I just want to break loose and live on Wrigley’s Doublemint, start trouble, then double over in pain before changing my name to Elon Musk while sniffing Rene’s gusset, and then afterwards buy some egg-yolk scented candles and get cancer from the fumes. I'm the fuckin' one that's fuming! This faux cancer ain't gonna cure itself. Not even Midget Ure can save me now, or Bridget Jones. Not even the fuckin' Philosopher's Stone! But what about the philosopher 'that's' stoned? Maybe he can open your third eye. I don't want him going anywhere near my third eye! I said I prefer girls, not that I prefer guys! In the meantime, read on, or I can refer you to my previous gunk. If not, I invite all guests to see the upcoming junk stored in the trunk of my head. Most of it unread, none of it on Reddit, mostly unwritten, mostly unsaid. Until now... "Here, doggy, come get!" Tweet Tweet, this is what I eat everyday for breakfast, a little feast of dogs dinner and codswollop... and what slop it is! This is not what the Doctor ordered, but I just can't stop, and anyhow, the dogs follow. Duh, he ordered hors d'oeuvres... and a couple of whores who wanted to climb Mount Everdick. Better to eject and avert disaster, and avoid a sexually transmitted diocese from a trans version of Ted DiaBetes. Avoid being plastered by the Pastor. Dirty Bastard! Can't inhale your musk from behind this mask for elongated periods without suffering some kind of nasty reaction. But as they say, every action has a reaction. So stop inhaling. Start outhaling, until your mouth is foaming, and you're zoning out like somebody is stroking your boner. "Throw me a frickin' bone here, Scott." Actually, don't. Don't throw anything in my direction unless it's a wild party full of drugs, loud music, strippers and a lone gunman. But why is the gunman, lone? Why can't he be ltwo? Peppering the steak with stray bullets, dawg! He's held the gourmet place hostage for 4 days. Now it's more like GOREmet. But fortune favours the brave... and the cowards that got away. Unscathed, like Catherine Unsworth. Catherine! You are named and shamed! I Joke I Joke, I Keed I Keep... on saying that phrase. It's time to move on, to the next, new blog, it's surprising what you can say in a few blocks of text. True blots of ink, blew lots away. And the few knots of pain, that were clotting up my brain are now rotting on this page. That's one way to deal with rage. By peeling back layers, not concealing the fear, but instead revealing. It cheers me up no end to smear this shit. No matter how weird it is. New heights of Ouisense. Grade A Gibber, straight off the streets of liver and black puddings. Don't forget tripe and that funny tasting cumin.. Min Cui's pussy, cute and fluffy. Nietzlawe is Back! Right on cue! Left hander dishing out human rights abuse. Yeah right! This would barely qualify as news! So I'll never apologise to you. If anything this is Comedy. Or at least a shoddy try. Feel free to shoot me down in pieces, like some Bonnie and Clyde, but if you can't find me, I'm probably in hiding. Probably in Joe Biden's basement. Crying. Dying because he only feeds me the rinds of his bacon. Where's Liam Neeson now that I have been taken by some crazy guy?! I'm in pain, my joints are aching, like Clay's loins. So I lay low, ghost-like... lowlife, layabout, Nietzlawe playing around. No life, but definitely a law-abiden Joe citizen. May be idle, but no Malice, except towards a Malus idol. The only time I dole out pain with callous flair is when I stab a saboteur at a Sabbath with secateurs, then grab the Abbot and slap him, then step upstairs to shag his wife. Oh wait... That's cold, man! Like this cold sore. But there is nothing cold about it, the only thing true is that it's called a sore. It's true! And we can't censor the truth, as the truth hurts like a tooth fairy who has her pearly white gnashers extracted with molgrips held by Hans Moleman. Hands off her Molars, old man! Stop sniffing mould out of her old Gola trainers! And that Rolex watch is mine! Even though both hands go back in time, and stick at 3 and 9. Great! No wonder you were late to the party, Richter. You were being brainwashed by Rachelle and Victor. And sent for re-edumacation. Better than being stationed at a listening post in Deaf Man's Desert. At least you stumbled upon some dinosaur bones.. literally stumbled and had your nuts crushed under some dumbbells. Hell, that was dumb, like keeping yourself in a poverty trap, and unable to properly clothe.. oh how I loathe being broke!! Maybe I should turn to opium and coke, and sit on the streets with an accordion, bored out of my gourd, according to one newspaper source. This wasn't part of my prophecy! I wish I'd been in that Gourmet Massacre. Perishing like the terrorist. Got to Switch off to Switch on, go to Skipton on a Witch Way bus. £6.70 fare? You call that fair?! It is actually. Like the blonde-haired woman's pert bare tush that everyone stares at... Barred from perving from behind the bushes, ironically to see her behind, and her bush... before being put behind bars to serve as punishment. This is nothing but nonchalant nonsense and gross incompetence, and while others get hurt, I grow in confidence. Win-Win cooperation motherfucker! Except when I take 17 hours to walk home from Skipton, which is a true story. I assure you, no skipping took place, but my heart skipped a beat as I ran from a cow stampede. Again, true story. I have the scratches and tears on my t-shirt and arms to prove there was a close scare. Don't know what made them go spare. Maybe they were dosed up on Ste's roids. But our fortunes changed when we reached Thornton-in-Craven, we had time for a short celebration, and we successfully recalibrated our location. Then headed for Earby. Shame we couldn't get there earlier. There's nothing like shitting in the Swan at Gargrave, after a long taxing walk at a hard pace. Two hikers necking bottles of Tiger before we head out to Broughton, the sun still at its brightest. Passed by Bollywood Cottage. But not enough time to drop in for a curry and a coffee. I don't drink coffee. Just grabbed some Pellegrino orange from the offie. Then back out on the road. No stopping. 51 miles we walked in two days, and when I got home I was too dazed to talk. Too much in a daydream to put my thoughts out in the mainstream. So mate, just let me sleep.