But maybe there will be balloons!

Ronald, a well to do, high end of town, epic penthouse apartment owner, with a trendy haircut, designer clothes, and currently holding glass of expensive champagne, suddenly said 'you know what, I'm no longer throwing shindigs, from now on I'm only throwing shinburys, maybe fill the holes in all those shins, you know what I mean?' 

The last six of his guests, still there from what seemed to now be his last shindig, currently rolling around on the floor, drenched in blood, collecting up chunks of shin, were screaming 'we told you, we TOLD YOU! It's just a word, you weren't supposed to literally dig into all of our shins you psychopath!' 

But there was no deterring him, he went on to throw the best damn shinbury the town had ever seen! 

Some people left with more shin than they'd had even at the START of the shindig season! 

Where did this extra shin came from?

Well no body dared to ask.

No, the townsfolk were now too busy screaming in terror at what he meant when he said next he'd be throwing a 'regular party'. For this was positively petrifying prospect. An UNIMAGINABLY horrible possibility. An unquestionably AWFUL pronouncement. 

There was no WAY he could misinterpret 'regular party'.

And who could turn down a party in a sweet pad like this? 

Party season sure was stretching on an exhaustingly long time this year.

They're stinging to come

I think that if I was suddenly attacked by a swarm of human sized bees dressed as wasps at least fourteen thoughts would immediately go through my mind:

1. Maybe I should start wearing more yellow. Wait, do I currently wear any yellow? I don't think I do. So I can't wear MORE. Wow. That's interesting.

2. Why do I have a receipt from KFC in my pocket, I haven't eaten KFC in ages. 

3. I bet 'seven' would be an a fun word to yell in a hospital, perhaps even in a good hospital! 

4. I don't think people boast enough about their epic ability to do things in moderation 

5. Avoiding jail is all about creating confusion in your trial right, that's why If I was a thief I'd only ever steal things made of steel, that way at the trial there would bound to be some confusion! 

6. I'll tell you one thing about pens, not one of them has DEMANDED I stab someone with them, it's a polite request at best. 

7. A bowl of nuts and a nut of bowls are very different, VERY different, the 2nd one is just stupid, I mean you can't have multiple bowls. 

8. Have you ever noticed that the stirrer you get with coffee may seem like it's trying to destroy segregation and facilitate harmony by mixing everything together, then bam it stabs you in the eye! 

9. Turns out at the party is 'where's the party at' 

10. If I ever had a kid I'd name it 'I told you so' - it would GUARANTEE that really annoying people would say his name a lot. 

11. One day I'm going to spend an entire year wearing nothing but a white suit so I can prove once and for all a lot can be achieved in 'one day'.

12. Either that or wear jeans, whatever's easier 

13. Wait maybe yellow jeans! 

14. I could wear them to KFC, for some reason I currently feel like some. 

The point is I wouldn't pay them any attention, I mean seriously, wasp outfits? That's hardly even different from bees. If you're going to dress up have some fucking imagination you losers. 

Wet with curiosity - a poem

Kelly found a coffee mug, at the local park, deep into the notorious south-east wing, of the dark and constantly moist shrubs.

She also found a soiled adult diaper covered in seaman. 

But that's gross, so we're not going to talk about that.

The fact that she kept the mug is gross enough. 

I mean who keeps a shrub mug? 

That's disgusting. 

It's the one she uses at work too, which means that in reality the whole work uses it, because people in offices are assholes when it comes to other people's property.

I once came to work and found my 'word of the day' calendar already flicked to the new day! 

Flicking that was the highlight my entire day when I had that job. 

And by highlight I mean the only two seconds I didn't think about going to the bathroom and drinking all the drain cleaner. 

Of which there was a LOT, because people in offices are gross when it comes to office bathrooms. 

Fucking assholes. 

So hey look Kelly...

Maybe stay out of those shrubs. 

EVERYONE knows the reputation they have. 

And you have to poke around?

And grab a shrub mug? 

And now I'M thinking about a horrible memory. 

The word of that day was 'baroque', and now I STILL don't know what it means, because I accidentally flipped it not realizing as yet that some other asshole had already done it.

And now I've just realized I said 'flicked' earlier when I meant 'flipped'.

Your damn poking around has ruined my afternoon Kelly.

And to think that I was nice enough not to tell everyone what you did with that adult diaper! 

Sexy Ears

'More sets, I said bigger, more lavish and more elaborate SETS'! 

