But then I smelled a cat's butt it smelled good. Blue cheese. Mmmm. My stomach grumbled, my ass cheeks my ass cheeks like butter on on a hot slice of ass for five bucks. Now I'm ready To spread my Good News about The bible and the secrets to Everlasting bull shit , five dollar ass, no lube, so -so story telling, and tits, lots and lots of lubricants and penetrative acids, borrowed from this, my life, a never ending Jeagermeister he said, followed by penetration "I love you,now die lover!" She said, before wiping the seimen from her lips with her beard. What the fuck!!! Dad's run amok!!! How'd you know? You didn't know? You couldn't know! 

Only Keanu Reeves has a penis And it glows . It also knows And it shows in the prose , saying to him: "Worship Keanu's penis ; whither hastenest thou?" For thee is thy only begotten Fucked up story. A story of werewolves, porn and losing thy virginity; With seven dwarfs. Thus spoke Nestor: "rama lama dingdong". Thus spoke Losty: I love members. Thus spoke Alex: of Kiwanis club. Whosa member? Zarathustra ; 

The orgy commenced. They played elgar... in their minds and threw their illuminati signs up. Penis boat memberships were freely given to anyone with out pubic hair. It made sense to cornhole the young and bashful Red Band Society and it has blossomed ever since. They 86'd my It jumped over "Oh no Jeagermeister! My blind grandmother! got super ninja'd. Ninjas took over. Must fix it. And fingered her bung hole spastically stretching it beyond Spacetime curvature limits. I want more filth and less Ninja, she groaned. cus she 's a whore. Only a ninja would say that, but we didn't pull out soon enough to prevent the birth of Scarlett Johansson or , filthy degenerate pervertess, like me, I don't think. How could I know... that she was the mother of all virtue, including anal elasticity, and at times, chastity. Chastity is not to be understood as a real Thing, but a horrible truckload of Chick Tracts, and abstinence inbetween orgies. 

Refractory periods were often confused with not being able to properly get laid on Mondays but die trying or keeping it real. Whatever that means. I tend not to act like a rational writer, but the hivemind that controls me likes jelly farts and funt claps, which is unfortunate. Metaphorically speaking. Duh. 

I forgot my head in the anus of Vorlon, the now 13 stepper who quite liked his puny life. But fuck that. Decorated with colourful bullshit and fluttering butterflies, my glass door is broken. But I digress - again. My meds were sticked up my ass, so I couldn't take them properly, resulting in an infection which cost me parts of my brain, two bucks and a set of spoons. Anywho. 

I miss my porkchop. It was so integrated in a less is... come on, I need to stop masturbating into scripture, my point is that the real scripture wouldn't be so tasty. I wondered if I could take the art of writing seriously enough to finish a sentence without going to laugh at RationalAKD.

But then the north star blinked and an angel, calling himself Lucifer, hijacked my brain and put it in a recycling tube then shipped to the planet Mote Prime where time stands still. There, a giant picture of a lemon was displayed. It was a dancing fetus named Nothingness. It stared into my soul and said "Three is a crowd". Oscar Wilde however begs to differ: "In a marriage, two is not enough, and three barely suffices. The more, the merrier. Anal sex is absolutely feasible with more cocks per arse than the current EU limits on gayness. Satan is pleased". Nevertheless, in-prostate is a good place to store anything that can be stored in the prostate. However, as it turns out, sausages are quite storeable in the American Embassy located in my anal cavity. It feels good when the Americans are full of sausage...

When it's my turn I always fill them with a succulent mind finally going berserk on ritaline and sun-kissed sudafed; it all makes everything shiny and full of creamy shiny donuts like my gaping colon. "STOP IT VORLON!" the narrator pleaded. "Why are you always reminding us of your colon? Can't this story simply go on colonlessly?" - I asked - "Robvalue's epic thread must not be pooped out sphincters!" But in my defense, a Semicolon would be nice. Metaphorically speaking. I am a donkey of many talents but I can't juggle large children. That's ok, because I can juggle long enough to make pigs fly, tip their trash. Whatever that means, it's probably metaphorical. It always is, god damn metaphors. In a less is more kind of way. Let's keep repeating it until the cows take over America in a bovine berserk. 

I remember nothing, nothing at all. Where are the editors? Is and where are the latest proclimations that dictate the someone like you eats mucilage paste, has nasal sex and licks boogers of other people, strange, very strange. Exactly! Noone reads the blank pages of maps correctly; or the fine line between madness and necrophilic ecstasy. 

Was I mad? Was I you-know-what? Have I become an anal fister? So much blood... "Pootis spencer here!" Laughing? Haha! Then I just collapsed. I'm insane. I don't know what went wrong. It felt right at the beginning, but slowly, a terrifying and sexually inappropriate suspicion arose: Princess Moshee dropped to Leah's Hello Kitty level and sniffed black pepper afterwards. And that is why you should never trust Jesus to pay up for the ham. Because Jesus is, in an unrelated drive by shooting by angry nuns, said that he didn't impregnate her, but he did! The horny bugger.

Now he has a flaccid, shriveled raisin in his nose and it was tickling him so he blew it out with a loud yawn that projectied it several thousand feet in the air, right into a plane headed toward a giant butthole that was leaking clean, drinkable water for everyone, yay! The raisin then turned grape again. Shortly after the squirrel dropped dead and the frogs also dropped dead? I can't remember where I left my little pony, perhaps it's next door with Carl, he's the guy that itches my ear lobes when reading bible stories. We're playing nintendo.

Some say he's a strange guy, mostly because of the time when he jumped into a pool of toxic octopuses for grandma party enforcers, which had sunk without hope, deep in the bottom of Losty's po-po. Not really, nope. Butt maybe... Hmmm. In there somewhere... Absolutely not! Anyways... I felt sexy because my neck, so I rubbed against my chair till orgasm erupted all over the naugahyde recliner and cosmic microwave background. A weird orgasm, like, really weird - weird Al weird - that Michael Jackson wouldn't even do unless double dared.

Then Reagan decreed "buttsex for everyone missing a limb" don't care had sex with 27 hobos in my dreams, my wet dreams, filled to the brim with a brim with creamy bavarian donuts, exacerbating the creamy problem with a cream filled showdown of our collective anuses spewing the finest cream in the air, covering the story with feces. An improvement, methinks.