...Why the fuck?...

Better to rule in hell than to serve in heaven, they say. I say why must it be a choice of one extreme or the other? I seem to recall hearing someone in a movie say that only sith deal in absolutes...  So here is my line of thinking:  Why do they make it a choice between being tortured for eternity or prostrating oneself before the all mighty Deity, singing praises to It for eternity? Neither option sounds remotely enjoyable to me. I'm not a mindless minion. I'm a human. I seek neither to serve, nor to be served, but simply to be. I would spend eternity living on a green planet, with clean air and pure water, and all manner of life, without the ravages of modern society. Other humans may be there, as long as they have mutual respect for one another, and for me, and for all that exists, and as long as they give me my space and my freedom to roam where I choose. ...But what does it mean to be human? Are we just the most highly advanced form of mammal that we know of, and when we leave this existence we return to the dirt? Or are we Spiritual beings having a human experience, our physical bodies no more / no less than avatars which we use to interface with this dimension? Are we gods? Are we sons and daughters of Man? Are we kept livestock for some sinister superior race? Or are we just a multitude of fucking observers? What purpose does our existence serve? - None of these questions has ever been answered to my satisfaction, nor have any of these concepts as yet been proven or disproven to me beyond shadow of doubt.  Why do religions and governments have such authoritarian ultimatums and such severe punishments for disobedience? If to err is human, then why are we punished for being human? "Oops, I fucked up. I didn't mean to, I made a mistake." Beat-beat-beat! Whup-whup-whup! Cane-cane-cane! Jail, gaol, imprison, punish, inflict pain... Punish! Punish! Punish! Drag! Shackle! Enslave... Cage, domesticate, manipulate, control.....  How is that any semblance of fair? So then why is the unfair and unjust done? Why is this unnecessary suffering visited upon us? Or is it a necessary suffering, for some greater, as yet unrevealed purpose?    

What is a five year old's favorite word? "Why?"  I asked that question when I was innocent, and was given an incorrect answer. The answer I got was, "Because I say so."  Well that's insufficient! It's a bullshit answer! It's a fucking copout! It's not only insufficient, it's unacceptable.  Preacher man stands in the pulpit and says, "You will obey every word of this text, or fire and brimstone will rain down on you from above, for eternity! Because I say so!" I call bullshit.  Pa says, "You will do as I say, not as I do, or I will whup your ass with a leather strap, because I say so!" I call bullshit.  I recognize no outside authority, and beating me senseless won't alter that. Basically, if you can't or won't provide adequate explanation for your reasoning, then you must be lying, and/or your reasoning is flawed. That's how I figure it. 

When unstoppable force meets immovable object: {The Inquisition}

"Ok then, where is this god of whom you speak, who demands tribute and obedience, without explanation of reason, and punishes mercilessly for any infraction"
"He is everywhere, within all things."
"If he's in all things, then he's in me as well, for I am a part of everything, so then I am a part of god, so how can you punish a part of god? How can you abuse, torture, rape, pillage, and inflict pain and suffering upon a part of god? And why would he inflict pain and suffering upon a part of himself? Is he a sadomasochist?"
"Do not blaspheme! Do not question God!"
"How, by any stretch of imagination, is innate curiosity a blasphemy?"
"Yours is not to reason why! Yours is but to do and die!"
"Bull fuckin Shit!"
"You shalt not disobey!"
"Fuck you! I shalt do as I doth choose, and you shalt not hinder me!"
"Guards!! Seize him and bind him in chains!! Take him to the medieval torture room!!"
"I will escape this madness, and I will come back here, and I will kill you."
"We will kill you first."
"If so, then I will spit in your eye with my dying breath. ..Regardless, I will never obey you, and nothing you say or do can change that. I am human. I am free. I am me."

The UFOs are coming...