Stan Johnson, the Greek God of Television, Film and Advertisement, had recently returned to earth for the first time in forty-three years, and was sitting down to watch a montage put together to show how the industry had so proudly ran with the advice he'd given as he departed from his previous visit. 

'Can't you fucking assholes listen?' He screamed, right as the montage was reaching footage from the 80s 'I'm not a prude or anything, I just like well made sets' he added, whimpering. 

He now began to cry, as he jerked off to topless ladies in scenes from The Night Of The Living Dead. It was turning out to be one of his top five strangest earth visits ever. 

On The Wall Path

'Cheryl decided to see what would happen if she consumed nothing but pen ink' replied Sandra, when asked what the deal was with the blue blotches all over the walls.

'It's pretty' replied Johno.

Then they took large groin stretching  steps over the awkwardly splayed corpse and Sandra continued with the house tour. 

Deceased estate sales always had made Sandra feel like her morning yoga classes should be tax deductible.

'Fucking government' she whispered under her breath right before showing off the house's main attraction, a walk in closet the size of most people's living rooms. 

'Less pretty all over the shoes' Johno said. 

But he still bought the house. 

A bargain is a bargain. 

Secretopolously Special

I never planned to fork over a wad of cash for the chance to randomly and miscellaneously find myself one day being spat on. 

For one thing I usually prefer to know exactly when I'm going to be spat on, which is why I often hand homeless people wads of photo copies of cash, and then squat next to them till they realize their windfall is a lie. It's the only way I've really been able to make SURE most of the time I'm spat on I'm ready for it. I mean getting spat on is gross, why would you not want to be prepared for it? 

Also he made me literally fork over the cash with a kitchen fork, he said he found it delightfully literal. Which I found frightfully extraneous. Which he found frivolously monotonous. Which I found fundamentally preposterous. Which he found fellopatially carnivorous. Which I found fancifully scarlopolous. And then we needed a full twenty-nine minutes with a dictionary to find out what the hell our emotional state really was, made all the harder because we both harbored emotions that did not yet exist, requiring a further seventeen minutes to define them...

Fellopatially - a state of friction highlighted by a fundamental freedom for farfetched craning of factions undefinable by anyone but feeble minded fellows of the future. 

Scarlopolous - when you are born with Fallopian tubes on your face, and even though they were successfully removed you still feel self-conscious about the scaring.

Then we had a twelve minute argument over whether or not we'd gotten our definitions the wrong way around, which got so heated he ended up spitting in my face, leading to a forty-two minute discussion on whether or not that constituted a satisfactory delivery of services paid for, which it did NOT because I TOTALLY knew he was about to spit on me, and I'd specifically paid to NOT know. Although I did agree to pay a small fee for his time keeping skills which were excellent. 

So why did I pay to be spat on randomly and micelaneoisly? 

It's simple really, I'd read in the newspaper an editorial about a magazine article written in reply to a Sixty-minutes piece, referencing a murderer's love of a movie about a musician turned painter, who'd been inspired to change art careers after a chance encounter with a guru who did seminars to sell his book, about using memories to inspire thoughts about imaginations of scenarios to create arts that the people would talk about, leading to success and fame, that would turn into mentions in magazines and possibly leading to discussions hovering around comparisons to violinists and poets, when I suddenly had my eyes and ears drawn away from the page as the next eulogist at the funeral

I was at said the words 'survived by his girlfriend'.

'I want to survive!' I thought. So I did some research and found out that lots of people have tried these girlfriends, many of whom have not died, leading to a logical conclusion that survival is perhaps enhanced by access to one of these. Six months later with no luck acquiring one of these, despite many offers to purchase one at stores, and I saw an advertisement on a light pole saying 'want to be randomly and miscellaneously spat on?' And I thought 'a guy with a cool job like that is bound to have a daughter, and who could turn down a date with a guy who'd been spat on by her father?' 

The spitting itself turned out to be interesting, he had a mouth full of baby spiders, now THAT was a surprise.

The girl replied to my date offer with 'um, my dad has spat on thousands of men, it's what he does for a living, so yeah, you're not special' but I didn't mind, she turned out to be in her 80s, I guess having a 108 year old father can do that. Also being alive for 80 plus years can lead to that. 

I asked her what her secret was and she said 'I don't know, I've only ever been stabbed once?' 

The point is I'm looking for a stab guy, anyone know anyone? The closest I've had is a homeless man who clawed a chunk of flesh from my right cheek with his long ungroomed nails, but I'm not sure it counts. Although some people think the mark left is Scarlopolous, so that's pretty sweet. 

