 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
||||||||
 |
|
||||||||||||||||||
 |
 |
 |
|
||||||||||||||||
 |
|
||||||||||||||||||
 |
|
||||||||||||||||||
 |
|
||||||||||||||||||
 |
|
||||||||||||||||||
 |
|
||||||||||||||||||
|
|||||||||||||||||||
|
 |
|
|||||||||||||||||
|
CHAPEL HILL, I LOVE YOUR POWDER BLUE HOMOSEXUAL HEART.
Chapel Hill, I love your powder blue homosexual heart. Chapel Hill, I love your Adorable Dachshund Day. Oh, how your weiner dogs go, go, go! Chapel Hill, I love your Main Street communist bookstore next to the neon Massage parlor, both dedicated to the position that we owe no duty to no country, just to our huddled cocks athrob and orificies yearning to be satisfied. Chapel Hill, I love the way you work for the worldwide liberation of oppressed people and their sexual organs. Chapel Hill, I love the way you liberate my 100 percent organic pesticide-free semen. Chapel Hill, I love every throbbing intellectual inch of you.
Chapel Hill, let’s do yoga!
Chapel Hill, I love your left-wing isolationist pacifist Trotskyite heart. I love the hissy-fits you throw. That George W. Bush! That old school hetero! How dare he! How dare he war, war, war every which way! Chapel Hill, would you please, please, please, please, please tell that naughty W. that war is not the answer and that it is definitely harmful to children and other living things. Chapel Hill, I love your resolutions against Iraq, Afghanistan, Halliburton, and Dick Cheney’s diseased crude-dripping dick. Chapel Hill, would you make that tired old stinky elephant trunk thing go away! Chapel Hill, I’m leaving my windows open and my front door unlocked. Chapel Hill, I’m going to find an Arab and tell him just how bad we Amerikans are.
Chapel Hill, wake up and smell the pumpkin peace incense.
Chapel Hill, I say we give Amerika back to Mexico. Chapel Hill, I say we let Iran’s mad mullahs go, go, go! Chapel Hill, I say we all go back to Slovakia and Ireland and pronto!
Chapel Hill, let’s do yoga! Exhale the Jesus! Feel the bright white cleansing light over your head, and on the next inhale, suck it into your body all the way down into your toes! Remember, Chapel Hill, it’s all about you and you and all you!
Chapel Hill, do you think Hillary is pure and good and clean and just what we deserve? I do. Chapel Hill, do you think Obamawamahamaslamajamarama? Do you? Chapel Hill, will you please make Laura Bush stop smoking Indonesian herbal clove cigarettes? Chapel Hill, do you think Al and Tipper are still in love? I do. I’m just sentimental that way. Chapel Hill, do you get all misty thinking about the Man from Hope? Chapel Hill, put your arms around me and give me a great big hug just as though you were cheeseburger Bill.
Chapel Hill, let’s do yoga and be noncompetitive!
Chapel Hill, have you been listening to Death Cab for Cutie again? Chapel Hill, your iPod playlist! It rules.
Chapel Hill, are you yoga-ing? I want to be in touch with your inner you. I want to celebrate the inner light that radiates from all things and, oh, I’m so tingly.
Chapel Hill, what is it that makes you so cruelty-free? Is it your soy-based, organic, homeopathic, vegan take-out and delivery restaurants? Chapel Hill, where do you get your vanity license plates like Urthling and Zilla and Arrogant and, best of all, Perhaps? Chapel Hill, please teach my babies to grow up to be fully tenured professors of sociology. Chapel Hill, please raise my property taxes. I want you to have everything, even my first-born adopted from China son. Chapel Hill, please send me to a psychotherapist. She needs the money to send her children to Harvard, Yale, or Brown, and because, because, you see, Chapel Hill, I am having bad, dangerous thoughts. I dream that Spiro T. Agnew’s Mickey Mouse hand is on my napalm love rocket and that Melvin Laird is my co-pilot and that Tricia and Julie are in bed together chewing each other’s carpets and that North Carolina’s very own Senator Sam is watching and chewing tobacco and wearing red rubber underwear. Chapel Hill, I have a confession to make: Mo Dean makes me hot as all get out what with her updo bun, her upturned nose, and her uptight pearl stud earrings and all. Chapel Hill, would you please ask the dear lower-cased lord to find me a good atheistic liberal Boston girl woman-type person who looks like an Al Capp Native American who will keep her own last name and demand separate checking accounts and leave me the autistic hyperactive children when we separate. Chapel Hill, please take away my gun. Just kidding, Chapel Hill, I would never dream of owning one of those big old noisy phallocentric things. Chapel Hill, please give me a third-trimester abortion. I think my baby may be a Republican. Suck his brains out, Chapel Hill.
Chapel Hill, soften your face and pick a spot to stare at.
