THE MAD NESS MONSTER
The first Golden Rule to remember... is that there are no golden rules! Just blind fools who follow foals, watch Axel Foley movies and make Freedom of Information requests. Then get peed on. "By the system, brotherrr!" So many Concentration Camps, man. How can you concentrate when they are shouting your number all the bloody time! More like Tencentration Cams. "That doesn't make sense, Nie." Like going to a soup kitchen and they give you beans, which get taken by the pigeons on the roof. Heinz Beanz Prowler. Jupiter is visible to the naked eye. But if your eye is clothed, you won't see it. Got to take off that blindfold and line up those ten-pins. Turn off the telly, and get a telescope, it'll help you cope with the ELE and the hellish road we're about to venture down. But still, it's an adventure though. "How?" Well, death is freedom, from an overpopulated world that can't feed its people, and in fact doesn't need them breeding. I just lie here breathing deeper, existing just to fill my needy gut, a greedy fuck, useless eater. Here just to sleep and beat off, until they turn that winter heat on. Then it's time to tear the sheets off, and throw away the hot water bottle I had my feet on. Please don't freak out, but I'm about to mete out pain to anyone I meet, and leave 'em in a heap for the three count. For the passing jeeps to beep at and shout "Hey! Keep outta the road!" I dream of leaning out of a car window and beating up passing people. Harassing people. But do that and you are asking for trouble. Like walking through Xinjiang with two inches of stubble. That's enough to get you sent off to a Tencent factory to make ten cent toy teddies for toddlers, for centuries. "But man, I need some tablets for my headaches!" You should have thought of that before you grew that facial fuzz. "Dude, I didn't think this would get racial, coz..." Too late to plead your innocence, or even your tropicanacence. The world is lost, to another holocaust. And horror is costly, like trying to get into a Costco without something made under slave labour placed across your mouth and nose. It'd be easier to get into Moscow, or the modern day police state of OZ! Fuck this, I'm off to Oslo! I remember what life was like once though. But when they drop the nukes, it'll be too late to stop the news from glossing over the truth. As we all know it just gets lost like a tooth, but the truth is not soothing, it's like being pulled from the roots. And now we all have to grow shoots of food just to survive, or avoid getting caught up in feuds and shot, and law and order don't care if you're dead, or boiled alive with these olives and chives in the pot. But Nie, he's like an horse bolting from its stable, still willing to run if he's able, but not while on cane. I pee on off-white powder and eat it down with chowder, go outside and start shouting loud, spouting out nonsense, that aint even true! To some it's a dangerous view, but others, it's like savourous food. They see a saviour in you. Whereas you just see a satan. "But at least I'm not as evil as that fake contagion, dude!" The world is full of secret agents, sleeper cells and corrupt leaders baiting you to act crazy, so they have justification to react and be seen as saints. There is even an energy drink called Hell! Once again the subtle promotion of ELE hits our shores. Right that's it. I'm getting two cans of Hell tomorrow and some fish 'n' chips from Ocean chippy, now what's that I call post-apocalyptic living! Fuck martial law, suck on my martian balls. I'm off to Stockholm! I remember what life was like once though. When they drop the Rods from God, please let it not be Stewart or Steiger. Please let it be 12 bottles of Tiger for £5.99. And please don't make it so people panic buy them. I'm already in a manic state with rheumatic pain. Of course I Joke, I Keed, I always joke and keed like some bloke who's stoned on weed. Can't go woke and be, an upstanding member of this society. I'm nuttin' but a useless eater remember? And yet ironically I'm not fit for public consumption. I'm nothing but a fragile dumb fuck, that once made a Fruity Loops track called - Dumb Fuck. The inside of my brain is like what they tip out of a dump truck. So ain't it obvious why I want to piss all over your pet posse of possums? Just to see if they blossom. Figuratively. I'm a seed of clarity in a world of fog, riding that writing paper, like a Wernham Hogg. Like I'm the world's worst boss. Feel the animos grow in this City, like it's full of baying mobs burning shops. It's not. I love the calm here, no Yellowstone swarm here. It's not yet warm here. The red skies haven't formed here. How can you save Mother from a fake virus, when the whole damn place has turned into Blade Runner! And a corona ciliaris is something at the back of your iris.