The Takeology Of Opportunology

After a long and detailed period of contemplation, meditation, Colbertnation, dedication, dictation, medication, train station and even thinking, I've decided to never cocoon myself in a massive envelope hoping that I'll come out as a German Baker. 

Now I know what you're thinking...

'You're NOT going to do it? But you have a chance to be a German Baker! And you're going to pass? Are you a fucking psycho?' 

Yes, I AM not going to do it. And yes I AM a psycho, but not a fucking one, in fact I take that to be a word with a lot of potential meanings, and I will not sit here and be told that I have a lot of potential. 

The reality is that I have some perfectly valid reasons for my decision, and they are as follows:

- Sure being a German a Baker is the dream for most, but, and this may shock some people, but from the research I have done, it turns out being cocooned in a massive envelope does NOT guarantee you'll become a German Baker. In fact all you CAN guarantee is that you'll end up as SOME sort of a baker, but the nationality of said baker is a lottery. Some people who have gone through this transformation have ended up Swiss or Austrian, and there was even a case of a French Baker who used to like to entertain his friends at parties with his prefect German accent. Um, no thanks, who on earth wants to entertain their friends? Those guys are assholes. 

- Again, based on some research I have done, it's come to my attention that this transformation can take WAY longer than I had anticipated, in some cases as long as 38 minutes. Sorry, I value my time, I could re-watch an old episode of Tile Wars in that time, and perhaps finally figure out why more people don't watch it. I means they tile bathroom floors, TO THE DEATH! 

- Turns out my local post office only sells the life sized massive envelopes with those little plastic windows for the address, and I REFUSE to have the address printed ON me, I never seem to be able to fold myself so that it sits in the right space in the envelope. 

- It turns out baking often happens in the early morning, which is a time I usually reserve for my research into real life truthful things people do that I am considering, so if I'm baking I may never decide whether or not I want to make a plastic mould of my inner lungs by inhaling enormous quantiles of steamed plastic, before getting someone to make me laugh while I'm drinking, so I cough so hard the mould comes out. 

- I don't like getting sizzling coal embers driven into my eyes, I find it to be both a waste of valuable sizzling coal embers, and a misuse of a vehicular motor powered automobiles. 

- I think walls are one of the top ten best sort of vertical building sides, maybe even top five! 

- Where as I think memories of clouds are probably only top fifteen. 

- Then again, by definition, in a top fifteen system, walls would also be a top fifteen ranked building side, making them equal, which makes me now question why we don't see more building sides made from memories of clouds? 

- I don't like German Baked goods. 

And when I stacked up all those reasons into a stack of reasons stacked up, I realize that it just wasn't for me. I mean what sort of walls do German Bakeries have? And do Germans even drive automobiles? There's no way to know. 

So that's it, it's off, and now I also must be off. I'm off to dig around my backyard, I heard that if you stick your head into the cavity of a dinosaurs tooth, you can come out as a Chilean garbage man, now THATS an opportunity not to miss.  

Screaming, SCREAMING!

Well if no one else dares to say it then I will!

'Highborn to the kaleidoscopic melodrama of the miracle circle of absolution in a eon of gravitational jousting for tyrannical bruise based theories of yearning for policing operated at the junction of query and lice spreads among the French like solitude gripping through the soda bubbles of tank noised hunger pangs screaming, SCREAMING, for a Scandinavian styled light beam raining upon the lousy purgatory of focus, until it is beaten into a small cube that wished it was a ball' 

Would make an AWESOME name for a program to encourage more youths to skip three lunches a week to spend time contemplating the sheeting of marsupial dreams into bite sized luggage-ware. An AWESOME NAME! 

Yet the Grand Valley board of school maintenance keep telling me year after year 'yeah, not bad, but naming valuable programs isn't our department, although when it happens, we may totally get to make a sign! That it'd be pretty cool. Wow, a sign, people would see it and stuff, maybe even read what it says! We could be like GIVE WAY or even YEILD! Wow'.

Not bad? You fucking animals. I'm looking out for the kids here, you bastards. Now I'll never get to say to airport security 'no you'd think leather, but it's actually sliced bite sized marsupial dreams? 

You know, assuming after all those contemplation session the kids would advance on to physical invention. 

Which they wouldn't, kids are so fucking lazy. They even left all this up to ME to dare to say! For shame. 

Are you pretty enough?

Let's face it, we all want flawless bodies, and most of us will achieve this, at least for six or seven minutes after falling asleep in a sauna for nine hours, but this wonderful time will be wasted trying to get things organized for our sudden need for a six month hospital visit. Then for the rest of the time we'll be a tad off our goal. And we'll know we are, because we have access to the media, and our eyes, and other people, and their use of the phrase 'eww'. 

