気づく Kidzuku [Notice Absorb] 2

Another excerpt from Getting It In: A beginner‘s guide to Kidzuku Philosophy:

Mango fart

Broken wind brings a ripe Ataulfo muscular swabbed and waxed brute

That forces open

My nude




It is inside me

Fresh fruit and wickedflatulence

Childish? Sure.

Accurate? Yes.

It smells like shit and mangoes.

I consume understand manifest become

I stink

I am sweet and juicy.


Observation Report!

Christopher Nolan’s “Inception” is about how it’s alright for corporations to literally and figuratively play God as long as it is all in the name of helping out the shareholders and otherwise keeps world peace as intact as you’d ever find it outside the boardroom.

Also, don’t be afraid to dream a little bigger.

So that’s a cool one.

Beware of half-ass mystical stations of magical desire.

What the hell does that mean? Well, it’s a little complicated but still rather simple. You see, the soul craves what the spirit seeks, am I right? So it just makes sense that there are your usual gainful opportunists out there in the ether with their carts or wagons or whatever ready and willing and irritatingly able to deal you the mystical goods. It’s like when you walk up the path to see The Great Wall and every two feet someone is trying to sell you a poorly made doodad. I think that happens too at The Alamo so you see what I mean. But instead of brick and mortar history I’m talking about essence and aura here. So you’re strutting through your spiritual life looking for one of those big important sources of immaculate supply and you’ve got all these dungaree wearing ding dongs hawking two-bit gewgaws that they assure you are just as good as the real thing. Which they aren’t. You might as well ram a quarter in your ear for all the good these pieces of detritus will do for you. You see it in the tavern too when you have some handsome lady or well swabbed dude sitting at the bar just so ready and willing and annoyingly able to bend your ear and get you to sign on the dotted line for some emotional time share in imaginary magical Cabo. Disclaimer: I dig the beach. And I dig my soulful elegance. And if I could marry the two into some kind of cosmic inside out vacation I would. But some buckaroo with a nice watch and plastic teeth who buys me a Manhattan and lays a brochure or a pamphlet or a whatever down in front of me and says I can get just that for only $999 down, well, what can I tell you? Actually, let me tell you, I get sick up and out the wazoo. Of course you’ll say there should be a law and I’ll say yes there should and various representatives and legislators will pretend to agree and they’ll form a committee and bring in experts and do some polls and draft some pedantically bloated thing and we’ll all get so excited and ready to finally receive our souls most nourishing gifts and graces without any fucking fine print and here we go and now we’re on and okay alright have at it and…

Radio silence.

And the bullshit keeps raining on down.

Like it was London in the Fall of ‘40.

I don’t have any answers for you here at the end of this grand essay except to say that knowledge is power especially when it comes to you knowing you and believing just what it is you learn about said you and most probably the truth or the serenity or the whatever it is you’re seeking is highly most likely available to you gratis via and according and available inside you somewhere and small wins add up and some of those W’s that get chalked up and posted on the big board are most definitely for absolute real when you don’t do something like give your hard earned spiritual cash to some soul stealing huckster in a stained and wrinkled cheap suit.

Keep your money.

Smile on.


An open letter to the open minded

Dear carnal buffet of wonder and taste,
I’ve got it bad from both sides. My jack is jilling and my Jill is jacked. I’ve got a motor in the moonhole and an engine in the stars. And they both run on gas, Baby, gas. And by gas I mean the sex. I take it pure and fluid and nasty as a Norwegian Swede at a Mississippi Swamp Jam. You heard me. So. Question one. You wanna meet me in the bog, baby? Cause I’ve got thick wrinkled mudflaps that hang all the way from hello to goodbye! And I need a hot splashbone to part my curtains and wash my windows. My skin is covered in sexual grease and I need a heavy dripper to scrape me off and dry me out like a Bedouin Jacuzzi. I wanna feel the harsh wind of a throbbing blunder nugget splitting my mottled thighs open like a mountain does the sky. Make my sex place a Montana licence plate and ride the beef fleet on in and in and on and on. Juice my lewd tube and make it send sticky clouds into the fleshy sky. I’m a deuce caboose front and back and side to side stopping at all stations from Ladyville to Mantown. My body is nude thunder and naked lightning all buff and smooth and wrinkled and creased like a midnight prune. I give it and take it and mix it and make it because I’m double-edged piece of Parmesan that you wanna sprinkle on your erotic lasagna. I’m spaghetti and meatballs, baby. I’m sweatpants and tightjeans. I’m a loose goose. I’m a slop dog. Lather me up and rub me down and use my multi-body to clean the grime off of the city with them officials down at City Hall sitting up in their crystal offices writing sex cheques their nut butts can’t cash and sticking the dirty costs hard up into the crowded holes of the commoners sitting all complacent in front of their teevees vaping bubblegum and eating pudding and smiling their toothless smiles and wallowing in ignorant glee.
Snakeskin Renegade

Statement of Ultimate Facts 2018


My name is Chef Pierre and I’m my favourite guy I love the food I make in my restaurant I love my food it is the most tasty taste and when it’s in my mouth I’m my favourite guy and when midnight comes my name is Chad Peters and I make the sex like a flesh monsoon and my best sex move is The Snake In The Pantry and I do it smooth it feels like slippery love and my other name is Sombrero Jones and in the morning light I sing the song of freedom it sounds the sound of a million birds all whistling proud the accomplishments of their children in various activities and it makes me feel like my favourite guy who is me because I’m that guy and I do my best everyday. Peace out y’all.

