Entry #557


2017-08-01 22:32:39 by nietzlawe


Strangers can be strange and should be strangled and forced into a Boston crab by Rab C. Nesbitt and James Nesbitt from Cold Feet which was corny as hell... The cold wide pensioner feet of David Allen Cole need to be warmed up by an halogen heater which I can’t use as they bung me up and leave me hung out to dry by a 100 Kosovan soldiers and refugees all refereeing for the same damn baseball game... They should be brazen like Adam Crozier and thrown in a cell with Paul Carter and Carly Clarke, forced to watch reruns of horses running through 21 Forests of Field Gunning and white forest gateau... I wanna die a lonely death but have 17 thousand guests at my funeral who all pretend they knew me in some regard, like what might have happened at John Gardner’s funeral... I remember when all these hard men ruled the roost, now they just eat chicken at Roosters in Keighley with Michael Jordan, Buster Douglas and that big fat Sea Org captain from Fort Boyard who was almost certainly gay. I wonder if Melinda Messenger uses WhatsApp to drain men, maybe that’s what’s Sapping their strength... Our elixirs have been stolen by the likes of Lexi or women flexing in foot pose stretches... We need to be thrown in a cell with Ronnie Parker and do some Porridge while learning a 700 page book of Cockney Rhyming slang and Hackney Marsh accents... There is nowhere to chill except in the Winfields overnight tents which are piss wet through and we have to buy them for 15 hundred quid, but if we had store discount cards, the price would have been 5p. I need some more beer in my system so I can get kidnapped by Mc Chris and taken to the dungeons of Livesey Branch Road and forced to eat Olives with the Special Branch team as I’m being beaten up to Muzak Music produced by Mubarak Patel, Pat Sharp, Pat Butcher and Packie McReary from GTA San Andreas... We have to succeed but the odds are stacked against us, and we might be resigned to stacking shelves with Robert Fleck the former Norwich City striker... We need to hang out with mid-90 footballers in dingy deadbeat bars and reminisce about old times... About how the old times were just as shit. But at least we weren’t jaded and forced to get naked for Mistresses to degrade and drain us. We were too busy trying to produce our debut albums while talking on iMesh all night and checking out porn and other live flesh... That era was OCD and ADHD to the core! It was like our brains were on steroids, and the stories were about Ste Pusher and crush food fetishes. Shoe players and flu viruses and 1929 tennis racquets owned by Raquel from the Boat Yard pub who could have easily had both of us hard at the same time... She was like one of those 1970 hippie type of birds in flares firing flare guns, giving us Angelina Jolie de vivre... like Viv from Emmerdale. Never mind Emmerdale, Rossendale is superior, like Nick Ross on Crimewatch UK when at the end he used to say don’t have nightmares do sleep well. But nowadays Crimewatch is all hammy like ham fisted actors and Eddie Murphy who seems to be implicated in some weird snuff ring story... what a blag. If Edward Regan Murphy can do such sinister acts, that means anybody is capable of anything. What if Jim Bowen was a mafia hitman or a Freemason leader? Or even really Geraldine Hitman Carroll in disguise, walking about in long trousers doing funny leg angle poses to arouse certain types of men... while creating 250 audio tapes that were locked in Steve Jervier’s vault never to be heard again except by him and Billy the Kid. I remember Billy the Fish and Roger Mellie the man on the telly... and early nineties Job finder on ITV1 at night... That time was awesome in some ways as we were force fed monotony and bullshit and never questioned the system at all, even though we knew that at that time Eddie Murphy was probably eating Murgh masala with Ste Pusher and Dean Windass... I don’t want to ring the changes, I just want to be kept in chains for eternity, trained to demonstrate my subservience to Rene, just before being rendered impotent... All impotent men should be forced to attend a rehabilitation facility owned by CEO Suge Sindel and that fat Craig dude from Clitheroe Records... I bet it would be easy for these women to cure impotence by using only the finest methods of tease and denial to re-stimulate lost brainwave chemicals... E.D. can be cured by a bit of C.B.T. inflicted by Eddie Hitler and Justin Lee Collins who seemed to disappear off the telly for some odd reason... Our names would be Juicing Leaking Colanders... Causing so many floods it drowns Cole Phelps and David Allen... I want to listen to the ATLiens album 691 times in succession then get struck by lightning by Suge Knightning. Then eat 90p ALDI soup and beans that have gone mouldy like Postal Order slop eaten off cutlery that has previously been used by the likes of Rottweiler and some of these other degenerates like a Green Hills house regeneration project... I don’t object to anything and live for talking cobblers while passing Rawtenstall cobbler shops and 1870 Temperance Bars where the owner got done for drink driving... If I had a car I would drive into Rochdale canal, but knowing my luck I’d survive the ordeal and get taken to Rochdale Hospital and beaten up by William Roache and William Hill. I’d rather have a few tins with Dale Winfield who used to sell odd-sized slippers in the 1960s. One day we will be ancient history and part of folklore and I will be remembered for not eating off pub plates and forks or washing dishes in and kitchens and pubs... Never mind Immaculate Conception, we’re more interested in ejaculating from our erections, while trying to overcome all obstacles and safely navigate all hurdles like avoiding the Navigation pub and masonic bowling David Allen Greens... I really wish that Voith and Tre Fontaine would make a comeback and hire us both for thruppence a minute which we then have to spend on David Seaman’s goalkeeping gloves which he would probably auction on eBay for 12 thousand pounds while talking in that really weird broad voice. The aim has to be to get back to full speed instead of being dull and mediocre owning acres of Aching Boner.  