Yet how would we even know if we were perfect, when there is one body part that, as yet, has been woefully unscrutinized to the point of us frequently panicking about our personal version of it, by the normally cruelly smothering and meticulous unrelenting media, and that's people's left middle to upper backs! 

This means that most people out there have little to no idea how they stack up on a pile of bodies ranked in order of left middle to upper back attractiveness (the organizational method preferred by most genocidal mass grave fillers). 

So, because I care about my readers, and the things they need and care about, and want to cleanse them from that horrific image I just conjured, here is a handy list of things to help you work out whether your left middle to upper back is gorgeous, or whether your left middle to upper back is so hideous that you should never wear backless clothes again (unless you put them on backwards). 

Signs your left middle to upper back is hideous: 

- You can see it in a mirror, and you're FACING the mirror. 

- You once had a left middle to upper lower back enhancement botched, by your local panel beater, and he even skimped on the silicone quality, which was particularly bad as you were actually trying to get 1968 ford mustang grill implant. 

- You're currently an half armadillo and half stonefish hybrid. 

- You're a Kardashian (zing). 

- You often hear people behind you saying 'oh look, they've installed one of those post feast of a human inside-out crocodile sculptures here, quick get a photo of me with it' before suddenly feeling an arm go over your shoulder.

- Due to a printing glitch, your personal version of the boardgame 'burn the witch' missed the words 'only ever PRETEND to burn the witch', and you play often, and regularly get declared 'the witch'.

-  It looks gross in pictures. 

- Whenever a nightclub bouncer asks you to take off your shirt and pirouette, they then never let you in. 

- When 'now boarding' is called at an airport, typically more than three people climb inside it.

- You once had a left middle to upper lower back enhancement done flawlessly, by your local panel beater, and you now successfully have a 1968 ford mustang grill implant. 

Signs your left middle to upper back is gorgeous:

- It's roughly similar to your right middle to upper back, and your right middle to upper back is gorgeous. 

So there you go? Is your left middle to upper back gorgeous or hideous? 

If you're lucky enough to be in the second category then congratulations! Worldwide fame and fortune shall be easy to find on the professional left middle to upper back beauty pageant circuit! 

(Although please be aware that in these tournaments they require you to cover up your right middle to upper backs, which many people, myself included, find barbaric, sexist, untoward, unfair, unassuming, unhinged, unaware, and often too warm, depending on what level the air-conditioner's thermostat was set, which usually makes at least the fame or fortune not worth it, and often both). 

If your in the second category then commiserations. And please put on a shirt, or at least turn around, the front may still be good, and that's regularly people's favorite bit anyway! Yay. 

Ps. If you ever enter yourself into a beauty pageant because you think you deserve to win, then you are probably a vapid, self-centered, vain as a heroin addicts veins, boring as a dried puddle, piece of shit (but if your pretty enough to be accepted, call me!)  

Pps. You wish you got the 1967 mustang grill implant now don't you? 1968! What the hell were you thinking? 

Ppps. Nine hours in a sauna only gets you a flawless body if you ACCIDENTALLY fall asleep in one. So if you're reading this on hour eight of an intentional stint then you're shit out of luck. 

Wow, what a deal

Something about me that you may not know is that I'm NOT an angry guy. In fact for the most part I am completely devoid of emotion. I used all my emotions up in the 80s making fluorescent shoelaces out of them, which I'd have sold for a buck a lace had I been good at making them, so it was totally worth it. 

Sure I kept some emotions frozen in jars to use at a later date. I'm not a crazy person. And frankly I resent the accusation. And the fact you just made me defrost and crack open a jar of resentment to express that right now is really frustrating, and wow, thanks, that was my last jar of frustration. Now I'll never feel that again, do you know how much that leaves me feeling calm and neutral? 

Assholes. 

The problem of course is that I STILL somehow hold lots of grudges! But maybe I wouldn't hold grudges so often if just occasionally they weren't so soft, snuggly, cuddly, smuggly and totally smelling of delicious vanilla! 

The point is STILL fuck you grudges. 

The end. 

Today's blog brought to you by 'that'll do', earths great solution to the question 'it's not very good, are you sure you don't want to work more on this'? Buy a satchel of 'that'll do' today, and as a bonus, if you buy in the next hour we'll throw in a free fluorescent shoe lace made from a pre-pubescent boys overflowing emotions. 

