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I always have room for breaking an entry into Room 4, which just happens to be Doomroar's room for.. *indecipherable words*
Some things are better left as a mystery like the things you can barely see in the myst, like overturned cars and a trapped family whose fingers can only get 1 centimetre away from dialling for help... But Why dial Ling for help? She only speaks Chinese. The unintelligible dialect would be an hindrance, I can tell. Don't get stuck in car accidents unless its in GTA...... No! Not fucking Gran Turismo Academy! You can't even damage your car in that thing unless you reach Level 2 Million. But the game is such a disappointment, its like opening a packet of Doritos and finding out they were brussel sprouts. So you give them to Russell, and he rustles the bag and hustles them on to Vegans to make a quick buck... Like celebrities that nobody gives a fuck about. Quick book that I Quit reading and use the pages as toilet paper to wipe my arse during the evening... Is it true you have a Wooden ass? Oh, I'd glad you said that, I thought you wouldn't ask! Now I'm gonna have to kick your ass for asking, because as a king I don't think its the sort of thing you should be asking to the Ass King. Shit, now this whole blog is a uix mp. Where were we? Overturned cars? That was fucking 10 years ago conscience! Let it be! Leave the past alone! Hey Nietz do you still want some brussel sprouts? NO I FUCKING DON'T! GET THEM OUTTA HERE. Bring me the Super Sandwich from Hell. A sandwich that contains Pure Capsaicin and enriched uranium... I have to eat this thing in three bites. The rules are harsh but that's why they call it the Super Sandwich from Hell. Satan cooked it personally with a little tag attached to the box that read, LMAO!! I wasn't sure if he was laughing with me, or at me, but I was about to find out as I lifted the sandwich to my lips. I fainted and my face slammed down against the table. That was because the Super Sandwich from Hell contained chloroform. and other forms of poison that I could not even read, mysteriousmenhiramesthorine. No Super Sandwich from Hell is complete without the inclusion of Unknown Ingredients. The Super Soup from Heaven would have been a better choice.
When I die, I want to leave a legacy.. or failing that, just leave one of my legs out at sea. Just so someone can stumble upon it and go, 'oh my God I found a body!' False Alarm, nothing to see here. Its just a femur, go away people! Nothing to see here! Except a femur, which has caused a fever pitch furore bigger than the queue for FIFA 14. Fuck FIFA 14, LEAVA FIFA on the shelf A MAMMA MIA! The Hightalian Chef is up to his old tricks again. He has friends in High Places, knows a lot of pilots that guy does, meets up with them in his pilate classes, but his eyes dilate from some of the toned athletic figures of females and he needs glasses. He needed them anyroad, he was blind as a bat, in fact he shouldn't be driving a plane. He doesn't want to be reviving the survivors again. Surfers wearing visors managed to jump into the ocean and ride a couple of waves before being turned into Shark Food. Damn that's harsh dude. Didn't even get a proper funeral. Ashes to Ashes Dust to Dust and all that, humans are nothing special, except those with special needs like Royalty who need their butts wiping and beds making. You're living in a hazy daydream, one day you may scream about how crazy it is. I'd be afraid of wealth, fame or power, hell, flames or hours of pain and boredom. Sing along muddyfuckee, before I kick thee bucket, I'ma pour it on your head first. I'm committed to being committed in the finest Asylum and wearing Fruit of the Asyloom straitjackets made out of pure nylon, while my brain remains imprisoned in Darlex, then I give oral sex to Darleen. Its going light outside, I write, tired, like a drunk man hired to replace me for 10 minutes... Okay now we're going to delve and dive into twelve paragraphs of partly graphic violence and partially graphic... LAFFTER! Without caffeine, coffee, or Soul Coughing who were all coughing from the smoke inhalation, they couldn't breathe because some idiot had blocked up the ventiliation system, and the only way they could vent from then on was through their music. Death Knell, arguments causing vicious friction, heroin addictions. No choice but to terminate the band. Go their seperate ways unlike the conjoined twins who could only join things like cults and rub their cuts together to become blood brothers or something.