Chapel Hill, you look so much better with that new toothpick twirling squatting-on-the cracker-barrel John Edwards has-been H.R. Pufnstuf bouffant hair-do. Chapel Hill, you are my American Idol! Chapel Hill, you are so fashion forward, I think Ralph Lauren should take skull-patch placement lessons from you. Chapel Hill, do you remember Earth Shoes? Chapel Hill, I love you, yes, I do, do, do, do, do! (But, Chapel Hill, would you tell your big Negro boys on your basketball team to wear shorter pants? Or maybe just jockey straps!) O, Chapel Hill, that would so rock.
Chapel Hill, let’s do yoga! Everyone savasana! Savasana! Chapel Hill, that’s corpse pose. But, remember, Chapel Hill, it’s just a pose! Pose! Pose! Pantyhose!
Chapel Hill, I love every progressive inch of your multicultural, multicoloured, flaming ass. Chapel Hill, you put the dick in Dixie. Chapel Hill, you don’t have a rectal itch, do you? Chapel Hill, could you let me borrow your hybrid Prius motorcar or your lime green VW Bug? I promise to ride the stick. Chapel Hill, I’m going to the best French movie tonight. It’s Cocteau. Everyone from my disarmament poetry study group will be there!
Chapel Hill, sit on your arches, straighten your back, and do a liver twist!
Chapel Hill, please declare my rectum a nuclear-free zone. Chapel Hill, please don’t let my new neighbor be a Republican from East Tennessee. Chapel Hill, please ban pesticides and pork and Pringles and Wal-Mart. Chapel Hill, please hang an Amerikan flag scrawled with swastikas in the mayor’s office. Chapel Hill, please tune my dial to NPR and leave it there. Chapel Hill, I have Nina Totenberg’s autograph. I keep it in the mayonnaise jar in my refrigerator, and you can’t have it.
Chapel Hill, are you focusing on your breathing?
Chapel Hill, do you visualize whirled peas? You are so clever, Chapel Hill, because I just see them sitting there all green and what not in a little pile and not spinning around at all. Chapel Hill, you are the very citypersonification of global warming. You get me so hot, you do! My glacier’s coming all over you. Chapel Hill, how do you see things the way you do? Chapel Hill, thank you for being my favorite town in New Jersey. Chapel Hill, am I as “progressive” as you are, or should I just pinch myself and wake up and smell the herbal laxative tea?
Chapel Hill, teach me Pilates. Please?
Chapel Hill, I am a bald-headed lesbian of color who does not shave her underarms, and I am one hot-tittied braless muthafuckah coming to eat your balogna sandwich with mustard on white bread and spit the whole gagging nasty out on your grandmother’s white Civil War lynching convertible KKK hood tablecloth. Chapel Hill, I am a Muslim, but I promise not to behead you, so long as you stop selling hot-cross buns and wear clean North African underwear and get on your sorry knees five times a day and pray to Allah that I don’t come in your window at 3 a.m. with a gang of Nubian bruthas with carpet knives and slice you and you Jesse Helms mentality to anemic white boy ribbons. Chapel Hill, I am a mentally deficient wetback Peruvian pygmy, and I will work my little brown fingers off for tacos and hot sauce. Chapel Hill, please let me blow the leaves off of your lawn with an imported electric long tubular device between the hours of 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. from Monday to Friday, or I will tell Jimmy “the Palestinian peanut farmer” Carter to send your husband’s BMW white-collar software job in the fast-growing nowheresville suburb of Cary to Pakistan, China, or some other Third World deathtrap shithole like the one that I snuck into your country from, senor, and, no, I’m not leaving. Chapel Hill, I am the big hairy Harley Davidson-riding leather jockstrap-wearing homo who is cuddling with and French kissing a tutued pink tights sissyboy jigaboo on your front doorstep. Chapel Hill, we have all been inside your house and have left listening devices and cameras, so be careful what you do and say. Chapel Hill, you dazzling queen on a hill, you.
Chapel Hill, can I buy you a double-dildo bullshit latte to go with your tiresome so last century Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Junior attitude? Oh, I’m sorry, Chapel Hill! Did I say something to offend you?
Excuse me, special delivery for Chapel Hill! A truck bomb in Sunday School! Bang! A Chevy on the quad! Bang! Special delivery from Terrorist Express! Bang! I blame George Bush.
Chapel Hill, can I please, please, please, fire a submarine-launched Tomahawk Cruise Missile suppository at your terrorist sympathizing bottom? Perhaps a fully MIRVed Minuteman intercontinental ballistic missile capped with 10 300-megaton nuclear warheads impacting on your anus is what you need to open up your hardened left-wing underground pucker bunker sphincter mind.
Chapel Hill, sit comfortably on your yoga mat! Lavender or lime? You choose.
