Description: A self-proclaimed brilliant man's rantings when stuck in front of Cable television for 64 hours straight. Sorry about all the symbols in there. That would be Elite's fault, as it didn't show up like that in the preview.
Cursive Shit Prints -------------------------------------------
Cursive Shit Prints
The round fleshy 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
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 extraordinarily 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 a blind man's coin purse 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
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 Exiled 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.
First off, my lovely sadistic dipshet, make some comprehensible fuchking sentences. Stop using and doll-humping so many adjectives and nouns together that clearly, don't work. I'm going ti link you to someone who does that in PM, he's so fucked up.
So yeah, seriously. God. You make me want to regurgitate aborted fetuses.
Which may be a good thing, along with the first sentence being removed. I've seen that line in really bad lyrics, and really bad poetry. Michael, why do you always borrow inspiration from really bad poets? It makes me hurt that, as a good writer, you feel that you need to emulate the writing of children who still call their mothers to look at their turds in the toilet. It's not art, it's shet.
Anyway. I'm not nit-picking anything until you put some real punctuation in here. So, I'll pick at your ticks eventually, like monkeys that pick at each other's fur. Yeah. Except not so lovingly. I'd probably ask why you're such a dirty basterd.
In the meantime, stop watching TV, ffs. You get too many ideas that have no periods. I'm obsessed, I realize that, but there's SOME VALUE TO IT.
What else can I criticize... Oh. Right. The structure- yeah, that doesn't make it any better. If anything, make up stations or channel names and separate it accordingly, if that makes any sense. If you don't like it, well, shut up.
Okay, in all seriousness, I liked this piece a lot. It was kind of fast-paced (the way I read it, anyway, without ANY SENSE OF DIRECTION), and the ideas there were pretty saturated with some good rage. And dimensional, which is pretty advantageous to works this long.
I've been slowly reading Interview with the Sky. Now, I realize you sent this to me in December... but I'm getting there. So far, I'm liking it a lot. Get writing your next bible of toilet paper stains and their stories and let me know when it's done. Okay good.