my spirit of duality, eventually, it took a while to discover my inner Me. The voice that says, 'dinner please!'. I'm not that fat, I wouldn't call 13 stone that heavy, but it would be enough to scare me from living in a glass house. A glass Oubliette and gas canisters and it gets steamy in there, man-boob sweat. To forgive and forget, 'guys! Its not funny anymore, why did you shave my eyebrows off too?' Predickheadment. Peril. On the Edge of Glory, like Lady Gaga. Her music isn't as good as Gory Days by Necro. Can you feel the sense of occasion, the uprising, something in the atmosphere, creatine, the good stuff, those goose pimples are returning. Good sign, of things to cum - to. Sign Post fetish, TURN LEFT... Mmm. Foreign language Sign Post fetish - MORT QUI ENTRENT... Sounds good, but he disappeared in Mysterious Circumstances. This place is creepier than Stanzas written by Adam Lanza. Maybe he went to Lanzarote, where Lanza wrot(e) those stanzas while his nose was snotty. That explains the stains on the notes. There were no notes, which made me denote. I got demoted, then fired - out of a Cannon over the Grand Canyon. No sorry, I mean the Gran Canaria. Nietz has an aura, Ryan doesn't, he would just bore ya. Two sides of the same coin, brain flipped, which side of the bed will you wake up on? Next to a plethora of hot Andorran women. Or as a slave in Pandora's Box? A place of Fluent Fluids and Doldrum-related anomalies. The things we've seen, The things we've seen. Not much, I'm blind in one eye. But only when I put my hand over it. Illuminati wannabe.

I don't have room in my life to join a cult, I'd rather roam like a loon wearing Fruit of the Loom t-shirts. 40 t-shirts, all the same colour, but XXXXXL. Maxing out on Roman Numerals. These fucking things don't fit me. THIS STORE HAS A NO RETURN POLICY! So I tore up those t-shirts man, tore up the damn script and wrote my own rulebook in yore. It wasn't yore rulebook, it was mine. Had excerpts about nine whores into tribalism. No matter how much tripe I write, you'll listen. In Sinitech's case, his penis will glisten and the long-lasting erections will eventually pisshim off. I thought we needed permits for a permanent erection, or at least a Government licence to orgasm. Please be reminded that you must fill in your ORGASM RETURN by the end of the tax year. Taxation of taxachesion. But what about Tax Evasion? Or an invasion of Taxis that all want to pick people up and take them to their Destination of Calabria. I just want to live every day like a celebration, bury my head in the sand, and stretch my legs in the air like elevation. I'm elated, related to people that hate me - the Government, David Rockefeller is probably a distant Grandfather. We are all related to Hitler, at least we didn't see him in his lair, swallowing cya later nide. The only way to end the pain.

Pain is awful, you wouldn't wish it on your worst enemy while they are experiencing their worst ever enema. Double bombshell. In my opinion, its doable to throw bombs into hell. Through the crevice in the ground, dropping, there is no stopping them until those duds fizzle out at the bottom. Double drat. I'd rather play draughts with the rats and drink Boddingtons Draught Bitter. "Draughts Nietz? Speak American please, limey!" I'm sorry, I mean checkers. And I don't appreciate you checking up on me, like a Czechoslovakian mate giving me a cheque late. "Cheque Nietz? IN AMERICAN, LIMEY!" I'm sorry, I mean check. I'm getting sick of all these checks of validation just to validate my credentials before I allocate all these concert tickets to club-goers. Reading and Glastonbury. Never travelled to Glastonbury, but I once did bury a ton of glass - ironically in Bury. I recommend you follow my exemplary hole digging skills. You should always remember to bury things, like faeces and the heads of rattlesnakes, bury absolutely everything, even those traumatic memories of being burnt by Jimmy Savile's cigar. Somehow, regression always moves swiftly to the forefront and rears its ugly bonce. Not since burning my bonce with the bunsen was I ever this traumatised... Well not since the meeting with Gunnar Hansen, and that song The Handsome Devil by The Smiths with the smooth bass. Fuck the vocals, who cares? TL:DL. Actually the song was only 2 minutes and 45 seconds long, like my penis when it was cut short in order to be obscured by these low-cut shorts. Low-fat diet, I'd die at the table eating salads and rabbit food that even a hamster or gerbil would reject and throw back in my face like one of those slingshots they used to hurl cow pats at Citadels. I'd rather wallow in the city smells which happen to smell shitty. Walking past the Stale Urine Flowers, causing my hayfever to go haywire.