Wow, what a deal. 

It's called love people

I know what you're thinking - 'I own a pet dog/ cat/ possibly a ferret or some other thing from the rodent family, and I think it would be fun for both it and I, if I were to print out a picture of a squeaky bone/ dead bird/ I don't know, what's in those pellets? Pigeon toe-nails and horse hoof? So I guess maybe a hollowed out hoof filled with pigeon toes, and take that picture, staple it to my face, and then have an extra special fun time playing with my pet, but I don't know where to start?' 

Well I'm glad you came to me, because I can absolutely help you with your dilemma here. Here are some steps I highly recommend you taking immediately: 

First up: try and figure out what EXACTLY your pet is. There is no point stapling a picture of a dead bird to your face, when a horse hoof bowl of pigeon toes was a better option. 

Here's is a fun trick you can play to tell exactly what sort of pet you have: - Get a jar of peanut butter.

- Now cover your hand in it, the peanut butter that is, you don't want to use the jar, because if it is glass it may break and cut you, we're not doing anything crazy today.

- Now slowly insert your entire hand deep into the throat of your pet.

- If your pet now licks it up, and possibly gnaws off several fingers, congratulations! You have a dog. Wow, s/he's strong! 

- If your pet says 'meow' in a tone that you can easily translate to mean 'no chance dude, I'm way too swift and agile for that' then nicks off, climbs a bookshelf and knocks down all of the pictures of your deceased family members, then congratulations! You have a kitty! Awww, I'm jealous. 

- If your pet explodes into a spray of flesh chunks, hair and peanut butter stuck to rodent organs then, commiserations, you had a rodent, but you can get a new one at the pet store for a buck twenty five, or get one in the sewer for the simple cost of a piece of cheese, a net, and a tip off from the mob as to where they typically dump corpses these days, find a fresh enough corpse and you may even find six or seven new pets!

By now you should know what sort of pet your dealing with, if it's the third one I hope you paid that mob guy for the tip, or else it will be YOU helping people get pets next week, ha ha. 

Secondly: Now it's time to talk logistics, so let's get practical.

Please do NOT use a typical desk stapler. Those require pressure from both sides, so squeezing your head between the arms could be awkward, and pressing on the back of your skull may hurt a tad, we don't want pain here. Plus the only way to get one of those is to steal one from work, which is just plain wrong, don't you know that the work experience kid needs to steal those to support his new glue habit? And if you steal them first he'll have to start stealing the office glue, which would be awful, because stealing is wrong.   

Instead I recommend that you use an industrial curtain mounting stapler. Your local curtain mountaineer will probably let you borrow theirs if you distract them by lighting their storerooms on fire. I recommend going with a chemical fire, they're harder to put out, which buys you time, plus the smells can be delightful. 

(Bonus points: Got a significant other? Nick a fabric sample book, you may be able to finally stop them complaining that you never help decorating your home, plus they usually have a good twenty - fifty samples, so you've got birthdays and Christmases covered for years!) 

Once it's time to jam this metal into your face I recommend that you do NOT aim for the eyes, sure it's a softer entry, but eyes won't grip as tight as say forehead, which means you may end up with several re-insertions, which could cost you valuable play time. 

Thirdly: Well that's all the important stuff out of the way, now I just have, well, I guess it's a personal opinion to get across, which I normally don't like to do when giving advice, but I feel like it should be said - ARE YOU INSANE, WHY ON EARTH WOULD YOU STAPLE A PICTURE OF A SQUEAKY BONE, A DEAD BIRD OR A HORSE HOOF BOWL OF PIGION TOES TO YOUR FACE???????

Are you just fucked in the head? 

I mean seriously, if you genuinely love your pet, why wouldn't you staple an ACTUAL squeaky bone, dead bird or horse hoof bowl of pigeon toes to your face? 

It's called love people, and your pets deserve it. 

String Pulling - a Poem

Pete bought his wife a purse for her birthday.

But before he gave it to her he fell in love with it himself.

So as to not have his friends make fun of him for purse carrying, he simply got a lung removed and replaced it with the purse.

Which is fair enough, no one enjoys being teased. 

Six of his friends have since died trying to figure out why exactly Pete's  always sneaking off to snort a line of change. 

Down on the…

 Mitch headed for a farm.

(Oh my god, oh my god, oh my GOD, I think we may have a farm story brewing here. I am so goddamn excited that I could piss in the mouth of baby, a cute baby even, and those are the best type. Well depending on your personal baby preferences. That's not for me to judge. I'm not a judgmental chap. I'm getting off point, there's a farm story coming, I'm so freakin' excited!!!)

