I am Reverend, don't by you this intimidate be for, thankyou.
Because it for, say he "WOOOOOAAA" then finally I close for it have too long been!
Talk world wide web; [ask for]
I am DESTROYER OF WORLDS
Stive class for at purpose with for most.
Also forgood international business machine personal computer home entertainment software make do and.
They mean say to I at them be, must guess be at good am.
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, Jack Kerouac, Aldous Huxley, Harlan Ellison, H. P. Lovecraft, Orson Scott Card, Arthur C. Clarke, Tennessee Williams, Mark Twain, Robert E. Howard, but also
Francis Ford Coppola, Stanley Kubrick, Paul Thomas Anderson, David Lynch, Wes Anderson, Werner Herzog, Coen brothers, Frederico Fellini, John Waters, Spike Jonze, David Cronenberg, Terry Gilliam, Martin Scorsese, Georges Méliès, Guy Ritchie, Quentin Tarantino, Troma, Alan Smithee
The Residents, The Butthole Surfers, Frank Zappa, Bob Dylan, Tom Waits, Harry Partch, Front 242, Alien Sex Fiend, Philip Glass, Neu!, Beethoven, Puccini, Wagner, Verdi, Brahms, Rossini, David Bowie, Ennio Morricone, Suppe, The Yellow Emperors, Mozart, Die Antwoord
Twin Peaks, Mad Men, Game of Thrones, Tim & Eric's work, Neon Genesis Evangelion, Twilight Zone, Mega 64, Suidbillies, QI, Peep Show, Boardwalk Empire, Frankenhole, Jon Benjamin, Mole Man Saul, Delocated, Cromartie, Colorful
Swine, Goat, Land-Sea-Cows, Onion, Land- Fowl, Peanut, Onion
For them squirt to is a plauge be. Not having all things aren't be opposed to.
We're oven baked!
How long has this car been made out of my Pantopon Rose's face? I gotta get the fuck out of here!
One step out of the goddamned car and we're in a Moroccan opium den. There's a lowly, slinking, huddled, crushed thing in the corner trying to pass itself off as a man. The whole stinking place is awash in the fumes of a trombone murder. The withered thing rolls over to you, a broken hand beckoning from under a torn and disheveled napkin trying to be used as a robe. You engage it, but as soon as it becomes aware of your attention it flees into the back rooms, knowing. Knowing. Knowing! The whole sick illusion comes crashing in on you and you realize you're in the gutter. Soaked with the refuse and discarded fluids of the day. You friend is staring at you and she can't tell where you've been. She has a look in her face, the kind of look a disgruntled skag addict gives a dollar-an-hour prostitute after she reveals she is. In fact. A man. Then she returns to his pimp no richer than it left and is rewarded for his efforts with a savage beating given by the pimp's friend Freddy whose been soaking a suede boot in real Kansas City bourbon for just an occasion just as this – Then all the three of them go down to the local burger joint where they clink their champagne flasks and dip their fries between the waiters thighs. You finally catch up to the haggard thing wrapped in its napkin shroud. It turns around and points to the canisters in the corner. They each have a different chemical inside and each have a different number painted on them. The napkin is peeled back to reveal the insect man's face. It's mandibles click a few times and then part to reveal a money slot from soda machine. You put in your money and it scurries over to the corresponding tank and drags it over. It takes the hose and shoves it into the plug in your arm – pumping the DDT straight into the artery. The bugman dissipates into bad vibrations, leaving you alone with you and your sins. The DDT gets right on top of you and there's nothing you can do to stop it soon your brain is cakes in its foulness and you become subjected to its every whim like an unwanted lover's nails. Your friend comes in to check on you and is greeted only with an empty room. You hover above them, trying to shout at them to get out but its all to no avail, it was too late for them hours ago. It all shakes and turns to shit and your back out on the street again steeped in the mysticism of the bugman and the spinal fluid of you late, great friend. No time for remorse here -not today- you have a train to catch. The old man's boot catches you hard in the stomach at the train station. He calls you something, miscreant, vermin, Prince of Whales, roustabout, something like that. Another steel toe finds its way to your kneecap and you know the gig is up. They have too much on you. Your not getting on that train, Mexico was a pipe dream anyway. The world melts away at another heel makes acquaintance with your face. Your left staring into the walls of black infinity. You're inside the blackhead on the nose of a man whose screeching “God knows I'm good” as he sails down the alley an the wings of harmony brought on by he dark mumblings from his forefathers' foremothers' wicked sisters. They never knew what was best for anyone, but they were too pretty for anyone to correct them or tell them those guns were loaded. Now they're just