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Unloading Crates

Posted by nietzlawe - 1 month ago


UNLOADING CRATES


Today I had to have an interview at the Late Show, its fair to say that I turned up nice and early, but nobody else was there... Its a shame because people wanted a slice of Opus Marmalade Pie, instead they were given the leftovers from Jenny Craig Weight Loss Program... The Opus Part 4! Magnificent loose shrapnel, we have been waiting for 12 years for this story and you do this to us Nietzlawe, Vee Vill Vill Vouuu!... Its okay friend, I understand if you cannot pronounce your W's and K's, let's make the announcement right now... Cumming down the aisle, weighing 3 hundred and seventy five pounds and that's just my cock, he is a cocknose, not a brown nose, but he is generally someone you Love to Hate, you hate him so much that you have to copulate, he will force you to capitulate in that Capital State where doth Salmon Rushdhiswords lay... You should think before you speak, and even then you should pour cold water on those thoughts before you write... Religion is the Holy Grail, as a camp person would say, "don't go there sister!"... Which is a shame because I really wanted to visit the Dominican Republick... We had to make do with the Devastating Carlick, scooping the poop with our tongues like its pigeon soup... Or Dandelion and Birdplop... Our taste buds disowned us, "we are not your buddy anymore"... Oh how I laughed, you are trapped in thy mouth, you can't leave now my friend, you are part of this whole operation... This Ocean's Pie... I mean Ocean's Eleven Fish that survived a nuclear explosion somehow... How can people survive literally when Nietzlawe drives his truck 3000 miles while playing a piano at the exact same time, just so I can unload these crates, crates of salmon pate poured on your plate for you to masturbate over... All day long and All night short... Together we are capable of great things, but I need me fingers, we all need our fingers, fingers and toes, we need our fings, our wings of steel, human Batfink...


But you have no crowbar, how will you unload so to speak? I'll dig my nails in until I have hands full of splinters, fingers still full of frostbite from the winter... How will I write without my quill! "Relax Niets, we are living in the 20 Thirst Century now, we have these things called "keyboards", all that effort and exertion, people feel inertia when their eyes meet with their maker... Maybe they looked up and spotted the Moonraker, during the backbreaking labour of life on that slave ship... Being pistol whipped by the Sex Pistols... "Backbreaking labour?"... This blog aint worth the paper its written on, sometimes the sign is facing the opposite way, but its not my fault the hurricane changed the Windex... Don't blame me, I'm just a man trying to put bread on the table, its not all that difficult, "you take the bread out the wrapper and put it on the top!"... "I said you put it on the top!"... I did put it there, but the next time I looked it had disappeared and there was only me and Jenny Craig sitting in the room... Well I say, "you can't trust a female with a male surname"... The only person you can trust in this Dogforsaken world, is someone dead... "Nooo Nietzlawe, but what about Mr. Doggerel? Can you trust him when he is singing from the hymn sheet, or has just walked out of the gymn nasalium... "Don't worry about me, I get by from using Ad Hocs from all those Hocus Pocus Advertisements I have seen during my history."... On the Earth, maybe you should just blurt out home truths like Bert Reynolds during rape... Let's all sit around a circle linking fingers like a human Daisy Chain and sing "Rings of Fire"... While eating Pork Scratch Cards and Porcelain Insulin for our diabetes, let's grab a handful of faeces and hurl them at our TVs... "What's on the shitbox?"... Very subpar and poor quality programming, no idea what you mean Dog... Doggerel, this blog is awesome in all its Doggerel Secular Humanist qualities... I say we screw religion Dogma Style... By Sticking Mata Hari in front of a firing squad... BRUGG... You trigger happy morons, Mormons that could rig a boat with explosives that has rigour mortis... Personify this, support this......


As Nietzlawe makes another bizarre claim... This blog could lead to our fame, but I prefer to keep things Esoteric and Arcane, playing Rastan in the arcade... "Nobody does it betttterrr..." Well Carly Simon said that, until somebody came along and did it better.... What they did better I don't know... Its very vague, it depends on what you mean by IT, Information Technology... Maybe that's what she was singing to me when we had sex last night, kind of corny being singed too after busting nutshells... She was a total ballbuster, its fair to say she helped me unload some of those crates, crates of creatine, scattered all over Eric's freshly Mown-Lawn... Oh he was angry, he turned into the incredulous Hulk, the pacifist starting throwing fists, his time sitting on the fence was over, he was on the Warpath, the one that led to war... In another far away country against all opposition... This was the toughest obstacle he had ever faced in his entire life, well except that year we went up that mountain - Patsy's Climb, but to be fair she died wayyy before her time... Live every single day like its your last, crying and feeling sorry for yourself... No wait! I got that all wrong, Live every single day like its your first... Crying and feeling sorry for yourself... No wait! This advice has been abandoned, much like when you are born and ready for dying... Why can't we escape from this subject, let's talk about another theme 'seeme'ingly at random, I tandemly make a good impression - I'm not Claude Monet... I can unload crates, hell I can even stick labels on them, but impressions are not my forte, even when I rapped my knuckles to deliver forty knocks at Fort Knox nobody answered... His welcome mat had some letters missing, it read "Come For Kox,"... I thought to myself, "No I haven't come for any cocks, I'm here because I was gang-ban... I mean Press Ganged, damn I should never have walked out of that Irish bar pissed as a steamed fart...