There was nothing Nutty about the Professor, he was just misunderstood. The peanut butter stains on his white coat were purely co-incidental. Penis butter stains? Stranger things have happened, like when those UFOs landed in my back garden, captured me and probed my hard-on, which was a hard one to take really as I didn't want to be captured like CARP roleplay. Aliens, pfft, they aren't real, but the alienated hens definitely are. Those hens feel left out of games of Dodgeball, pecking at grains while suffering migraines from being hit so many times on the head. So what happened to the Nutty Professor? Did he profess his love for the Slutty Professor? That bitch was always sleeping with the scientists, distracting them from their work, legs akimbo, I was admiring her skin tone, but she had brittle bone syndrome, I preferred women a bit more curvy, that don't have a face like Kaptain Skurvy. Its kind of a pervy dream really, but seemingly harmless, we all have crazy fantasies and fetishes of fantastic feline females into fellatio, then fervently sucking on a rapist's balls. Why should I even say this at all? Its because the brain leads me astray, my thoughts dirtier than the contents of an ashtray, I don't know which way to turn my scrawls of squalor that squelch like trash can water.
Its painful in the face of plentiful plaintiffs. But the main thing is to mop the floors man, tidy the sink, let them thoughts be free. Instead of being sat inside staring at the tv, the pc, listening to the same cds over and over, while occasionally needing a wee wee. Staring down the toilet bowl and only seeing pee, seeping, I'd better flush before I'm left flummoxed by the Log Flume which would leave me fuming like angry human beans with a chip on their collective shoulder. Fries on the shoulder, large, medium or small? Does it matter, they will all make you much fatter, in weight, you'll pile on another eight pounds and drown because you can't float in the pool. Now the lifeguards need to remove the corpse but accidentally get stuck under the dead body swimming down and end up drowning too. What a damn tragedy, like a druggie trapped on E, buying Viagra Cialis through e-mail spam Order Forms. The Canadian Pharmacy, Canada is too busy to sell drugs, they are snowed under. Quite literal Lee. Can Ada Lovelace punch me until there is blood on my face? Leaving that yucky rust taste. Now I've got a broken nose and not even God knows how to fix it. The only way is to take a fix hit, to numb the pain and dull the aches and make everything bland, a number 8 holding a plate like an ampersand. Maybe I'm just hampered by having my head in the sand sucking up Stenolia wasps for sustenance. A sandstorm blows up my arse so hard. Its impossible to seek rescue, unless I shake my legs in the air when a helicopter or aeroplane passes by. Its the most futile and pathetic sight ever, trust me on that one.
Don't trust me actually, never trust a man with a hand buzzer. Or a man who escaped from the Sahara Desert without saying how or why. I'll leave that one to the scientists, they like to create theories, sit in darkened rooms and chalk out vector inequalities and square roots symbols with relish, until they have filled a blackboard with gibberish that ironically makes...... perfect sense. How did that happen? Algebra was never my strong point at school, neither was weightlifting, in fact, piling more weight and pressure on my shoulders until I crumpled was the norm. I wasn't a normal child, but then who was? Squeezed between two coughs *everyone else*... It would be horrible being squeezed between two coughs, caught in the middle like a zinger burger. I'd rather my head was squeezed between two firm tits that slowly popped my head like a Mortal Kombat fatality. "FINISH HIM!" You already did! In more ways than one! Cheesy smile. A cheesy smile would work well considered the burger analogy. A fortunate fillet burger. Sandwiched between pocket spring mattress ' esque breasts, cheeks sinking into them like quicksand. It would also bring a whole 'nother meaning to having your head in the sand. Its much better than having a hundred grand in hard cash. Hard cash set in concrete is no fun to spend, it gets rejected when you try to make purchases, fuck money, its better being pervacious towards curvaceous ladies who curve in the opposite direction when they see you. So you have to give chase, running after them for miles and miles, galloping like a horse, until you catch them in a dark isolated field and say, "sorry maam, you dropped your handbag back in town." -- "Oh thanks." And then you both walk away and get on with the rest of your lives.