cavorting from can to can stealing the christmas type ducktape-wishes of those canonical wanderers unfortunate enough to find themselves inside. With any luck they're spawn won't live to see sexual maturity. Ted had only managed to crawl ten feet from the car before he lost mobility completely. The cabaret girls hadn't sought the southern spender correctly and the plane wasn't getting off the ground anytime soon. Insanity itself seeped through the porous walls of the concrete cabinet atop the nearest mountain on high. The sudden revulsion toward the visceral wrongness of everything drove all in attendance to the neighboring toaster oven repository. The foul sickness was starting to drain into another equally unprepared chamber. The sickness would be coming back, we all know that, it would be upon us before the night was out. And the bricks, oh for the love of God -fuck the bricks- stealing the collective it-ness of it all. Jesus fuck those bricks. You didn't even want the house to be made of bricks, did you? You wanted straw or stick like any god-fearing porcine existence such as yourself could ever need. And now you know, don't you? You know why not to make a house from bricks. You can hear them every day, beating their bleeding fists against the pavement, these pig-people calling for you to serve them the gray, pinkish rectangular flesh of their long departed brothers. Those and toothless, met-addled bulimics throw their hands up in anguish, learning they cannot, in fact, buy fried chicken portions with food stamps. The bugman withdraws the DDT from your arm, his mandibles click apart again, showing you the money slot again. But your pockets have already been gone through, he knows that, you know that, we all know that. Fucking bugmen, wasting your time, what a stupid shit. You're dragged to your feet by the now angry thing. A quickly made boot-print to the as ushers you back out into the foyer. I didn't even know insects could wear boots. Back again amongst the tapestries of misery strewn around the room. They stare at me. Knowing. They know. They know about the juice. You cover the DDT spout in your arm. I'm self-conscious apparently. The staring things loom. Their dripping disapproving acid into your eyes. Ted rolled over, unsure of anything at this point. He was to be the king of the Kazaks, and they expected him to ride into battle with a broken knee. Eyes can hurt, these two especially, them being not meant for a world like this. Their wavelengths were never quite in synch. The plate burns but we bight into them anyway. The teeth crack and smoke begins to pour out your ears, but the electrical stimulation of the hind-brain yields pleasure too great for me to spit anything out. Your eyes roll back into your head as the volts run straight up your gums and rattle your brain into a fitfully placid catatonic seizure. The teeth melt into a viscous white foam, flowing around the metal plate. The Electrocutioner cruel turns off the current and forces your head down into the tub of cool air he readied for you. The teethfoam solidifies into a solid block, freezing the plate into your mouth and welding it to your gums. The switch is thrown again and nothing. Matters. Anymore. The man throws open the door to the Electrotorium and rends you from the oversized dental chair he carries you out of the room pulling the chords running to the plate out of the wall his children are waiting for our return but don't seem too pleased to see you in its arm they grew up spoiled and never know anything but peeps for breakfast dogs with bandanas and suburban toothpaste smiles layered with lies tofu and money wrenched from the fingerless palms of demented coffin warmers who were never ready to be treated with such malicious plans as those enacted upon the Electrocutioners uncle who actually knew his neighbors' parentage hadn't been confirmed with anybody above the rank of quartermaster in Her Majesty’s Navy on the good ship Parlamoure upon which had been spent a fortune not dissimilar to the ones owned by Southern American Bankers who never had to pay taxes levied against those belonging to union men striking because the company dog who was named after the fourth son of the Banker's eldest daughter's priest at the service marrying her to the last son of the empire leftmost upon those maps given to the diagnostics as a present to repay them for their service in the latest arguments with the Kaiser's favorite poodle training brothel janitor about why left-handed milk-maids weren't allowed to vote on Tuesdays in months that either end in “R” or don't have holidays celebrated by people whose house aren't for sale due to the various molds infesting couches and chairs made in apiaries owned by people with last names ending in letters found offensive by the owners of slaves that are not allowed – by law – to be outside when chances of precipitation are above 80%.
thankyou no stupids please