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I am here to make a difference. Isn't that why we're all here?

36, Male


Globe of Earlobe

Joined on 7/10/08

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I'm a wanker that brings myself off in Cara Cum's hands, as I thirst for, hanker, but don't forget to thank her... chief! I've even got time to knock one out to Amber, it's a lie if you heard that I was hampered. I'm laid back, nor do I share Johnny Depp's anger. Even though this blog is cutting edge, will slit your throat and throw you off a fucking ledge. My Mantra is to lance anyone who tries to make me answer to their antics. I'm a shitstorm in a blizzard, parental warning there isn't one. Now get lost before I make a sorbet out of your kittens. Dropping atomics to show you how hot a bomb is. As I continue to conjure from a chaotic bottomless pit. Conquer and stomp through this shit like an out of control bronco. And yes it's still ongoing. No intention of stopping, as this isn't just a hobby for me, this goes deeper than the mob. Like a pizzagate on the seabed. But instead of a deep blue, it's a deep red, bleedfest. A literal bleep test. I swear! As I keep testing the censors and avoid being arrested. I would despair if you were to cleanse this man's life work just because you were offended by his wise words. I deserve better. That's why I'm writing this letter. In blog form. Big blocks in boxes with locks on 'em, to drop to the bottom of the Loch Ryan floor. Safer than they would be behind iron doors. Sometimes I wonder who is my higher force. My kindred spirit, whose rhymes and lyrics are just as unhinged. I've infringed on so many, slandered, landed so many blows, Dog only knows, set so many standards, I grow yet my banter just gets more gross. My design more grander as I accrue more thoughts. Got lots to do, before I bid adieu. Coz once I flip a screw it's frightening, yet enlightening to you. Ciphering truths for you sleuths to decipher, and sometimes it's easy to lose sight. Like if I put a spoon in Lou's eye socket. And shoot that high up in a rocket. I've been half blind all my life. In a hole, a pocket of darkness, it's all I've known since I started this journey, alone. Crazy guy with lazyitis. But you wouldn't think so at the rate I write this. It's like a race. The way I like it. Dialled in, destructive, unbridled. But never homicidal. This is my medsin. My cure, when I'm tired of feeling my head spin, and writing is like peeling off dead skin. I'll reach death before I give it a rest, or do a Tyson Fury and take up wrestling. But you're not skilled enough to move on to the next thing! If you try you will only mess things up! Like Dr. Botchjob doing a crotch op and lopping your cock off. That would be a nightmare scenario for Lothario. Bleeding out, so breeding's out. No more jerking to Alison in Get Hard. Or searching on Met Art for porn until he gets a dead arm. A nervous guy with a dirty mind, certified crazy at 35. We're about to be raised, again, like Jesus in 3 days, and even then, Nie is only talking about his penis extending. He doesn't need to preach shit; this is his Second Cumming. Ding Ding Ding! I've busted more nuts than Chip and Dale. Took a grip and just derailed. Spazzin' until I'm passing out and they're passing around the last of the Passover bread over my boner's head. With my gonads dead. So now it's time to attempt the res erection. Revive me so I can be sectioned for my own protection. So much for natural selection... How can I have a destiny if they are arresting me? They haven't even had the chance to see the best of me. Why should I be a test subject for therapy? Why should I spend life in the hole, dawg? When there's still life in the old dog. This is only number 600 from a sick cunt's stomach. We're not even in the second half, or the segments where you laugh. Or cry... or DIE. I don't care. I just write, spew out acrostics and my own damn gnostic rites. You can't teach or reach this level of progress, you just get beaten up like Regis Prograis. You have no o'fence. I am so offensive I have NO friends. I joke, yes? Me, no kid. I'm poss to tell lie, except when I am lying spreadeagled on top of a dead eagle that can't fly. In fact, my whole bed's full of dead animals and people. I lie? yes. Of course, as I lay this coarse, mode. Moreso now as I lay next to four more torsos. You know my mind, its torn in two, born out of a still mother's womb. Hele! w00t! Time to shoot. Too psyched to scoot, so let's write a few hundred more lines for you, or whoever to like, if you would like, but I'll stop short of begging for more subscribers. Or fans... whatever. It's cool with me. I'm laid back. Except when I'm late back!! Fucking pressure!! ... Oh what wuz we sayin'? Oh