--------, for instance, that obsequious jockeying motherfucker in his Jimmy Olsen hat. Something of an ephialtes, certainly. Wheezing in and out on a dry stick dolled up as a theremin.
Please god, put me to sleep.
Playing the game on the last roll of the dice; comparing a not so warm voice in the ear to "a cognac in front of a fireplace". That uptight cocksucker always got right on my tits.
Exposing the disfigured unwashed as grand farce. The drive by one percenter as Neanderthal clown.
I prefer my meat carved clean.
Not dragged onto my plate like a nag bound for the glue factory.
I opened my bowels this morning and passed a stool the size of Africa. There is only so much shit that one must feel compelled to swallow. I miss Buk. I miss the doctor. I miss the collective howl of the self medicated rabble. I miss the fucking sting of slings and pygmy blowdarts, BB guns. The scream from the balcony, the veranda, the fall.
I miss the inflamed dribbling nib of Gonzo.
Thank Christ there are a few scripts still. Pushing what the Feds proscribe.
And then there is Fuckbook.
The sheer inanity of the like button to render idiocy superfluous. Fingers drawn to stab at that icon with the conviction of a gnat.
Fuck me. I'll save you the trouble of searching for that nonexistent button. Fuck me.
Feel free to trade punches.
Better still, let's resort to elbows and feet. Boots. Open razors. Anything to mitigate the sheer mind-numbing torpidity of the effluent which passes for vim. Eloquence. And the assumption that shooting for it is the province of the timid. Let's just go at it like drunks.
Duke it out motherfuckers.
Let's get it on. It is always the dullard who assumes himself to be the righteous man of the people. The brain damaged seeking out the ever more imbecilic to hector and cajole. Let me confirm it for you. Take a jab at me, and I'll bite your fucking ear off. Bad teeth or not.