The UFOs are coming. It's only a matter of time. Linear time is a human concept. Fleas don't perceive time the same as humans. Nor do rocks. Mice only see what is right in front of their faces. Monkey in the mirror. Frog in the spaghetti pot. Pork chitterlings. Roasted soybeans. I stuck my tongue in her urethra, on accident at first, but then on deliberate purpose, while I chewed on her clit. Softcore cunt sucking of the finest degree. I assure you. Parakeets recognize other parakeets. Cheez Whizz on a Ritz cracker. Olive milk. Pulled pigmeat. Hog maws. I like butter. How is the whiskey in these parts? I hear the heroin is to die for. That wasn't funny. But then it never is. Mister Pee Bottle and the wee-back machine. Timecop with a $2700.00 a day cocaine habit. That rolly-polly little blondie in the backseat of my 72 Buick. I didn't know it was her maiden voyage. I made her squirt on the ceiling. Monte Alban Mezcal. Fuzzy beer. George the bug. Don't leave a belt of Black Cat firecrackers sticking out of your pocket with easy access to the wick where one of your drunken buddies, an asshole like me, for instance, can very easily lean over with a cigarette and light it. Oops. Bet that smarts. We were jackasses when them dudes were still in diapers. Pass me another whore. Never claimed to be any kinda saint. Blood rains down from an angry sky, my cock rages on, my cock rages on. And how much whiskey does it take to make a drunk pass out in his boots and winter coat? About that much, I reckon. And I wasn't stealing them sheep, I was just giving them a ride in the back of my truck. Honest, ossifur. Sorry man, no leg of lamb tonight. But maybe a pigroast next week, provided we can steal us a pig... Times was more funnerer back then, back when cars was cars and cops was cops, and dirtbikes was the only way to fly, c'mon let's go get high. I wanna piss, but I'm too high, but I was stoneder then, and drunker than ten skunks. Ten drunk skunks with a pitbull chaser. I love that nobody really knows what the fuck I'm talking about. Good shit, Bolt! Fried cow patty. Dead fish on a bun with cheese. I said with cheese!  ...Brotherhood of the minnow. Possum in the trashcan. Dog chasing a hog, yeah I seen it. Throwed outta the titty bar. What the fuck are you doing in the middle of the road? Drinkin.  What fuckin mailboxes? I don't have a hole in my tire. I don't have a .357 laying on the dashboard. You'd see it if it was there. The fuck are you babbling about? Ok baby, yeah, let's go up in your backyard and hang out. I got some really good weed and some ludes. Chicken and a pig were walking one day, chicken said "I'm hungry. Are you hungry?" "I like chicken. Gawmp!" said the pig. Pigs is pigs. I ran over a duck with a 70-something Chevy Monza on the riverbank. The girls had a shit fit. I didn't do it on purpose. We had duck for supper. The girls wouldn't eat it. I love aminals. My buddy hit a pheasant with his Nova one time, same dealio, we ate the motherfucker. What are you gonna let it go to waste?!  Poaching my ass. You know what poaches my ass? A four foot tire fire. I had a wire. It was my wire. Then I lit it on fire. This girl I know wants me to help her out of a jam. I want some pussy. But she's trouble with a capital T. And I been there and done that too many times before, not with this particular girl, but it's the same pattern. "I'm a poor little helpless waif, come and rescue me!" Never ends well. Never say never. Something about them junkie chicks.. Don't know man, maybe I'm addicted to addicts... Maybe my dick just doesn't have a conscience. Mother Lilith, may I cavort with one of your daughters? I won't harm her. I just wanna hold her naked sweaty body next to mine, for a time. But if you say I may, then I'd love to taste her. But if you say no, I may not, well then all's for the best. Trouble comes a-knockin at my window late at night, and I open up that motherfucker and say, "Hey Trouble! Come on in, let's party!" Then the feelings come sneaking in with her, and the junkie tears, and the protector instinct within me awakens. Look out Loretta. He's getting dragged around by the dick again. What were once vices are now habits, according to the Doobie Brothers. Trap. Steel jaws. Snap. Got me by the balls. Chasing after some young cunt again, like a bloodhound in the wind, this time it'll be different, that same old song again. Like iron to a magnet, like a dog to its own puke, keep on running back to Miss Trouble, that same old song again. A succubus will keep on sucking until she sucks you dry. It ain't her fault, boy, it's just the way she's made, she ain't even gotta try. She can draw you into her vortex with a subtle wink of her eye. And you ain't to blame neither, just a dog going after some pie. But shit happens. Fecal matter occurs naturally. My olfactory receptors are geared to sniff after the pussy. But we'll see what we will see. Maybe she'll find some other swinging dick to torment with her sweet lies...  Either way...  The UFOs are coming. You can't stop it. Donald Trump can't stop it. Maybe the Spirit of Nikola Tesla might be able to stop it, or at least delay the inevitable for a while. It's a crap-shoot. Who knows? Certainly not I. Maybe we ought to consult the Pussy Oracle.

