View Profile nietzlawe
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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More poisonous dreams than sleep eating through 40 laburnum trees. And as you cease to be, a St. Bernard dog sits laughing, slobbering, lobbying for change against animal cruelty. "But he's being cruel to me!" Who's gonna believe that? ... No one! That Bernard is no Saint. It just ain't a pretty picture being painted. And it's my reputation that's been tainted. Quick, I need my train ticket! A getaway car to get away far. But this escape is taking forever, and popped tyres is never a great start! I should run like Forrest, through the forest, foraging through foliage, not knowing what this holly is. Probably hemlock... and if I eat it, then what? Death like Socrates? Unable to catch my breath like a whole soccer team, that suck and have no dreams or aspirations. That sounds about right! Time to put it on Newgrounds for likes, and the newshounds to smite. Fuck 'em. Book 'em Lou! Never pass the opportunity for a massacre, after an '84 cinema showing of Lassiter. I was hoping for some flashing lights, graphic violence and sapphic sirens! None of 'em. "For those who didn't like the film, please accept a free copy of Lee Child's latest novel as a token of apology." Fuck that. Cyanide is cheaper. The People's Liberation Pills, here to give a whole nation the communist chills. Unlike Chills, who just does spooky countdowns in a monotone voice. But how come chills begins with CHI? I don't care, coz mine is positive. Yet I possess an unsafe deposit box. People keep on breaking into it and stealing my life savings. Of 5p. That's actually a lie, I just say things that aren't true... and even that's a hard truth. Like Days Gone. Which I've already spent days on!! More like weeks I've been souping up and shooting freaks. As that's just how I do things ... RUNNNNNN! If in doubt, escape... there's newt here but newt ears of a Maze Runner. In fact, I'm amazed that runner could keep up with my sidearm. I can't let this one slide as I ride through a swarm, then hide in Barbara's Bush, where I like coz it's warm. Man, this place is like a fuckin' arboretum! But at least it prolongs my fugitive state as I seek a lucrative future with nutritive sugar, not artificial sweeteners like sucralose, fuckers! Coz those suckers lose when their heart gets a flutter and moves at ten't'dozen. Being robust toughens you up, don't let these robots grind you to sawdust. I've No trust at all no more in science or government. Defiant to the bitter end of a sweet footnote at the bottom of one sheet. Nietzlawe can teach law and reach those suffering from deep vein throbboner. "Hey Nie, you should tone it down." But you won't, coz you ain't no drone, and have no intention of being kicked off the throne. You'll have to be thrown off. Fuck it I'll abdicate... Happily let anyone take this poisoned chalice. As I've tainted the Ouzo. Who's next for their flu shot? "Not you." Hey, what does Lou Rawls wipe his ass with? And whatever happened to Tammy Pax? Sammy Sosh's cheeks are bloated. Everyone knows this! And when you slap each of his cheeks at the exact same time, gore flies out of his mouth and blinds you temporarily, for 17 years. And you have to walk around with that St. Bernard as your guide dog leading you into traps and ambushes involving Russian Gangsters with knuckle dusters, baseball bats, feather dusters and baseball gloves. Sounds bizarre. That's because it is. Like reading Bizarre magazine and jerking off with a jar of vaseline. Drinking coal tar derivatives from saccharin. Sack that shit, get me my creatine, so I can create great things, but only for the Over 18s. "Why do you want over eight teens you pervert!" Is eight or less not enough for you! B-b-but it's the wordplay! The wordplay keeps making me do crazy things like serial killers who said they heard voices. Probably just vocoder using musicians that drove them over the edge of Allan Poe's calloused toes. Chows on the Road. Chaos really but my Nan never knew how to pronounce it. And calling fajitas fattigers was just the tip of the IceBurger. Available in all good slow food takeaways. The only real thing you can take away from this whole saga, is a Sega Mega Drive and Hagar the Horrible's guitar. That's horrible in itself, stealing from a cunt instead of sealing that cunt with your cock. Now we're gonna have to call the Plumber (euphemism) to plug that leak. Fuck that's bleak... This New World is at a standstill and resembles a landfill. I should go overseas, and get seized in the Motherland. "Fuck, couldn't you have picked another land?" You're crazy Madonna if you think music is the answer. Especially when they let you out of the Retirement Home on day release to perform. Plus her form isn't what it used to be. All those nips and tucks and cosmetic fuck ups. Michael Jackson's facelift. Pfft, more like a racelift! How else can you raise the stakes? By razing down the places full of murderers and rapists? When will I change my ways and get more life in me than a mayfly? I may not. I may die and get found in a lay-by, by a gay layabout, who lies about being gay, and the only reason he is staying out late at night is to take LSD and perch on rooftops until the next day. HI PEOPLE! WELCOME TO THE LAKE SHOW! Got more poison in me than a fish I once had at the Hake Boat. At least now that plaice is closed. Gil no longer works there. Now we've got a Frankie's, which frankly my dear... is much better! Hot and spicy... and that's just the