wait. Now you better hope, pray, they didn't go, o'way. I see right through you, okay? Mr. Opaque. I wouldn't want to take away your hope. Everybody needs a dream to chase, even if the pace is impossible to make up. You gotta use a tracer, or failing that, have a mate in the masons. I'd rather get stripped naked and have my ass whipped by these strict matrons as they dunk my face in their spit basins. Some may call it retribution, like a botched execution. But sometimes solutions just cause more problems. And how is swallowing glue by accident, considered EVOlution? *simultaneous groans* Oh No He Dinn! If only I could play my tail on a fridge like that dog. Or drink Tenzing without tensing my face muscles from disgust. Sherpas drink this? Yeah! And they fall off fuckin' mountains too! I'm no Sherpa. I'm more of a sugar slurping junk food jerky. Fuck checking if the cooker's working. My gas mark dial is stuck in purgatory. Permanently between off and burning. I'm barely able to cook barely legal flesh while you're staring at me like that! Nie you're scaring me! Please spare me! Please don't turn me into spare meat, friend! I'm just ribbing you, pal. Think we should go to Church and get birched by a Priest where after 3 strokes it hurts, but then he dies from his first stroke? Yes, that bloke deserved it, so he should bear the yoke, like people on here having to bear my jokes... about grizzlies on choke chains smoking Rizlas for tourists. Oh wait... those weren't jokes. Nothing sticks to TI-cerama! ... Ah, but I bet it doesn't survive my sledgehammer! Then you'd have to peel my rotten meal from off the bottom of that Gotham Steel. You should have Gothim something stronger. Like Everclear, where if you drink it, your hangover will never clear up. And you might lose your career if your car careers off a road in Korea. Send this motherfucker to re-education! Retard-education that is!! And while not many of us reach tard status, we must keep these abusive schemes alive for profit and convenience! Like when Dieter moved back to Berlin, away from his wife, because he couldn't bear Lynn. *simultaneous groans* Don't worry, I'll be off stage soon, coz I've got stage 2 cancer. I'm only here to collect for charity, or should I say, the CEO's of the charities. That money won't launder itself. Chikka Chikk Ahh. "Please give generously!" Well, please cure urgently. "Hey blood, hey fam, did I axe you!" No, but Jack Torrance nearly did, for exceeding torrent download ratio quotas. Whatever happened to Limewire? And Elderflowertorrentz.ez.warez.virus? Whatever happened to the Likely Lads? Probably something unlikely, obviously. Like got lost in a maize field, being chased by guys in yellow hazmat suits with electrified spears. The whole experience was amazeballs. Like an escape room for nutters. "We got us some fresh meat now, Cleetus!" *revs up chainsaw* ... And yet here I was talking about Cara Cum. Talk about distracted. She must have given me a concussion or something. Brain injury. Hypnotherapo. "Rohypnoltherapy more like!" shouted some idiot in the audience. Fucking hecklers, coming out with offensive wreckless shit. How dare they? That's my terrain, and if you try again, I might just rain on your parade, or use something to block up your airwave passages. Don't mind me, I'm just having a bad hair day. "You're bald, Nietz!" Oh yeah, forgot about that. Bold as brass, but you're sold on hype, and the crass that I write is just somehow amassing likes. Well a few... who needs followers anyway? Especially stalkers on those small islands when you go on holiday. Or gas in the room, which I assume is menoxide, or maybe those men were just knocked out from cider... they had a stockpile of liquor large enough to pacify a ox or a tiger. And it was unclassified and unlicenced. But that didn't bother the bisons. Why should it bother me, son! My motto is to ride the crest, until I die perhaps from a cardiac arrest. A party addict that never looks for a rest. Who even cares about a chest x-ray? I'd rather stare at x-rated breasts. Until my D Day and permanent pjs. These days, too many people like to preach, most of 'em leeches, spewing lies, doing it to help their careers reach new heights. They don't give a mighty fuck, noone does. None of it matters when you reach 90. Life it sucks, like a mouth around a slut's hole. I'd rather suck the sole of her foot. And worship her like a Goddess, coz I am just her dog, pet. But for now I must stop, and get more grub, to rot my gut, then after grab my cock, and pop five nuts. Life is such a vicious cycle, repetitious, idle... mind a malicious silo of grain, and spiralling pain... aging under a Timefall rain. A ticking timebomb, waiting. To go, On.

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