Hairy Piss-Miss, very muddy

I purple a roadmap to pussy hole. No mung beans will know. Mudpuppy my bulldog with a nose hair booger on the windshield hawkenspit phlegm ball. Put the kettle on the nightstand kitty. I peel a cheese numbing pawn. Twelve trouts a-swimming, eleven lizzards meeping, ten Winstons burning, nine breadsticks baking, eight joints a-smoking, seven six-strings strumming, six pack of Guinness, five hits from bong, four stinky turds, three ink pens, two cats on bed... And a big fat bag of weed.

X-mas Frootloops

Spiritual constipation, coupled with diarrhea of the vocal cords, and abject moral bankruptcy... I love words. Except whenever I don't. God is great, God is good, let us thank him for our food. How do you know it's a him? What? Just because some self-important, anal-retentive preacher said so? Or because you read it in a book? Please.  You've completely ignored the Mother Goddess. You treat our planet, our own species, and other species as well, as though it was all just a plaything put here for your own personal amusement. A complete lack of respect for the Sacred. Total indifference to all but your own whims. Narcissus Rex. King Baby. President Trump. Royal Feces. Useless as tits on a bull.

One of my cats stepped on my dick while I was asleep, woke me up with a sudden and inevitable "Ow! Motherfucker!" And it was still more enjoyable than anything on the 200+ channels of drivel the idiot box has to offer. Merry fucking Christ's Mass. 

Here's some lovely Punk sounds for your auditory stimulation: youtube.com/watch?v=vx3kgKTX4Y8     Wake up, Donnie! An out of place disembodied jet engine is about to come crashing thru the roof and squish you like a roach...  

I think I'll go outside now and smoke a bowl of Frootloops.

Pardon my French...

Scuse me... Pardon me... Gotta shit! commin thru....

Now then.    Got my laptop, got my mousepad, right. Alright. I guess I'm-a rant about the French language again, or the strangeness of the pronunciation upon my American ears, or the mental processing thereof, or something like that. Dada language, avant garde ear crack...

...Now, how do they get "boozh-wah" out of bourgeois? Bourgeois is almost Boy George, if you just turn the vowel sounds around. For some reason French has always sounded pretentious to me, as though they were looking down snooty noses at everyone else on the planet, calling us all swine simply by their words, which incidentally have nothing whatsoever to do with swine, or very little, unless you're talking about porc.   And, while I do enjoy a nice pulled pork samitch, that is not the subject of the current rant. I never had much of a taste for pretentious people. I grew up in Pittsburgh in the 60s and 70s, where we pronounce (some) French words the way they're spelled, such as Dubois and Versailles, while others, such as Duquesne, are almost impossible to pronounce in such manner, so they roll off the tongue in the best way we can muster. Now it's easy to say "Doob-wah" and "Vair-sye", but not when reading them the way they're spelled. That takes a cunning linguist... 

What really irks me is when people bastardize American English with a phony Frenchitized mispronunciation, such as when someone says "Awnvelope" for envelope. The root of envelope is clearly envelop, as envelopes envelop your mail, so that nebby-ass folks can't stick their noses into your private business.  But folks see a word that starts with en, and automatically think it's French, and then do their piss-poor best to pronounce it as such. Stop doing that. It makes you look stupid. Part of the problem, I reckon, is schoolteachers who themselves had a substandard education. Maybe they should've spent more time outside with the burnouts from the smokepit, and less time focusing on trivial bullshit, such as trying to impress others with their bourgeois.... Fuck if I know. I was doing my personal best to become the biggest burnout I could be. But somehow I can't help but wonder about some shit. ..I know about Dada Art, Dada Music, the whole daggone Dada Movement... But there's one thing, one concept I don't think they completely grasp, and that is this: Dada Reality. We live in a ludicrous society, the very existence of which defies logic and reason. Example: How can anyone justify being a billionaire when there are little innocent kids starving somewhere on our planet? (They can't. Oh, they can make vain and feeble attempts to justify it to themselves, but to justify the unjust is impossible.) Look, man. We all went to kindergarden. We all learned to share, way back when we were little innocent kids ourselves, but somehow, by the time we got to high school, most of us had long forgotten this extremely important and invaluable lesson. It got pushed out and replaced by shallow self importance. We live in a shallow, Narcissistic society, where the Hollywood Insider and Lifestyles of the Materialistic rich bastards take precedence over anything which might appear negative, unless, of course, when it's some tragic event they can sensationalize, and/or use as a tool to manipulate public opinion. Cock sucking rat bastards. (No offense to gay folks and chickenheads intended, simply a figure of speech.) Ludicrous isn't a strong enough word to describe it, it's like ludicrous is standing just short of first base, not quite touching, and I need a word that's leading off third, waiting to steal home. That word, for all intent and purpose at the moment, is Dada.  We live in a Dada Reality.  That red pill is simply a metaphor, there is no actual pill. All those (Hundreds? Thousands?) little pieces of blotter paper dipped in lysergic saur diethylamide that I used to eat are metaphors too. I never metaphor I didn't like. But, I mean, come the fuck on, man! Donald motherfucking Trump as president, for fuck sake??! Have we all completely lost our shit? Or is it simply the logical progression of illogic? It was the Great Hollywood Election,  broadcast live right into your livingrooms thru the coaxial dick that permanently fucks your television right in the pussy. It was so blatantly scripted as to rival "reality" teevee. How in the purple polkadotted fuck don't people see this? It's so fuckin obvious it smacks you in the face like a cold dead trout, "Whap!!" 