women working there! Achchhaee! Dishy devee's pick a rack of Piri Piri. Across the road we have a Primark, and just under that a market full of pies, liver, black puddings, and American soft drinks loaded with high fructose corn syrup. We have market stalls with names like Bedfords and Greens and Jeff Fartsmell's Magic Parquet. Who knows what's under Jeff's floorboards? He's got many skeletons in his closet. But if you move those out of the way, loads of dead bodies! "You haven't lived until you've massacred 14!" Boasted Richard Ramirape. I don't know... these nutters, everywhere these days, you can't even get out of your front door without stepping on a bear trap or slipping in bird turd. You have to run past the lines of yobbos before they can rob you blind. Fucking you over for stopping in kindness. Now your pockets are in the minus, and your chips were stolen by a fucking ibis. Should have opened your eyelids. Should have resorted to violence. Should have gone all Harry Brown on they Collective Arses. C'mon, I'm too old, past this... probably eaten too many pasties to deal with nasty fuckers that are out to slash any passing suckers. This is our future now... Distant and cold, caged, as we work our way to old age. Living a morbid life, looking in the mirror, morified. Only 9 years off 45. Surely there's more to life than formorti? Could have been more sporty, but you'd rather eat pasties and pork pies and tell glorified stories. People falling, from storeys, gorified. Indian guys checking out fine goris. My mind's warped, attention span is short... and I can't remember what else I wanted to say. As I lie here, lying, through my man teats... You know I Joke, You Know I Keed, You know I'll cut my own throat before I ever read a Lee Child novel. I'd sooner grovel for penis in a brothel, or live in a hovel eating Hovis bread with Donald Trump. Stale mouldy ALDI can of beans, far from magic, look like they have been scooped up from the floor of a can of teen.. age plate leftovers. But still... better than newt! Until the outbreak of course, then it's Corpse Soup. Probably a delicacy in Papua's New Guinea Pig. Canniballsacs. Can I have her fanny and all the crack? "Yes, but she was the age of a granny, older than that plaque." Fuck, time for some run of the mill black magic, even though I lack a Dummies Guide to magic skills. "How did Crowley do it?" Loads of drugs, then wrote some books. Made up spirits he evoked because this devoted satanist was nuts. Yet he's still famous, and to this day quoted. Lauded in some quarters. You gotta get inside the words... Heavens to Murgh Madrasatroyd. Dan Akroyd and Floyd Mayweather may have weathered stormy Michaels as she storms in through the door with more thunder than Thor. Yet she's got to be back on the porn set in 4 more minutes! And Mr. Trump is horny. "I did not have no sordid affair, and it wasn't'a'fair'a'Luigi to suggest I'did!" So I did the next best thing. Stuck my sword in and pumped until she was sore in that hole. Testing the calibur of my Ex... cessive masturbay, shun habitation in a vegetative state. Happy daze... which I haven't had in days. Maybe I would get more fun from slapping faces, and lapping blood from the grazing.. Mmm tasty. At random. No matter how ugly or handsome. Whether it's your daughter or somebody's grandson. Who knows? All I know is that I can sum it up in one second by flipping back a Sekonda hand and showing off my grand Iguana. Invite you in just to inflict vile sins upon your Mile High Wall of Books. I have a copy of the Yellow Pages so aged, that the pages are yellowing in places. Phone numbers for takeaways. No menus or anything. Those were the days! Of unpredictable curries. Mmmm, dead cockroach! Mmmm, burnt plasticy bit of pan Sinica! Now we have hygiene standards, people wearing clingfilm gloves to serve up grub. Like earthworms to Church goers and search party gatherings. Look, they're slavering already! Geronimo. But what about The Andromeda Strain? And the dip in the economy? How about trying to get on the property ladder? Not that it matters at all to profit. Why not just rob it? Nobody can stop him. He's like a sad and dejected, neglected Son of Sam opening fire at a SummerSlam on your Mum and Gran. Not many really understand how bad man can suffer. Yet some of us can. Sometimes it's better to open up and talk, or make a joke. You should take note. The best form of Psychiatry is not piety to a higher power. It doesn't help the pariah states. Why cry to Christ when you're dying, fighting for your life? And never when you're flying high? Divebomb 911, put the frighteners on, despite the nonsense I write, I ain't no Charles Bronson. I've never started a fight. Never said "do you want some!!" In a childlike English tone, during a wild night cherry blossom. Ready to bring Rock and Roll back by putting a sock over my hand and playing with my throbbing ballsac. No wait, they're on Lorena Bobbitt's lawn, aside the dogshit. "Watch it, mister!" Great, now this sock has shit upon it. Where the fuck is my dock leaf? Think you need more than just one piece? Want your niece to tease your knob and please not call the police. Now she's got more problems than morbid obesity. Now it's more like Morbid O'Penisy. Sounds like a right character he does. Gets on a register for blowing to Camila Giorgi and other tennis hotties... and he's not even CORGY registered! The mind is a mindfield... yet mine feels fine right now as I keep writing 'til the night dies out.

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