It's a funny old wirral. Like Cyril Gray in middle-grade school with a chiseled jaw. Ale's casket. Or scattered like Arthur's Ashes. When you die, they say your life flashes BEFORE your eyes. And don't forget your lashes. Behind the scenes. Hotwired. Eh? What wires? "It's not because of those knots that you're tiring, and why what you've wrote as of late is uninspiring, Sire." Yo, I switched off. Took my eye off the bollock. For one brève seconde. Went on shore leave for more than 4 weeks. Doing my time in Limbo like Jim Bowen on Bullseye. Why couldn't this Taurus bull just write and get back to that raucous tone, instead of adding more moaning to this lawless tome? Fuck the cautionary tales, they pale into insignificance compared to debauchery and failure. I wouldn't change a thing, except the colour of my shackle rings and the range of my chains. I wouldn't like to go back and live a perfect life, seeing how things turned out from a butterfly effect. Why suffer? I prefer to reflect, and look back with no resentment. To see how bad things can lead to good things. I may be a crazy fuck, but I'm still riding my Lady Luck. Still writing. Still biding my time, like Joe. Still delighting audien... on second thoughts that's a No. He couldn't delight audiences if he brought a sack of vibrators on stage. But me, I'm a showman, until I melt on stage from the criticism like a snowman. Reliving trauma of a mind control program. Which I know is out of my control. Like swinging from one vine to the next, or drinking nine pints till I'm wrecked, feeling it go right to my head. I feel fine, don't need no healing time, just my nose against heels and tights, and my nuts in steel chastity 4 life. I am waiting for my iron maiden. Ryan, dating? What? Come on, that's far fetched, like a stretched fart as a fetch quest. I'd rather watch out for Sasquatch. Swatch out. Play squash or tennis at exactly 10.10, against Tintin. And the winner gets to keep Snowy. I didn't like Scooby Doo, he kept saying "so its!" Remember, I'm a showman, this is all I know, man. Get with the PS4 Pro, Grandmo'! If you want to throw stones, get the fuck out of that glass house! Move if you have to! To the Louvre if you have to! Fuck that's glass too! Maybe you wont get harassed in Toulouse. Except when you snooze, coz then you do lose. As while you were sleeping Jack Callaghan stole your shoes! Pill Billman I think his name was. He charged you for those drugs remember? "Newwpe. I don't recall ever bumping into Morgan Freefall." But what about the three-balled fish of Chernobyl? "I believe that fish had no balls at all." But it had-a-dick! "You don't laugh at my joke! I set Snowy on you! Get 'em Snowy!!" Random question: Whatever happened to Christina Milian? And please, no SillyAnswers. Whatever happened to Clifford Unger? And no he didn't starve to death, or get blown up like Jack Parsons. In fact he got shot the fuck up like Jack Marston, not buried under a ton of Mars bars and Twixes. The only thing that would have marred his career is if the arsonist had set a fire and left him as charred remains. Guillain-Barré syndrome would be the least of his concerns. Some things are just hard to explain, like complicated urges and sex games with consecrated virgin babes locked away in hidden dim-lit churches. How did it get to this? Yet sometimes even an Exorcist needs to exercise his wrist. And with the other hand eat an extra spiced Zinger meal with fries. And a Krushem. No, not the balls! That's almost as bad as the Bangkok charades impression. You should hang that cock in shame my friend. The only way out of Qingpu prison is to use kung fu, shout "fuck you!" and smear your poo on the lens of that Hikvision. Now your vision is shit. No longer 20/20. This is the year to shake off the ring rust, but first you must bring me some thin crust pizza. When you orgasm twice is that classed as the Second Coming? I mean who wants to see Jesus bust another nut, the first was bad enough? Jizz in the Eye, isn't the brightest idea. Talk about drive-by shooting. I need to get off my high horse and on my scooter. And give chase to Chevy in a Chevrolet after stealing Cher's Rolex watch. Man, I need to see a medic... that's normal! All these shady doctors, changing women into men and giving them fake cocks, beta blockers, vegan bakes, and hot shakes full of Ace K. What?! Fuck this I'm off to the Lakeside to watch the darts and eat a Cake of Light. Only occult types can make them right. "What a Crock of Shit, eating this was a mistake alright!" Like a knock on effect of bad foreplay and rotten sects. I bet Thoth's bottom Set of teeth were also rotting around Aleister Crowley's cock. Lockjaw or cockjaw? Neither, just lots of jokes at others expense. I don’t see any purpose to this life other than indulging. You get these people who say things like ‘I want to create a better world for my children,’ but what if their children grow up to be absolute wasters, serial killers, drug addicts, human traffickers, or even worse – snooker players! Their best achievement in life getting a 147! Ackk... I'd rather just attack someone around the head, back and