Call the cops, they done stole the barn!

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Greased and groovin’, slippin’ in the sauce. Dancin’ the wango tango, showin’ ’em who’s boss. The rhythm is a weapon goin’ boomie bangie boopie. There’s a party in the outhouse, kegger in the chicken coopie. The raven flies at midnight. The whistle clam’s tight. Oh man, ain’t this universe such an interesting place, it makes me feel like anything is possible, so come on cosmos, bring me some of that erotic butter and spread it thickly on the bread that is my engorged soul. And then we’ll dingle dangle our twinkling toes off into the supernova-in’ sun!

Cotton candy pubes

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One time ol’ Dirkus and I wen’ down to the MILK SHAKE SHOP to get erselves a MILK SHAKE and wha’ wasit we foun’ down ‘stead of the MILK SHAKE SHACK there but if it weren’t one them ol’ timey NASTY SHACKS in its place there showin’ them stank ol’ SEXUAL TALKIES like them one Preacher Nick spent so much time PREACHIN’ ‘BOUT how they’s was meant to give you’s a BONER and suck the blood from your BRAIN and then you’s all would just get all IGNERANT up in there and such that you’s’ll make some kind of serious like mis-informed PURCHASING DECISIONS that you’s all’d live to REGRET and it was all jus’ a scheme of the dagnabbin’ dirt suckin’ cash jerkin’ CORPORATE ELITES!

Darn tootin’ and God bless.

Brown Bag & The Booger Boarder

20-of-the-funniest-strip-club-names-3Once upon a time, there was these two dudes, right? Yeah, there was. And they was all the way cool, as in thick as tight and slick as chowder, and they were really hype all over town, right? Right. So, one day, they was doing their thing. What thing is that? Well, let me tell you. Their thing was to get greasy in these corduroy ball-huggers and strut around the town bring smiles to the faces of children and fogies alike. You should of seen it. It was swell as sweet could honey well be. Peach fuzz glee and wrinkled gladness all around. Man, those were the days. But then, GENTRIFICATION! And you all know the rest of the story…

Finger banged in the mindhole

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My thoughts are like puss in the boil that’s my brain that I lanced and now their stinky, buttery goo-goo is splattering out staining the walls and dribbling down the back of my neck and over my cheeks and dripping off my chin like blistering hot lotion full of wishes and dreams and frustrations, and I’m rubbing it hard into my skin, absorbing the ideas and the fantasies and the musings. And now I’ve got a rash.