The sole purpose of this whole person's soul going out to all persons only worsens the situation and leaves him all burdened and burnt out. Leaving you wondering what the fuck these words were even about. Don't worry I'm still trying to figure it out there's a bigger picture, disfigured literature that needs to be configured to work it out. Wait a minute? What was that shit involving Brussel Sprouts? Are you trolling? or rolling on the floor laughing because someone poured gas in the room? I'm not asking you, fucker. You got problems like all of the other lemmings who are more bitter inside than lemons. The Simple Sociopathic Vote. Your wrists bleed, you're pissed and you just peed your pants so you wrote another suicide note. Wake up smell the coffee, your Soul is Coughing out for medicine. You need to take it back to basics, basically you need to stop being sick over the basin, you're wasting your life waiting for validation during that period of self-hating. Sorry, I know its horrifying now, and you feel there's no safety mechanism except masochism. Don't fret, we are all in this together forever and ever, knotted like clotted cream. Or was that clotted semen that I've just eaten? Shit! No, I don't mean it was shit. So you mean you enjoyed it Nietzlawe? No! I didn't mean that shit either! Every word twisted more times than the ParaAbnormal, a paratrooper called Norman Bates, and his Grandmother Norma the old Bat. But let's hear no-more shit about her except the time when she twatted Billy Boncelicker with a golden handbag... Seemed random at the time as was the incident where she grabbed at his crotch after drinking 12 bottles of Grolsch lager... And the saga continued as they played on an out-of-date Sega Master System for 18 hours straight without even having a rest... Crazy and dysfunctional fam at Lee's house. I say Leave that Family alone to zone out and get thrown out of their own house for being drawn into long disputes with their neighbours... Bears that neigh you say? Are you thinking horses? Whores that see? Hookers that sit on seesaws and seek clients to skeet in their holes. This shit ain't poetic Nietz? All right then let's add a little Keats, free speech, freakish literature, Liberacture, ligaments torn and fractures through figurative actions.
Sound the Klaxon, Nietz is back like another Klixen handjob... Back rub, bank rob, spank the monkey... Ooh Kink-E, I think this winky is a little spunky. It hasn't sunk in yet, the realisation that I've just reeled in satire while I've been sat here masturbating. Haven't lifted a finger, but on the fringes of infringing with this intriguing yet intrinsic ball of string that some would call a Blog. I wouldn't, its a mess, all over the place, more disjointed than this disappointing joint-smoking addict who when I ask him what is 2+2, he can't add it up... I've had enough of this addict's cheyne stoking. I'm walking away from it all, fame, the limelight, the bananalight, the cherrylight, all the fruitlights in the business kid. Get yourself another Hero.. Guitar game, I smashed your other one into pieces. I also smashed up your real guitar. Double Whammy! I'm a real git with no heart. Heartless, heartmore, unearth more bodies from the Gravel Pit then unravel other shit, like being forced to suck Jimmy Saville's dick. Trau Matic, like the other day when I nearly got electrocuted pushing a cable into the back of an Hi Fi. It could have been I Fry as 60,000 watts of pure electricity change my ethnicity. But I survived that ordeal and went to Ethanol City and got breathalysed, I wasn't drunk, but the result was showing that I had swallowed 600 pesticides. Enough to split my sides like Joe Pesci when he says, "why the fuck do you think I'm funny?" And everybody gets scared including Ray Liotta who goes "get out of here!" then Joe Pesci shoots him. Deleted scene that exists only in my brain. I blame the damaged psyche for making me walk down the steps of a basement with a slight limp. My lmyph glands are fucked, it makes me so angry I feel like shouting HYMPH really loud, in private with no other human present within a 60 mile radius... What is the point of making a point that noone hears? You only disappoint, and judging by the 60 mile thing, you've disappeared too, out of sight, out of mind. I'm attempting a nomadic lifestyle like Chris McCandless, I have no candles to keep me warm at night, that's why I brought along this flint that someone like Clint Eastwood would be proud of. Do you feel lucky punk? Yes, because I have a bag full of food. Duuuddeee! Its ruuuddee not to share your rations with me, its irrational. "Who said that?" -- "I did." -- "Show yourself stranger!" -- "I can't, I'm inside you. I'm your submissive conscience." -- "Great, I'm stuck out here in the Gene Wilderness with only myself for company. This story can't have a shelf life. Shut up! Light the fire Nietz. Tonight we have a story to tell, a story about a yarn girl called Claire who lived in a farmhouse... She had the personality of a quiet little door mouse yet somehow had a job as a Bouncer... Bouncing on Bounce E. McCastle Burgers that were sold on that hill where folk had gay sex - HamBUGGERY Hill I believe it was called... It was also cold. Tell them the fucking anecdote Nietz! FUCK OFF!!!!!! This whole blog is just a Soap Opera browser, out here in the forest, we Fire Fox's out of a cannon. its better entertainment than sticking your dick in this tortured Genie's ass. Damn, we need a perverted surgeon urgently so he can pour detergent into your open ribcage, then cage you up and eat your ribs and nipples. I'm merely a passenger in the vehicle that is my own body. These thoughts occur instinctively, another brain collapse perhaps its miraculous that this relapse feels fabulous, like emptying a pocket. I like to shock people but not by sticking my fingers in the plug sockets. Should I STOP AND THINK? or just carry on dropping my ink while interlinking words together that instinctively sync without thinking? In real life a shrinking violet, in writing mode I'm in auto-pilot and prone to get violent. But.. But...
Oh Well, Or Well, It'll all be over when the grid goes down... Or Ally.