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I'm as happy as Larry. Unless of course the Larry in question is Larry Swartz. Being questioned. And then given a Qustodio sentence. A Permanent Web Filter. FOREVER! As news of that conviction filtered through to the neighbourhood, they did what all good neighbours would do in a situation like that... they gossiped while sipping Gin and Juice with Jewish djinns. Creating a racket long into the night, but their loud noise didn't keep the neighbours awake, as they were the neighbours! The primary cause of their own annoyances, only it didn't annoy them when it was they who were instigating this crime. How can it be considered a breach of the peace, when all the neighbours were at one party? It was the perfect crime. The only thing that had been breached were the pieces of cake they were munching down at an alarming rate. And they were now all armed with rayguns. Guns that belonged to both Ronald and Ray. But at least not Donald, eh! Phew, we dodged a bullet! But then got hit with the next 20 rounds. Luckily they all ricocheted off the 420lb tummy of Richard Shayler. Myth. That never happened. Like that time you said you had seborrheic keratosis. Everybody knows that was bollocks. As were the ones on your bollocks. Whoa, what? Something smells fishy here. Yeah, that'll be the rollmops, and the faux British Bulldog spirit permeating in every pore, but boring everyone in the room. Gotta lock the door, keep them in there. You're gonna hear me out, even if the beer clouds my judgement and I start slurring my worms. Stumbling, mumbling, doing dumb things. Ahh, fuck it, get me another drink. Pour it out, like your heart and soul... you feel so low, disheartened, a forlorn figure, as you walk to the shop for more liquor, to torture your liver. It's not that bad, geez... I barely treat myself to a six-pack once a week. I wouldn't call that a drink problem. And worries, I think everybody's got them. Anxiety, even at the sight of cherry angiomas, more pissed off than the angry voters who thought they were voting for change, and end up just smoking with rage, may as well just throw their votes in the water, with as much disdain as someone did to Kurt Sova. If it's not the hope that kills ya, it's the rope, more so if it breaks and doesn't finish the job. Each step to hell is closer, maybe it's time to wake up and smell the melanoma. What better homage to a drunk than a sobering lesson, or seven weeks on a Soberlink for talking aggressively. At the moment it's hard to cope with things. But you cannot mope, it's time to grab your coat, go for a walk and think. Instead of letting things sink lower than having to cut a lawn with a pink mower. I'd rather kick up a stink by letting off steam on a toilet in Doha. Doh ! need to wipe my ass with these mammal hands, after letting out an avalanche of shit... must be the sorbitol, and ironically not the Orbit, but the Airwaves. Better than having a Sore Shithole. Ditto. This has just hit home... so sit tight as this fire burns brighter than a midnight wicker, and my mind moves quicker after Dow's port, but how? Figure that one out for yourself, Sherlock. Why spurn the opportunity to investigate the rest of these clues? which are cues to make an arrest. No time to take a rest, sleep when you're dead and buried or cremated by the jerry can. But can Jerry bury his stiff in Kerry, just in time, and bust inside her? If he must. They haven't done it doggystyle for years, he's got ring rust. What happened to that red-blooded impulse of his? The ability to fire at Will, and take whatever was left in his will. Whoa, nobody needs to get kilt, except Scott. Nobody needs to be at the mercy of your nefarious plots except Broc Tickle. Who is not amused or tickled. So why then did pee trickle down his leg? And why was he left with egg on his face, and a sausage moustache? Put all your trust in Nie... to fuck up needlessly, to either leave you speechless or give you sleepless nights. But the question is... can he keep this ride going? Or is the hype starting to slow him down? Moving at a snail's pace, pale like he inhaled shale gas. This is getting stale, fast. Fast you say? There is still hope for this joker. In April he hopes to walk to Wigan, without a trekking pole, or a wrecking crew. No full sugar drink to get him through, this is too, harrowing for words, it couldn't be worse except if he took an arrow or two in the knee, then got peed on by a fat gnat that Jack Sprat couldn't even eat. So he got his wife to do it. Do it now... DO IT NOW! DO IT NOWWW! That's Roger from Salad Fingers up to his usual psychological bullying. Why doesn't he go and fucking do it? Roger that. Man I've got tunnel vision, and a ton of visions in that tunnel which I envision won't see the light of day. My life is a sob story... a story about an SOB. But if you like sad movies, I hear tears.eu is good for streaming. Sree Ming. That would be conjoined Indian Chinese women. They are not conjoined! They are lesbians! They are merely copulating! This is the 21st TenCentury, surely we don't need a jury venting their fury... Humans were put here to cement their curiosity, surely? Nietz doesn't care if he's hugely popular, or seen as a useless knobhead. A lot's been said. Take shots, receive flak, but never crack under pressure, just give pleasure under crack. The odds are stacked against this oddity, but the majority enjoy the jollity, and are along for this odyssey. Except, Abe. Fucking snobby cunt. "Ooh, retired are we, Abe?" Don't worry, Crash Bandicoot's coming instead. Those question mark boxes won't open themselves. Or will they? Cha Cha Cha! Hey its soon to be Friday the 13th. More like Friday the unfairteenth. Who knows what will happen? More death and decay? Deathinate Lei. Even the reaper is Grim, like Fandango. As grim as the new Fanta and Tango combined. Made from real lemons and oranges! Oh, and bleached sweeteners. This is more like a botch job, time for some hopscotch whisky. Single Malt, Walt Whitman. What wit, man? Here there is none to be found, and now you are hounded out of this bar, you are barred, pounded with metal bars and knuckle dusters by death metal band members. By the Beard of Zeus, I'm not a 33rd degree freemason, just a 56th degree lunatic, trapped in a room with Doom and Vic, zooming in, to booby pics. Booby trapped, a Rubic Cube. Six cubic square feet of pubic heirs to the throne, in a new world taken over by drones. Cognizant brain in a crazy continent dominated by communists. Seems that there are conflicts of interest, but everyone came from incest, so why start race wars? Or a space race? We all live on the same place, so why place blame on each other? Time to laugh and poke fun, because jokes do more good for stress than those guns.