October 16, 2008

  • BEHOLD

    You chipmunks. Get those testicles out of your mouths.

    Seriously, psychopathic narcotically-fueled incinerated zygomorphic lethargic leopards of slanderous viscosity blather ineptly at the flittering isotopes of fallaciousness miffing me thoroughly, as though pithy porcupines of glistening fuck-pillows combust spontaneously. Through seething calico teeth, I smell the distinct scent of astralprojected notorious poetic unicorns brandishing fucking M-80s and screaming various profane lexicons, stretching the boundaries of unacceptable vernacular by leaps and bounds. Sweet Jesus. It's like a pteradactyl swooped down and extracted the spinal fluid out of every extroverted strawman's backbones like a Dalek's Gucci  purse or some shit. Very soon, I find myself alone in a padded room with a single light shining my face, and a vuluptuously mustachioed Katherine-Harris look-alike shoving Celebrex tablets into my eardrum.

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