Standing by the pickle barrel with Mr Drucker; fishing for the jewelry we fucking put in there. They're fucking arresting my husband Oliver. Mr Kimball is over there oblivious, just fucking counting the beans again. Fucking A bro. The pickles aren't even real bro. THE FUCKING PICKLES AREN'T EVEN REAL.

I'm just beefed out you know what I mean man? It's like, when time starts stopping, exist stops existing. It's just a game we're not real things man, jus like them pickles.

Scared you are not a good person yet? Fear not, this post will englighetn you as to th e correct terms of being. First and foremost, posture.

When being a person it is recommended to keep your back at a good 30 degree angle at all times. This is because angle = angel, and u wanna be good dontcha

Now if there’s anything that The Wizard of Oz has taught us it’s that in order to be a good tinman it has to get darker before it gets lighter. So commit mass genociyde in order to revert to your worst and most primal insticsts to kill stuff and then you can ascend to a new holy level of being supreme and cool to people

Now leading on from that analogy if you find yourslelf feeling lost and like you’re far away from home like a kansas-dwellin dood corsssed with a scaredy-cat, remember that you can tap your shoes together you fuckin g xoward ad everything will go bak to normal, thats right, all those genocided people are now ungenocided and u fixed it but now you can’t be the best you you can be now can you.

ffs you were so close but you woke up just as the dream was gettin good

egg of yolk the olk of yegg,
oaky yoaky shelly peg;
peg unclipp and shell is fall,
what lies in the eggshell wall?

eggwell shawl and fall and foil,
saucepan broth and froth and boil;
yolk and white and wholk is folk,
in goes egg; with spoon it poke;

spin and froth and boil with flame,
out of chicken with no name;
cook and white yolk egg and simmer;
onto plate where it do glimmer.

now it eat, with mouth; not leg.
now it tanste. it tanste of egg

Fallen like straw with a pig in a millow,
Songs in my heart like a flute in a pillow.
Comforted frost in your evergreen wind,
Got all the past that you’ll never rescind.
Tempter rebounded, don’t scatter my ashes
By temples confounded and matter by lashes;
The whip of the cream and the quantum-flux ardour
Beheld ’neath a team of the mightiest larder.

Gibbons have trumpets like ferrets in berets;
Rhinos have horns which they thrust on the frehways—
And yet I still see your face: it is floating;
Much like the clows and the shleep, it is gloating.
What all the hell and the gall and the ball?
Flimsy old-face-man, you drive up the wall?
I’ll set fire to pharaohs, and enter their houses;
And boshity-bishity blink at their mouses.

mm there are some excellent flavours of birds around here, all the good ones like Grapefruit and Beetle.e.e.e.e.e.e.e.e.e.e. divided by too much infonumeration. But that ain't me main line of einquiery, old chapel.

got jinxed? try a man who will do a thing

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