still sick, but getting sicker

I specifically told Roger to tickle my tiny hamster. Instead he battered it in beer and masticated it. That hamster often modelled the small garments I knitted for him. He modelled them near the fireplace in front of which my youthful holidays were spent giggled and tearing the wrappings off of satanic talismans purchased for me by the elderly nun mothers of the underground convent 'neath the next town over, Loubegaville. Inside of the depths and shapes of my solid eyes, a gurgling sea of tears welled like the froth of a rabid whipped cream enjoyer. Sadly, damnit, wrathfully I cut Roger. I willed myself to bust his face. I hit him left and fro with bricks and collard. Roger barely enjoyed his rodent meat that day, I can tell you.

a calm suggestion

I totally dare you to go up to some lady - maybe a granny, maybe some punk's auntie, maybe some leathery nun - and straight jack her in the shin with a sledge. You would sooo go to jail!

Eat it, lady!

Gnarly.

ponders

Does the constant inhalation of human skin cells in the air make me a cannibal? What if I were to use a bong?

forsooth!

Simon pokes me in my peepee! Where is superman? He swore up and down on his dopehead gramma's grave just last night after a graceless milking of our pet horse and joyless sex that, no matter what, he would be here to save me from the peepee poker, Simon BungHaplets. If Satan were available in gravy form, I'd ladle generous heapings upon superman's fugly mug. Darn head porpoise! And now my peepee needs bandaging and cold compresses and soft attentive wallaby caresses.