Rutabaga Loving


(Note: Sing to the tune of the saddest song you have ever heard in your goddamn life)

Rutabaga, sweet rutabaga,
oh rutabaga, you’re the root of my misery
you’re a big fat turnip
and I can’t get you into me.
You taste kinda bitter.
But the night it comes
and the stars come out
and my tuber floats free from the soil
So I cut a little hole in you, rutabaga
And ease myself inside.
‘Cause you’ve stole my heart
like a midnight train.
A wax-y turnip-y renegade.
Got my loins on fire
like a moonlight roast.
But I can’t get you into me.
‘Cause you taste so bitter.
Oh how your yellow-y flesh-y
is slippery and slidey
and when I make love to you,
Rutabaga. Oh gee whiz,
It’s better than sex.
From the top of the mountain
to the bottom of the sea
to the dirt in the farmyard
where you live until I dig
dig you up
and slide on in
and grease your loving root vegetable
being, with my love!
With my love!

Here there be pirates! And Doughnuts!


Yarrr! This doughnut has got no holes. And it be long like my friend Davy Jones’s locker. And there chocolate upon it, like the hair on my chest, dark and thick inside thar be treasure! Creamy treasure! It reminds of the time me and Jack Sparrow and Red Rackham and Wade Simpson went on a rum bender ’cause they wasn’t rationing it then, I tell you! Yarr! Rum and opium and oriental food blow a mighty squall in bowels I tell ye! Yarrr! We all blew a brown typhoon! But this doughnut, avast if it twasn’t holeless and not like them Shanghai wenches at Madame Lee’s Nasty House where me and Lucky Jack Aubrey and Dougie Slavatchek was reaming them like they was cannons and we was the balls and we was broadsiding Lord Nelson’s canoe! Yarrr! But this doughnut it had no holes and was coated in chocolate and was a rectangle and filled with cream and I liked it like I like my ownself. Yarrr! And that’s the tale of the Long John and never will dead men tell it! Yarrr!

Orbiting the planet of Broth


The lizard man, in his little ship, hovering above the earth, looking down, and wondering, why is that child crying? Does it want some candy? Does it need a hug? Is it because we are stealing the water for our alien soups and stews? Don’t knock it ’til you try it, kid. It may smell bad but it’s nutritious and it’s not easy to make. Especially since our world gone and done dried up. It’s really made everything taste s bland. So we came here to planet earth, to check it out, and fornicate with your women, and jack the juice and squirrel it away and use it in our alien cuisine. Which is good eats, I tell you. You have to try it, little boy, it’ll change your life. Trust me, your palette will think it’s died and gone to taste heaven. Of course, us lizard people know there is no heaven per se. It’s infinitesimal mud hut full of slobbering reptilian sex organs that pleasure you for eternity. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, kid.

Eating at a restaurant: a review


This is my review of eating at a restaurant. It was the first eating at a real restaurant I done because I never had before I got sent up and when I got out my moms took me to eat at restaurant to celebrate. It’s not like I hadn’t eat out right like when I was making moves on the street I went to Burgs&Slurps and Skweezies but never at no place with glass plates and maitre d’s and shit and I guess in the pen it was kinda like eating out when you was having chow at chow time in the hall but without the waiter and then sometimes you had to throw down with some fat pig over who was whos bitch or maybe he was just a punk and you had to step up but thats not what eating at a restaurant is like. Which I saw for myself when I ate at one because I didn’t know that before but I know that now because I ate at a restaurant. It was called “Black Noodle” and it was an italiano style pasta restaurant and they had lasagna right there on the menu which I didn’t order because one time inside they served lasagna at chow and then one of the bulls got all up in my face and I don’t back down because I ain’t no ones bitch and I ended up in the hole over it and so lasagna don’t sit with me. So I got what they was calling linguini with them clams and that was some crazy ass shit right there with all them sea things on there all over these flat noodles. It was like when I was out in the yard with Sniffy Jeff and he was telling us how he used to be known as Banana Jeff before he got sent up and then he had to change his name because with a name like banana dudes inside be wanting to see that banana but no one wants to see your boogers so he changed his name. And that is my review of eating at a restaurant.

Dream of the Soak & Salad


I’m in the tub, having a soak, enjoying a delicious salad. Romaine lettuce and croutons but it’s not a caesar. Because I used French dressing! And the water is hot and the bubbles are lush and I also put some essential oils in there too. I put some WD-40 and tea tree and lavender! Soaking so slick it’s sick. And this salad is crazy good. I’m so relaxed right now you could carve a chicken on my chest. I have a bite of my salad, NOT A CAESAR! FRENCH DRESSING! And then I let my head slip beneath the bubbles and down into the water and as I chew my delicious salad I pretend I’m an undersea explorer looking for the Lost City of Pleasure and Vice. Oh boy, if I was there, with me and my crew, look out! We would burn that nasty town to the ground! Seriously, we’d drink it dry and bust our nuts all over everyone and everything. Stinky sticky sweet and sweaty. What a bunch of crazy apes my crew is. Shirts are optional and underwear does not exist for me and my crew. We’re bonkers for sex and booze. So if you let us loose in a town like the Lost City of Pleasure and Vice just a heads up stuff is gonna get creamed and reamed. Big time. And then I swallow my mouthful of beautiful salad and slide up out of the hot depths of my bathing dream and I get out all dripping wet and soapy and I go into the kitchen and I make my magic stew, ketchup and corn. Life is good. Thank you and God bless. Have a good one. Forever yours. Slogbottom Johnson.