Hello Mr. Walloper. You have a propensity for inanity which borders on profanity. I'd like $2 for the time I spent on your site and promise from someone that knows you, more or less, that you will be kept in a clean cage and afforded the most basic of niceties as the world is forced to witness your witless unveiling of countless crash landings from the unwieldy auspices of the moronosphere. Fuckity fuck. C.F.
I could kinda see the point of all this nonsense ,but only in the sort of way that you might see the point on a frozen turd dropped from the right distance on a winter's night in Istanbul. Still, if contract killing weren't so damned expensive, neither of you two scat bandits would wake up to anything but the sound of the busted taped on the reel of your life flashing before you as it goes clickity clickity click after endless hours of weasel greasery and other such banal self-abuse, while the CSI of Buttplug AZ pillage your disturbing web search history and a thousand people that never gave a moment's interest in your well-being pretend they would have liked to see you once again. Here's your Tom Sawyer moment, Shekky. For gosh sakes, just rinse your doggone socks in the river once in a while and for chrissakes, shoplift a little mouthwash to get that permanent smell of death off of you...and finally, clamp your laughing apparatus and just sit tight and let the people that actually live as opposed who merely exist export pertinent witticisms to those members of the toilet typing template of a better world who are at least willing to stay awake during this preposterous pageant of paltry posers and professional piss take paparrazzi we pass off as poignant. Amen
It seems that through the ages and especially in this modern era, dick twiddlery is rewarded by the masses and numb nuttery and nittering nattering is unjustly encouraged. I'd like to say a bit more about this, so please check out youtube for my new single, "Duck Sputter in the Shat Glass". May we all one day be either forgiven or forgotten and perhaps be allowed the choice between the two.
With his guitar fashioned from the boneyards of bad bets on broken wishes, he chased ageless cadences; a whiskey beat, heel strike kick drum and a shark's tooth tambourine threatening to make it rain. He rattled the cages that haunt unseen stages in backwater battles of the modern age. Indeed, by the measured trueness of this account, would have been left unscrambled, one would not likely have guessed ... and so it was and seemingly always would be.
I'd like personally thank, apologize and curtly reprimand all who had expectations beyond what accomplishments lay here for the scrutiny of pedestrian wanderers in the damaged resonance of internet infamy.
Please please me oh yeah, like I please you.
I am an artist, songwriter, toe-stumping puddle jumper and none of that is likely to change. Welcome to my fiasco.