    ....But I digress...

I've been listening to Captain Beefheart's Trout Mask Replica.

It's muhfuttin Xmas eve again. To my Christian friends: Merry Christmas. To my Hindu friends: Hare Krishna. To my Jewish friends, happy Hanukkah. To my Muslim friends: Don't worry, I didn't forget yall, just don't expect me to fast with you next Ramadan out of some misplaced attempt at solidarity, I did that once, mostly to prove to myself that I could do it, no offense intended, my Spiritual journey keeps following the next diverging path. To my Athiest friends: Happy December 24th, just another day, etc. And to my Pagan friends: We all had a good Solstice. To anyone else who doesn't fit neatly into any preconceived box: :) Rejoice in the knowledge that for the moment you are still inhaling oxygen. Peace, yall. I'm outta here.

Oops, I farted. Now what? Blog... Blog like a madman.

By the way, this post has absolutely nothing to do with farts or farting... Well, ok, maybe a little...

I realized something today:  The world doesn't stop spinning simply because you need a li'l break from it. People don't put their lives on hold just because you need to take it out of gear and put the parking brake on for a minute.  Wow! Day-umn. Who'd've thunk? Not me, at least not until I thunk it. I just needed a few days sabbatical from the fast-paced world of construction and building maintenance, so's I can get my shit straight before the upcoming bigass 16-week job that's coming up. Did I mention that it's upcoming? (Asshat!)  Well, as it turns out, just because I ask for a few days, it doesn't mean that everything else stops happening. Dogs & cats still need to eat and drink and poop and piss... Food still needs to occupy the fridge.  Dwindling cigarette supplies still need to be re-upped. Snot still issues forth from one's nostril holes, and farts still issue forth from one's asshole... 

There's the fart part.

(Side note: Dukey is easier to get off your boot than pookie. Dukey washes off. Pookie requires the use of gasoline, or mineral spirits, or acetone, or naptha... Some kinda solvent.)

Yellow and blue make green. Yay. At least that hasn't changed. Don't let Trump get his grubby paws on it, or it might start making covfefe, whatever in the hell that is. But I digress.

Blue is the color of my favorite coffee cup. Blue is the color of my favorite twisty lightbulb. And blue is the color of my Washburn bass. Maybe I'll plug it in and jam now. ...Is anyone even reading this fuckin blog? Well... That's a deep subject. ...Oh, and by the way, I farted.

I'm Fuckin Human. We're All Fuckin Human.

So...  You're born into this world.  If you're fortunate, you're born into a loving family.  Some are not.  Either way, you are exposed to the immediate environment around you.  You grow and learn.  They expose you to the television.  Some parents use it as a babysitter.  When I was a child it was Romper Room, Mister Rogers' Neighborhood, Sesame Street, The Electric Company, and Zoom, interspersed with Loony Toons, Pink Panther, and Tom & Jerry.  Now they get Teletubbies and Barney, I think, or has that changed? ...  The Wiggles, that's right... They're creepy. They creep me out.

Little kids are like sponges, man. They absorb everything. Even the shit you might think they don't. If Mommy is sucking somebody's dick in the house, and the kids are in the house, trust me, they know about it.

If Daddy is banging the babysitter, they know about it.

If somebody is shooting dope, they know about it.

Daddy beating the shit out of Mommy, (or vice-versa)...

Booze, drunks all thru the house, that shit they see and interact with, it all depends on the environment, which itself depends on the parents, neighbors, friends, relatives, neighborhood, etc.