That's just how it goes, people like to scare you, when I went for a job interview, my Employer said, "you'll be working on Desk Rows"... At first I thought he said Death Row, but maybe I was deaf though and wouldn't hear the death throes... Still I could get stuck in a Death Roll, those crocodiles wearing frocks and drinking chamomile with lemon and honey baby - lemon melon meringue left to hang in the noose right next to the moose that had just stabbed me with its hooves... Edgar Hoover was right there, he had things to solve, riddles, puzzles, pockets full of sachets of salt and pepper spray... Forget about Edgarrgh, let's focus on the Tusk in hand here, there are many Crates that must be fragmented and broken down like a specimen of special semen... These are Mammoth's, but if reading, claustrophobic paragraphs and unorthodox ellipsis is your thing, then you have cum to the right place, just enough pleasure to be an Hedonist, let these Scrawls be the epicentre of your Epicureanism, the Rhodes can pick up dust, as does the wheels of my truck as I speed through these long motorways, bringing more and more crates, an infinite supply of infantile behaviour and gibberish... But with a twist of wisdom, enough for the hecklers to say, "He's a cunt, but a cunt with a heart." But if you want a piece of advice, if you ever hang out with the Mayans, never say that you have a heart of gold, or they will tear through you quicker than one of those Module Machines from Teenage Mutant Hero Turtles... Cocksteady and Birdplop, with The Shredder as their leader, his name was derived from the fact that he did a lot of shredding of documents in his hayday, perhaps its really Eric, underneath that faceplate... Horrible headgear it may be, but keeps the mosquitos and Conquistadors away, as well as the Conquested Whores... But his sexual conquests were confessed and he was led away to fight in brutal contests against lions and marauding tortoises that tortured victims with their shells... It squirted out Shell Oil, right in the eyes, instant blindness, kamikaze Eric, they suck you in and spit out the remains on the Roman ruins...


Nice warm day today, did I mention my crates? Charging extremely high rates to seemingly irate people that scream in my face... Corsets and ice cream, I can smell the jubilation of a whole nation, even though only the Estonian Esotericals read these gigantic antics of a semantically-minded pedantic man whose mind ticks... Constantly, thinking, flying off the Handle at any moment, proxemics, pro-anareksic, over-protective of my family, the NG 'eNGine, it ticks like a ticking Thai Bomb... We share our thoughts, collective cohesive unity, all in good fun, high spirits, kids cannot reach alcohol... Where do we go from here? My gut is full of Opus pie, a story about the homeless that survive through hope and tri.. umphhhh... They wont die, neither will you and I, we are immortal, words are Forever until they are deleted or depleted like fatigue... Till my dying day I'll just keep on spilling this puree on the Church pews...


Nobody does it betttterrrr... Yes they do, someone somewhere in the world will actually do it better... It may be something like eating your own fingernails in less than five seconds, but that is not a record that I would cherish while I was choking...


Awww Revoir,

Dog bless,

Nietzlawe


https://web.archive.org/web/20151024000937/http://nietzlawe.newgrounds.com/news/post/471106#comments


1

Comments (1)

Hot damn, never thought id see literature on here

And I never thought that what I wrote would be seen as literature.

Usually I'm barely legible like a vegetable in a coma. Using hand gestures to communicate, switched off into another unknown state. Morphing into someone strange. Like I've suddenly summoned a humdrum change that's somewhat feigned. Conundrums aged like Jeff Goldblum's face. As I race in through the Doldrum gates To try and retrace my footsteps. I've craved for days to put in place the wave of faith that's missing. Recreate the ways of old which have really had me digging. Sitting with my hands in ink, this chicken scratch is not fulfilling. Not top billing, its the impostor that has fostered feeling. But now its time to conjure. Weave the magic wand, so that the words can dance the conga. Time to leave this sombre mood and come back even stronger.