Journal: -------------------------------------------Mood: Bored someone tell me who to read. This is an open invitation to be obnoxious and self promote on my page. ...Created 2009-11-09 08:42:18

Journal: -------------------------------------------Mood: Yeay!! My son was born this past saturday on the 24th early in the morning. Jack C. Edwards is now home with his mommy and daddy, happy as can be. My book is now available at amazon.com. You don't have to be a fan of my poetry to be a fan of my novel. Why not check it out? http://amzn.com/1449512550 ...Created 2009-10-26 16:35:31

Journal: -------------------------------------------Mood: Crazy This is one of those sites where you get what you put in....unless you put it in the ovens that aren't turned on. ...Created 2009-10-22 08:14:14

Journal: -------------------------------------------Mood: The Usual http://amzn.com/1449512550 A test copy of my book is now available on amazon. ...Created 2009-10-04 11:30:56

Journal: Now available. -------------------------------------------Mood: Guess what!? Cake By Michael B. Edwards Show some love. I'll even throw in a picture of my dick. Or not. http://amzn.com/1449512550 ...Created 2009-10-02 12:04:52

Journal: -------------------------------------------Mood: The Usual testing 12 12 www.eliteskills.com/u/myx ...Created 2009-09-26 08:49:45

Journal: -------------------------------------------Mood: The Usual testing, 1 2 3 http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/1438250169/ref=ord_cart_shr?_encoding=UTF8&m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&v=glance ...Created 2009-09-26 08:49:02

Journal: don't write. -------------------------------------------Mood: Paranoid Cursive Shit Prints The round flesh holes and the bottoms of Irish feet are suggestively molesting the coca butter butt holes of the first 16 presidents who dance around the mullet berry bush whistling and bubble blowing while their legs are thrown up exposing their hamster cage crotches and orange peel nut sacks and phones of Beatnik, limerick redneck trip-hop static prose-matic stoic flirtatious poetry that sounds off like Billy Corgan with bad high fox head kelk cramps of vinegar and wine glasses that look like the built sculptures of pregnant pigeons conceived with lusty legos dry fucking babies tended to by a mother whose Huggies hung too low beneath her cross-eyed rosary and above her fish net hosiery when she gave Prince Nicander a hum job to honor his crumpet run with owly eyed bastards who dropped magazines in water to see if the points would peek through off-white t-shirts as he licked the cat food from the mall rats Matt’s ass crack and the amayosingly fat jackasses look on in dismay, scratching their heads and playing Where in the Fuck is Carmen Sandiego and get so frustrated that they shit out another Little Debbie snack cake that’s eaten by the next little boy that the narrator from Wonder Years will follow around for his personal amusement and placate some sick dick sucking innuendos after all the stand ups from hours of preparing tuxedos worn at the buffets thrown by the Board of ‘I’m proud to be a disgusting fat-body foundation’ that wrinkles the foreheads of John Truth and makes their mouths part open, crookedly like swollen vagina lips as they reach for their billfolds to buy cock scotch and gay boy advancement where you catch the heebie jeebies from the toilet seats of slap wet stick swap meat pubs and dirty disgusting strip top clubs where the only way to be strange is to stick two needles through your penis instead of one which is only good enough to satisfy a doowop band that terrorizes children after performances by taking their ice cream cones and shoving them up their exhaust pipes before going home to beat their kids, mistreat their wives and dispense all the cats’ nine lives with miracle knives to make Split slip gal bladder soup to dress the salmon sandwiches and all the different shapes the Chef Boyardee cuts the little children into before marinating it into Italian armpit cream sauce grease from obsessive compulsive wedding settings and nights of bed wetting over dress matching and properly conducting the ensemble of coffee farts from the unenthused guests who widen their hips and pucker their pussy lips after 26 sips of biznitch syrup beer nips and health tips protruding from leisure suit trousers of men with Trimethylaminuria (the fish disease) that makes people enraged enough to have a ball, fucking an eggo Oscar doll that told off 12 different Fashion Bug models before they gallop away with the rest of the base begotten bitches basting in tanning beds at the regular speed limit of 25g’s a line as they are concealed by academic perfumes of pencil scent that wrote the manuscripts of Family Square Knots and the Importance of being in Earnest movies and the benefits to exist in the group of shirt lifting snorb grabbers that always start shit in Scenarioni’s by throwing pizzas and chanting “AY” at volumes loud enough to wake up those with cheeseburger wombs and perverted packages full of Playtex protection inside of their music boxes with little Chinese men dancing around gripping their private parts singing a rhyming song about every cookie that ever existed until it entertained another prude 80s girl with an extra hairy bush whose father is the fat founder of Corporal Copulates the maker of Genocide the Spermicide and Emasculate Ejaculates to pucker the assholes, check the yes box next to applicable ejack and provide gum exposure for the fans who sprunched off the mass murderer and the shower head belt buckle butt fucker trucker Ted who attends the high school urinary tract meat at the feet of an ass crack with peanut butter wedged between Salmonella Sammy’s canchored legs and the privy bean and weeney asshole cleanings to follow the commands of Paul before Simon said “have potato salad and buttsex” in the town where Van Gogh put on his raincoat for the sake of snake skins and super soakers full of piss, and like a clichéd Will Smith punch line, only the Belgian nut sacks are punctured by those angry guys on the jungle gym of rotten crotch built by the mechanic grease ball that licks his fingers and walked in on his open legged mom who was scratching herself with a meat clever until it destroyed his taste for Arby’s and he invented a new perfume made from the armpit juice of the TERRIBLE TURBAN TOTING VIOLENT TYRANT TERRORIST TALIBAN that ranked its way to the top of the charts to cover the trout scent of a lesbian with a Paul McCartney haircut and a belt buckle with a diagram on how she replaced her ovaries with gumdrops and her uterus with an urn of European fossils to distribute in exchange for a Sapphic lick to her groin of tender loin and a sadist kick to the balls of some man in the shoe business named Alfred who eats pastries of passé’ pussings ground dug from the X’iled cemetery found two streets down from where the good ol’ English boys are pissing in cups and flailing their arms for almond joys given from the whole sale momma who’s got her hurdled hips, saddle bags and spider veins from the rockin' kidney buster sedan parked next to a white child molester mini van. ...Created 2009-09-16 01:05:09

Journal: -------------------------------------------Mood: Brain Fried I'm getting very fed up with this site. Someone contact me when shit makes more sense. For now...fuck all of you. ...Created 2009-09-11 00:29:13

Journal: -------------------------------------------Mood: The Usual There isn't a more insane bunch on the entire internet than what we have here on elite cock suckin, muthafuckin skills. ...Created 2009-09-09 11:50:14

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