Middle class kids growing up in the burbs might only encounter that behavior on weekends, or not at all. Or, Mommy might be a meth whore. You never know.

Rich motherfuckers' kids in big fancy houses tend to be little narcissists, but they are also prone to depression, among other issues.

My parents both grew up in row houses in the city of Monessen, PA. I grew up in a brick house in Pitsburgh, a block down the hill from a main drag with stores. It wasn't a row house, it had a yard, and there was a vacant lot next door, with a big maple tree in it, that we all kinda shared, us and the immediate neighbors. It was a decent sized house, not a mansion by any imagining, but it accommodated my parents, Grandma, my two brothers, and me. I grew up in the late 60s, 70s, & 80s. (I was born in 65, I was 18 in 83. Do the math) It wasn't a bad neighborhood. If there was criminal activity, it was usually me or my brothers and our friends committing it. It wasn't the inner city ghetto, but it wasn't the burbs either. My parents both went to college, my mom went first, my dad went after he came back from the war, and they both worked office jobs downtown. She was a secretary, and he was an accountant. We weren't dirt-poor, but we were far from rich. Mom didn't work for a few years when I was a little kid, so Dad must've brought in enough, but he worked all the time, and went out after supper almost every night. He died when I was 13. Mom went back to work shortly thereafter, but she couldn't afford the taxes on the house, and had to sell it and move into an apartment in a big complex. After getting in trouble several times and going to juvey, getting kicked out of a few different schools, and running away to other states twice, I dropped out of school and got my GED, and moved out when I was 18. That's the basic outline of my environment growing up.

So.  .. You come into this world a helpless wiggling thing that must be cared for, there must be a tit for you immediately, you must be mothered, lest you perish. But from toddler on, you learn from your environment, whatever it may be. My parents didn't buy me everything I wanted, so I learned how to steal it instead. My uncle gave me beer when I was eight, and I liked it. My Grandma gave me coffee, and then her Valium, when I was five, and I liked that too. I don't blame them. I loved them both.

The school said I had an extremely high IQ in the 4th grade. They didn't realize that I had an aptitude for theft and vandalism. They soon found out that I had a bad attitude towards "authority" and was stubborn and headstrong and reckless and bored. Basically, I was a mean little fuck that liked to break into cars and steal things and break things. With a MENSA-level IQ...
 Couple that with the reputation of two older brothers preceding me, and by the time I got to 6th grade they went, "Here's another one. Watch him." ...  Shit got blamed on me that I had nothing to do with. But, to balance it out, I did a lot of shit that I didn't get busted for.

So what's the explanation? Am I a product of my environment? Or am I just a bad human being?
My daughter would tell you that I'm a good human being. My friends would say the same. I work. I pay bills. I wash my ass. I don't drink alcohol, or shoot dope, or smoke crack or meth, or snort anything, or pop pills anymore. I smoke weed. It's all I need. It's my antidepressant and my anger-manage-mints. It keeps me from wanting to shoot heroin.

I haven't stolen anything in a minute either. I eat meat, but I love aminals. Humans are aminals, though most refuse to acknowledge it. I hate rules and regulations, I feel like it's my mission to be the thorn in "authority's" side. I'm like Don Qixote, but the windmills I tilt at are the pillars of society. I would see the international banking cartel toppled and trampled underfoot. I would see the ground stained with the blood of the illuminati. I would see the rise of the common man, true democracy, one individual=one vote, with a 2/3 majority needed to ratify all important decisions. No politics or politicians needed. Every decision is weighed by an informed public. I would see the end of the idea of any form of racial or religious superiority. I would see the end of the American class system, wherein the suits view themselves as somehow superior to those of us who actually work for a living. I would see it abolished for good. Nobody's better than anybody else. We're all fuckin human.

Does Anybody Want To Know This? 0.0

Filed under the "Does Anybody Want To Know This?" category:

  I just dropped a 14" X 2" monstrosity of a deuce.

The one end of it was sticking up out of the water, stinking.

        Dog jenkem.

I thought it was going to take two or three cups of hot water added to the flush to force it down the pipe, but it slid right down on the first cup. Must've been really greasy. That would explain how it was able to poop right out of my asshole all at once like that. I shoulda took a picture. 

     But anyway...
                       the bathroom stunk,
                                            Like shit and
                                                         ass funk.

Facepalming yet?

I left the fan running...