Forever hateful and loners destined to walk to Bristol Hotels only to find the place has been turned into a Wilko owned by Jonny Wilkinson, Neil Custis and Ray Wilkins teasing men with soft silk sarees… Eeek! I’d rather sprint to Darwen Tower at full pelt and get ambushed by Kate Bush and hand jobbed until I leak Ambrose by Hampshire Mistress Rose and her butter face expressions... So much depression these days, there is no community spirit, only community service undertaken by Haroon and the Cameroon football team... I still have the craving to neck some beers with Sal, but instead I’m forced to drink Sol and Corona alone with my brother Shaun upstairs... It’s hard to keep awake yet the urge to bust again continues to lure me in like Leah Betts and all the men leering taking bets on who can get her first to sweat with dehydration. We have to live it up like Busta Rhymes with that strangely relaxing and subdued mellow tone... David Loxham should be forced to join the Russian Army and change his identity to Nick Ross. The Perils of Blackburn sound terrible like irreversible effects such as liver cirrhosis damage and being beaten in the crotch with crutches by Butch Cassidy... I’d rather get given a free bus pass by Black Kapital Records that is only valid from Bacup to Syke and any attempts to leave the area are met with stiff resistance by the FDL (Female Defence League) who would hunt us down and get us in leg scissors, or force us to gobble on a mile-long nylon stocking... But they wouldn’t even once resort to proper violence. Except to do one of those Cucciolo trample scenes where 90 women stand on your chest at the same time to break a Guinness World Record... I’d rather sign for a music label called Guinness World Records and drink gin and tonic with Jimmy Somerville, then jack off to a PR mannequin where she’s wearing a summer dress. After that we can go to The Drummers Arms and drink 210 Ching Dows and Tigers and have our conversations eavesdropped upon by Bulgarian tourists. There is no way that guy has been to Bulgaria, he probably just sits at home and listens to Bluegrass music while knocking back Newcastle Brown… Then beats his wife black and blue… Despite the progress we still live in horrendously horrific times, where people still have honorifics during a campaign for equality… Those people should be banished to a Danish dungeon and beaten with Spanish truncheons by women with mannish hands. Damaged goods, in an age of rage and bloodlust where people would pay for Stan Kroenke’s guts on a stick. I wonder how much good it does to protest for progress while the world is run by boneheads… It should be run by the drummer Bonehead and Liam Gallagher instead of these think tanks and health regulators that are probably drinkers and addicts themselves… Pushing their poison, when all people really want is a sugar rush for enjoyment. Not some New Age Zionist Jew savagely pushing sewage and Nanny State Scientists emptying caches of truth. Tooth decay? Or truth decay? Time to raise the roof today like its 1982 again… To rage against the machine, and all its AI… The way I see it, if we don’t fight for the future, there ain’t no future in sight… Well not one that you want your kids to like… On a scale of Handmaid’s Tale, fuck THE MAN! May that man buckle and suck on a thousand cocks and have his hands took off by Hauser. Now that the latch has been lifted its time to gift the world with laughter again… It was what I had always intended to happen, but 10 other people didn't laugh at my routine live from the C.I.T. Rotunda. "Tough crowd!" Tough, irradiated crowd. Probably feeling a little irritated from all those Roentgens. "Not my problem dude. Too busy trying to build this Northern Powerhouse." The only hope we got is if we reduce some of our military budget and spend it on steroids. Pure Gym? As pure as the manure on my soles. Manure Gym. I'd rather launch a Keep Fat Campaign, but employ anorexic people as the Personal Trainers. Skinny folk motivating people to stay chubby. And inside my gym, instead of the latest workout machines, the place would be full of couches, TVs and 5 litre bottles of coke and Pepsi. Extremely fatty food on tap being served by the type of women you see in boxing matches holding up score cards. And in the gym there would be illegal bare knuckle boxing fights involving all the people in this country that we hate and who make it their business to frustrate us… We have to eat Pots of Joy while penning more joyless plots… Penning like Miss Pennington who keeps stemming my blood flow and impeding my creativity. Preventing this whole Nativity Play from taking plaice. But why should fish be stolen By these dishy divas like Eva Rivas. Maybe she’ll be flattered if she ever reads this crude anthology of thoughts committed to papier Mache mechanisms, where mental case is the very definition… But think of it this way, if you were me, in this position that I am, you’d be reeling with dismay too, and feel like Sinking a Bismarck or two… And all this Devil talk written on canal walls! What kind of skinz is them manz? Don’t fuck with the Devil? You should learn not to fuck with the Atheist. At least the atheist does exist… So after this you may be pissed and feel stupid for believing in cults instead of your own existence. Dumb Fuck Satanists. Go fuck a goat… Go bum Sephiroth. Think it’s time to send in Lou Natic? He’s a bit crazy sometimes but still suffers with a little rheumatic pain… Bit a’ jip in his right hip, but he’s still tipped to whip ass, because… well, why pass the opportunity? You want Unity but deport humans? It seems that your ego is through the roof… Even a blind bat could see the truth that a rapper could seek to prove at a mic stand. He’s so good he might stand for President, then make a mess of things… I knew we should have left it to Jesse Ventura…



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2017-08-12 04:40:30

Seems like to me that you're suffering from acute social anxiety.

(Updated ) nietzlawe responds:

It's like you're inside my head.