Its too sunny, I'm not complaining. But this is England, we know not of this creature you call The Sun. Our weather usually sucks... then spits out rain and sawdust. I'd usually be venturing on some adventure to Altham and Padiham, but I must stay not stray and spend time learning how to play the Mr Ray VST plugin. It helps to partake in protein drinking to aid my protean thinking. Lucozade, leaving the television switched off to avoid distractions, except the magpie churping outside my window. Maybe he's trying to tell you something Nietz? "SPEAK ENGLISH, CORVIDAE!!" Somehow I don't think I'm capable of translating harsh screeching noises. I have a screech impediment, and you're fucking putting me off while I'm having a jedi moment. This piece is a magnificent pie, magnified like a magnate who started off depressed and stagnated. Now look, he's laughing out the corner of his cornea and looks more drunk than someone who has just drank 400 beers. I'm teetotal and totally against tea drinking, or teeing off too late when its going dark. How did Justin Rose win the US Open? For somebody English to win, it must be an omen. Written in the stars [not literally], writing in the stars? Get out of here. What about my Graphology? If you understand the handwriting, you understand the man. But its a dead giveaway if you've written something in blood. If you've just written the word SOMETHING, in blood, that makes you completely insane.

This shit comes easy to me, its like Schelling Friedrich's peas, and mixing them in with fried rice and some of Freud's fried chicken. I'm playful, I just tease you like Ben Wa balls. But not Chris Benoit's balls because they are now extinct. Imagine having extinct testicles? Its unthinkable, unfathomable, like having no father at all... For 16 years! Codd Dayum! Holy Smokes Batman. Heavens to Murgatroyd. I must have died watching a Dan Akroyd film - Trading Places. I'm parading and leaving traces of my fingerprints after fingering Prince... SS Di. Prostrate G. Landing, sounds aristocratic. I'm not, I'm a democratic, socialist, nihilistic, sadistic misfit with sociopathic, sexist, capitalistic, opportunistic tendancies. I'll cut my tendons out at sea and bleed out in the o'cean Layer. I'll use a rod to snaggle pussy, I'll haggle with Moroccan market traders to buy things cheaper. Travel the world on the Seven C's. China, Chile, Canada, Cuba, Croatia, Cyprus, Colombia and Camermoon. I'll change my name to Gorilla Monsoon during monsoon season, then swing from trees. I'll change my name to Munson from the film Kingpin and experience a chagrin period of self-doubt and hatred, then pick myself out of the gutter at breakneck speed, then run to the Salvation Army and rip up all their clothes out of frustration, then wander onto the streets naked and drunk, bump into Eric who has just broke up with his 900th girl 'stroke' friend.

Does Vicarious take vicadin then incite a dinner invite that I might be interested in during the potato blight crisis? At least its not the Cuban missile crisis, its the damn cutest missile crisis you ever did deedy beedy see!! Time for a song. Black Rock Trek. Gets me fired up, gives me the binaurals to enter paradise. A place in the mind where nothing can get to me. A Crawl Space in the Mind of a Head Case. The Curious Incident of the Magpie in my Garden still FUCKING Churping!! Codd Ham! Now I'm shouting like Jim Ross after being injured rimming Joss Stone while her glutes are globes cover my nose. SNIFF SNIFF I'm atoning for my sins. The sniffing is not me crying by the way, this ain't no cheesy hammy comic book where Wallys say things like SNIFF SNIFF and CHORTLE. When have you ever needed to say the word chortle in real life? These comic books characters, they live totally different lives from us man! *Inhales some more weed* I'm just jostling, weed is only a figurative hobby for a retarded fool like me. Who needs to get high, when I can use all my lows to get by. Just switch off, ride the elevator down 100 storeys to the Doldrums, get out, an alternative lifestyle. Like something from Ancient Rome, but more dysfunctional. 91 year old pensioners playing music on a Fender Rhodes. Its like the pit of doom from Midnight Express, everybody got problems. People popping pills for their nervous anxiety, others shellshock, depression, mind-control trauma. Owls.

Nobody is perfect, and since the dawn of our species, nobody has ever been perfect, not even Jesus. If Jesus was alive in today's world, he would surely have committed all 7 of the Deadly Sins. Lust and Gluttony being biological. The balls want, what the balls want. Those little tadpoles have a lot to answer for. But you can't hold tadpoles accountable for acting like a drug. Human beings also cannot be held accountable, for you are forcibly prescribed such drugs. You have no control over the effect or intoxication. Endorphins and pleasure stimulus are dominant sensations to feel, and cloud our rational thinking significantly.

Who cares mayns, we all got worries, no money to buy the PS4 or Xbox MariJuana. Bill Gates, well he has got money to burn. The Bill of Wrongs. Wait a minute? I'm still sat here writing this piece? Must have fallen asleep. Either that or my Lucozade drink was spiked with Spike Milligan's hair follicles and grey pubes. Maybe that is how Earl Grey tea is made. You'd probably hurl drinking it too, those pubes don't choke on themselves.

Oh, one last thing......

SOMEBODY SHUT THAT MOTHERFUCKIN' MAGPIE UP!!!!!!

Squawk Squawk. And I'm outti, like the new Outti 5000, available now. DRM Restrictions may apply.

Great, now there's a fly whizzing past my head, doing fly-by shootings.


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