                   

Cat Viscosity Theory

Ever seen a melting cat?  I don't mean when you're tripping, either. I mean a melting cat.
                     I mean like this:

Cats are viscous.  The way they move.  Like they're made of a non-newtonian fluid.  Example:

Slow motion cat...

 

See What I'm Talking about?

Liquid cat.

See, one could theorize that cats are in a semi-flux between a solid and a liquid.  There's a cat melted on top of the cable box right now. But the webcam's not connected. Sorry, no pic.

But cats melt into/onto things. Ever had a cat melt into your lap? And you absentmindedly pet him with one hand while you mouse with the other hand. And you forget he's there. And then he gets up...

And you go "Aaaaagh!"  "Fuck!" ..."Why?!"

Ever had that happen?

"Of course," you say, "Hasn't everybody?" 

...No?
Never happened? Ever?
Well what a sad sorry existence you must be having. I pity you.
  And people say sarcasm doesn't translate well on the internet.

       I have three packs of smokes open at the same time. It makes perfect sense, because I'm trying not to smoke as much.  o_O
  There's a pack of Winstons, a pack of Pall Malls, and a pack of Kamel Reds. When I smoke one, I smoke it out of the top pack, then I rotate that pack to the bottom. That way I think about how many I smoke.
Sometimes I butt it out halfway and light it back up later. Some people would call this crass. Those people didn't grow up in my neighborhood. They probably wouldn't run into me at work either, unless I was installing a new desk or cabinets in their office.

 Neighbor with a flat shovel scraping up a pile of dogshit from off the street in front of his house. That's what I see out my window. Beats what I used to see out my window a few places ago, nine, maybe ten years back, I'd reckon. Crack dealers on the corner... Used dopeworx in the gutter by the curb... You can probably still find that shit there. And the same old assholes on the same old bar stools, talking about the same old shit.

 Miles away from anywhere... Lost in thought, with a thousand yard stare... I'm the long-haired dude in the corner, under the television. I'm minding my business, drinking my shots and beers. But I'm about fixing to be a loudmouth fuck in a minute, because some jagoff just said something ignorant about my favorite band.  ...Don't miss it.

          Nobody's reading this fuckin blog anyways.
                                      Right?

Shishka Bob, Soap soup, and Allen Dulles

Good morning,

Motherfuckers.

Last night at 2:30 am in the morning

I stopped at McDeath on my way home.

The drive-thru speaker wasn't working.

I had to pull up and knock on the window.

Two fillets of fish later,

I'm sitting in the parking lot,

eating my breaded fish squares,

and I look across the way,

and there's this place called Flame Kabob.

And I thunk about shishkabobs.

Not the kind you get in a fancy Greek restaurant.

Those are shsh kababs.

I'm talking about what people call city chicken.

Little cubes of pork,

breaded with shake-n-bake,

skewered on a stick.

When I was a kid

that's what we called shsishabobs.

I wouldn't pick them as a first choice

or a second choice.

For me they conjure up vivid mental images

of dry, overdone meat

with nasty breading on it,

and Grandma (God bless her, may she rest in peace)

washing the little wood sticks

to use over (& over) again.

['scuse me while I puke up my coffee.]

When your coffee tastes like pencil shavings

It might be indicative

of the fact

that

It sat in the pot all night

until you heated it up

at the crack of dawn.

Once upon a moment

I had a button that said

"I'm so horny, the crack of Dawn isn't safe."

I gave it to a girl named Dawn.

Imagine that.

Who'd've thunk?

So anyways...

I'm sitting there

in Chantilly Virginia

over near Dulles Airport

looking at a sign that said Flame Kabob,

and I thought

"Who the fuck is Shishka Bob?

Maybe he was Allen Dulles

incognito.

Allen Dulles,

the man JFK fired,

who was later appointed to lead the Warren Commission.

Hmmm...

No conflict of interest there, buddies...

Just like so many things about government

It's soap soup.

They sell it to you as a nutritious bowl of slop,

but it's really made out of soap,

and it tastes accordingly.

Not quite as disgusting as "Woofies."

Never heard of woofies?

They're chocolate-covered dog turds.

Looks like chocolate on the outside,

but bite into one and you find out it ain't

what you thought it was.

Just like everything the government says or does.

So how much stolen tax money does Uncle Sam

spend per anum

on turd polish?

They scrub that motherfucker,

buff it to a high gloss,

package it up real pretty,

false advertize the fuckin hell out of it,

and sell it to you at a premium.

And motherfuckers just gobble it up.

...Like it was Mayor McCheese.

What a fuckin life.