But Mitch's car broke down soon after departure. And having recently flunked out of Car Mechanics University he was sure he had no idea how to break it back up.

(Fuuuuuccckkk!!! God damn it. Oh fuck that. Why do I bother, why do I even fucking bother. I get my hopes up, I start to feel good, I go to a happy place, I feel alive for the briefest of moments, and then they pull it away from me. It's like I pissed on the baby but it turned out to be wrapped in some sort of plastic so it didn't even get wet. NOT EVEN WET. I was supposed to get a farm story for fuck's sake. A FARM story! Fuck you Mitch! How hard could fucking Car Mechanics University be? Plus they must have had some sort of application process. So how did you get in? They aren't dumb those applications people! They only would have let you in if you were capable of it, which means you're just not trying hard enough, you lazy fucking shit! I hate you, I want you dead! Dick).

So Mitch called up his friend to ask for a ride.

(He had a phone??? And a friend??? A friend with a car??? This whole time??? Holy shit, that's AWESOME! But why didn't you say that earlier. Lead with that for fuck's sake. 'Mitch, a guy with a phone, a friend, and said friend being a friend who had a car, headed for a farm, knowing full well that if his car broke down, and he turned out to be a lazy, opportunity wasting, massive disappointment to his whole family as a student, that he still had a back up plan to get there' - now that's a good opening sentence! It's like when you have a chance to piss on a baby, you're not going to go without water all day that morning are you? Of course fucking not! Don't be fucking stupid. Anyway, it doesn't matter, Mitch got a lift, Mitch got a lift. Ha ha, that's fun to say, Mitch Mitch Mitch, got a lifty lifty lift! I'm so happy).

But his friend didn't answer.

(Alright, alright. That one's on me. You never said the friend had answered. In fact if he or she had, we'd probably have found out more about them. See? Do you see? I am taking responsibility for MY mistakes! It's not that fucking hard you motherfucker, so why haven't you owned up to that fact you don't know how to open a story with all the necessary information! I bet if you do have a baby you think it's cute EVEN if it isn't, and I wouldn't piss in the mouth of one of those even if a monkey in a hat was watching, and monkeys with wearing hats watching things is DELIGHTFUL!!!)

But it turned out he'd broken down in front of the farm! So he didn't even need a ride, and that his friend hadn't answered because he was standing immediately adjacent to Mitch, grinning in anticipation of Mitch realizing he was there.

(They're AT the farm??? I take it back, I take it ALL back. Every bit of it! You sneaky, tricky, magnificent bastard, you have taken me on a ROLLERCOASTER my friend… it's a farm story, oh no it's not, or is it? No. Yes. Not a chance. But wait.... IT MOTHERFUCKING IS! God bless you. I can see your baby right now, it's genuinely cute and it has piss ALL OVER IT! If it was wearing some form of a protection layer of plastic, it was not that hard to get off vacuum pack stuff, no this plastic was easy to tear like a newspaper out of the hands of an old person.  Well played, take a bow, ha ha, no wait, let's go into that farm and let this story soar!)

And they went into the farm, and lay down and died. The end.

(Um.......  Let me get this straight, So it IS a farm story? But it's not even a good one? I said soar! I said SOAR! How is laying down soaring? Explain that to me? It's almost like you went out of your way to make them NOT soar. How the fuck can you have a farm story and not make it good? There's crops at a farm! CROPS dickhead. It's almost impossible to make a story including those not good. You know what? If you do have a baby I don’t think I am even willing to piss on it, let alone in its mouth. In fact I might put a hat on it, and make it watch things, and when people find that delightful I’ll yell ‘ha, it’s NOT a monkey, I just made you think that it was by putting a hat on it! Suck a dick you dick!’ and then people will blame you for their delight being FALSE, fucking FALSE!)

This story was a story about friendship, not farms, I repeat NOT farms.

(Now you’re just doing it on purpose. Fuck you. To think I gave up a trip to the orphanage for this. Boo. Boo I say. Boo).



PS. Today's blog brought to you by the national foundation for pissing on babies; an activity so normal that is referenceable no matter whether you're happy OR angry beyond belief. Try it today.

PPs. Probably don't actually piss on babies.

PPPs. Unless they're ugly ones.

PPPPs. Which almost all are.

PPPPPs. No monkeys were forced to wear hats during this blog.

PPPPPs. Now THAT’S a lot of pees, ha ha.