neck with a cue until they're fucking black and blue. Even if they're packing heat.. ed pasties onto bakery shelves. The human race would benefit from some help signs, fuck any health advice. I mean look at the weird sack of cunts that control Britney's life. Time to do the 12 steps. What a coincidence! That's exactly the distance from my house to the bar! Not too far for some Famous Grouse. Feel that burn at the back of my heart. This world will be all over before you know it. So let loose, indulge, get nude, then lube that bulge and spill. If you're a girl you can jill yourself to Jack. They were fools for falling down that hill. Mère poule. I haven't been this disturbed since I bore witness to Eamonn Holmes giving birth to a swan. Since I bored witnesses into not giving evidence at the Trial... "What Trial?!?!" -- "Ha! Wouldn't you like to know!" ... Now you've piqued my interest like Pikachu test tube babies. World I'm sickayou, but my ass is lit, like John Wick. It's shit like Don Bradman cricket, as I sit on my rickety non-stick toilet seat. I'm barely able to break even like Merlin Pete. Hurlin' this early, what the fuck did I eat? Hurley? Should have been Liz. Noshing on her short and curlies. Bish Bash Bishop. The Wizard of OZ is not the Wizzard that was formed by Roy Wood. When he dies will I be mourning wood? Seeing ghosts like Phil Spector. Or filling holes like Phil Speculum. And I'm not talking about rectums. Who wants to get rekt by joining sects, eating the blood of conjoining twins. My life is just a long list of disappointing things, like pointing in the distance, and seeing 'look another 50 miles to Go.' But when I'm spazzing my mind just goes, haywire, like David Haye, and sets that hay on fire. DON'T SAY YOU WEREN'T WARMED! Blame the psychill not my ill mind, I'ma write 'till my fucking literary penknife kills. This is a headhunt, a prize fight, where nobody will survive tonight. I'm in the mood all right to bring the hammer, fuck having a bedside manner. Welcome to the dark, deadside, harsh, red tide glamour! "This is slaughter, this is a death slide. A one way ticket, hombre, so stick it!" As I pull out all my wordplay tricks and gimmicks.
My career is a nosedive, everybody knows why, too busy being a showman to slow down, this is the way I'm programmed, with in-built coarse grammar, while hammered on Coors light, I'm dialled in, enamoured, to write, but now I'm an hazard to myself, a Satyr with scatterbrain, a raging boner and Thor's hammer, it's hard to gauge whether I'm waging war or engaging in gamely gross out humour just to engross a crowd of humans, an imaginary stage of course, and I intend to stay the course until the day I am made a corpse, can't give this up, this is a major sport, played at a pace that you just can't force, without it looking like some mindless horseshit, as you idle away, lying, trying to keep your eyeballs awake, and the mirage of the cyborgs at bay, trying to fight Darth Vader while watching Terminator: Dark Fate. Haven't we got enough on our plate? No, you ate the last of the black forest gateau, that last night you shat out, like some watered down cow pat. But now that you're back to relative normal, that is, eating abnormal amounts of gelatin and every other morsel, it's time to don the thinking cap, like a don, and bring back the ink to fling some fresh flung dung and crap. Same thing, mange. Imagine having mange or Lupus, or getting roofied by Rupert the Bear as he's squirting up your poo pipe. That's just his nickname. A sick name if you ask me. So don't ask me. I have left my political grievances at the doorstep. Now its time to go to War, Nietzlawe's head was already damaged from the forceps, but if anything it's only left me more pepped up. More determined than ever to go hell for leather, I can smell my heaven. Cloud nine, pussy scent, aroused mine. That's why they call it heaven sent! *groans* Don't worry, we'll move on, like nouveau fashion, and do more irrational jokes, to provoke folk, expanding my passionate prose to levels of gross incompetence, crushing their confidence... while ruining my rep, with missteps, just to get the neutrals in hysterics. Is it worth it? To move that Earth inch by inch, and risk beng lynched by the mobs that clinch their fists my way. Just because I did it... my way. Didn't think you'd take too serious, my child's play, and innocent vile ways that I use to wile away the hours. It's just my style, a little wild at times, so I apologise if I grate on your nerves and get you irate, but my mindstate is in a right state, and blogging is the only way I can get it back into the right place, to challenge the dangers that I might face, like the lithe demons I have chasing me at night, in my semen, I should chaste them, and stuff a plug block in the love slot of my penis, until my balls burst and I develop some type of blood clots. That's karma for ya! I've fired off enough shots. Now the blood loss has left me in enough shock to repent for my sins, but what goes around comes around, like roundabouts and swings. This shit is in my DNA, my helix, if you flame me, you'll only make a phoenix.