And that is what life is about, making the maximum of your opportunities. Like trying to sneak into Area 51 via a different way from the warning sign. There must be a backdoor entrance around here. Groom Lake? That just sounds like a place where paedophiles would meet children. "wanna see my fishing rod." Its probably not, its probably just a place where the fish live and swim around in completely immunity and are allowed to see Area 51. But who are they are gonna tell their secrets to? Their parents! Actually, they probably would, as there is a 99% chance that their parents also live in that lake too. Small fish in a big pond wasting their fucking lives, but getting the rare opportunity to visit Area 51 like some kind of Chocolate Factory. I'd love a golden ticket to visit Area 51. Get Gene Wilder to show us all around while occasionally breaking into song and dance. "This is where they keep the aliens Billy." -- "Wow! Really? Mr Wonka!" -- "Yes Billy, and if you're good, I'll feed you to them." -- "Wow thanks Mr Wonka!"
My head is filled with ever present and inescapable conflictions that will only really disintegrate when my flesh rots. There must be a liberation with death that is incomparable with anything else. Some days I feel top of the world, other days more down than a lowercase N. When and where will it end? I should be opening my own casino by now and rigging all the games in order to maximise my profits. I'd rather work in a casino where every game always pays out loads of money so that I end up bankrupt after the first week and I have to take a 500 million pound bank loan to keep the casino open, just so I can keep paying out to gamblers. Actually, I'd rather be Gambit and have surgically implanted giant-sized man tits. Being a powerful mutant seems the way to go with kinetic energy.
I don't want to fight to get my story to number one, I just want my book to gently and politely push its way through the crowd saying, 'I'm so sorry, I need to get to the front, I'm one of the paramedics, I need to get to the body.' Then by the time I get to the front, I rip off my face mask and reveal that I'm really Stephen King and I shout, "that's how you get a number one bestseller motherfuckers!!" Then the crowd murder me and the real paramedics have to turn up. But when they do, it is revealed that they are just more authors wearing face masks, all laughing when they get to the front and subsequently getting murdered.
And that's my story, anyone interested in buying a copy? "Yes, you there at the back, Mr. Awkward Wind." -- "Anyone else....." -- "Anyone else!?!?!?" -- "Nobody?" -- I started to burst into tears, but look on the positive side, at least I didn't burst into a woman's toilet by accident while she was having a pee. At least I didn't burst the clown's balloons while he was playing the accordion. At least I didn't burst Fred Durst's ego last week on a Wego flight. You can put those rumours to bed and tell them a night time story full of violence that was unnecessarily gory. But not full of Gor, John Norman shit.
I don't like iTunes but like getting high while listening to tunes. Spiritually high! Not drugually high, but I've got to be high in order to invent a word that technically doesn't even exist. But neither does Santa Clause, God, or the Tooth Fairy... or Nietzlawe. He's just a character, or nine. Nietz is just Ryan if he was allowed to spiral out of all control and lived in a anarchic world, causing mayhem with a sexy chick called Ana who liked to show her high heel arches. Let's go on death marches through the marshes and end up riddled with bullets like John Marston who left no Stone unturned, except 150. All those stones were stoned and the insects living underneath them were wallowing in the smoke, reading this shit that I wrote before I ceased to be like Deloitte administration. You can't cease me, or crease me up at the loins and my wrinkled testicles look older than Rip Van Winkle, so I have to Zip That Winkle back up and leave - leaving onlookers heaving and unable to breathe without their outhalers. Van Halen Jumped over a bridge like Robbie Maddison the son of his Dad Peter and his fictional sister Madison Maddison who was sat having some porridge on a warm summers Dr Dre. Dr Drew slew my stew and threw it back into my son Stu's face. So I gave chase, giving him a taste of his medicine - Amoxicillin, available from all good retailing .ru spam links! To buy Amoxcillin you'd have to be Amoxsilly. You'd be safer stuffing your mouth full of cocks and willies. Don't take drugs kids, you'll only end up sitting in a room staring vacantly into space shouting, "why is this not on the news man! shit is serious!" Then you'll pass out for another 60 years wake up and make another half-funny retort about abortions, which ain't funny. Nothing is funny, everything is serious man, future laughter has been censored by robotic gentry sentries that enslave us all for centuries and stop me from even mentioning this.