Chapel Hill, remember to wax your head like James Taylor! May I put my hands on your shiny Dean dome? Maybe I’ll see my reflection, and I’ll be as sensitive as you and make my babies with that big-lip trust-fund fox Carly Simon. I’d like to give her my Schuster, Chapel Hill. O, antis-a-pay-a-shun! Ooo, I could so give her salty Cape Cod pussy some of my sensitive Apple recording artist fire and acid rain.
Chapel Hill, put up your dukes. Paint Carolina blue black, you sissy progressive devils, you. Chapel Hill, strip for me, and let’s play lacrosse. What say, sugah, let’s you and me give it a toss. Chapel Hill, I’ll give you some stick. You give me the belches, the heaves, in other words—gas. I’ll give you what you need, and that’s rough use—a kick in your ass. Chapel Hill, lie down, enjoy it: Take some abuse, you fat honky goose. Chapel Hill, I found the jawbone of an ass lying the middle of Franklin Street! Is it yours? Can I pick it up? What should I do with it? Wait, wait, I know! I know!
I just slay you, don’t I, Chapel Hill?
Α ∞◊ ♣ § ♥ ♦ ∞ Ω
THE SAME OLD DRILL
Α ∞◊ ♣ § ♥ ♦ ∞ Ω
THRESHOLD Be the curl, not the wave. Be the pop, not the cork. Be the crack, not the bat. Be the bawl, not the babe. Be the rustle, not the tree. Be the click, not the heels. Be the swish, not the skirt. Be the thump, not the heart. Be the honk, not the horn. Be the rumble, not the rails. Be the tingle, not the touch. Be the rustle, not the sheets Be the creak, not the springs. Be the breath, not the lips. Be the scent, not the nape. Be the hum, not the kazoo. Be the crack, not the egg. Be the snap, not the purse. Be the sigh, not the sky. Be the purr, not the puss. Be the grr, not the cur. Be the swirl, not the wine. Be the skip, not the rope. Be the patty, not the cake. Be the wish, not the bone. Be the spin, not the bottle. Be the music, not the chairs. Be the tock, not the clock. Be the thing, not the ring. Be the patter, not the rice. Be the clatter, not the cans. Be the threshold, not the door. Be the pas de, not the deux. Be the stroke, not the brush. Be the quack, not the duck. Be the strum, not the string. Be the howdy, not the doody. Be the phase, not the moon. Be the hue, not the sky. Be the jingle, not the bangle. Be the [ ], not the mote. Be the crinkle, not the candy. Be the fire, not the pit. Be the eye, not the storm.
Α ∞◊ ♣ § ♥ ♦ ∞ Ω
EIGHT TABLESPOONS For sweets you yearn.
Α ∞◊ ♣ § ♥ ♦ ∞ Ω
I DON’T LOVE YOU Well, I got up this morning I got the four-year-old, seventy seven thousand mile, I got those red Corvette yearnings in the booster-seat of my
heart. It’s you or the highway. You say you got the terrible twos. You been seen toddling round town Well, howdy doody, it’s time I’m closing the sliding door of my affections. I’m closing the sliding door of my affections.
Α ∞◊ ♣ § ♥ ♦ ∞ Ω
ON MY MARK When they tour me through the town, When they come to fix my face, When they handle me with bronze and gold, When they drop me down the door, When your perfume has left a wake, When the children have gone out to play. When my mark is o’er grown with moss, And if you drop a penny in a jar,
Α ∞◊ ♣ § ♥ ♦ ∞ Ω
BOB DOLE I dreamed I saw him, Bob Dole, Do you hear? Showdown: A handshake apart, he, Do you hear in the fields? I have done him, Bob Dole, some offense. Do you hear in the fields? The howling? To my left, some unknown figure, one I like, Do you hear in the fields? The howling?
I expect, at any moment, a bee— Do you hear in the fields? The howling? In a flurry of genuflection, I grab the Senator’s hand May
their filthy blood and that of their families I am grabbing, fumbling at the frozen fused It—his, Bob Dole’s, appendage—is, Never will we be their slaves. From his, Bob Dole’s, pants pocket, he, Bob Dole, takes Never will we wear their chains, Only now do I notice behind—almost growing out of—his, Bob
Dole’s, right Grind their bones into dust. Fully hairdoed, she, Elizabeth Dole, smugly, just Grind
their bones into dust, It is only now that I notice Grind
their bones into dust, After a big sleep, I awake. Pray
that one day you will be deemed worthy
Α ∞◊ ♣ § ♥ ♦ ∞ Ω
Fucking lucky day for you, Cochise. You scrolled all the way to the end. I, Ted David, literary professor of arts at the great UNC, have found whilst stirring the ashes of Zanzibooger's destroyed house (in which there were hundreds of rat skeletons), I did find the following manuscriptum, as we say in the Anglaise Department. Clearly showing evidence of maybe 10 or 15 prior drafts. A craftsman Zbo was. As goor orbetter than Elwin Brooks White who wrote Chrottele's Web... So here it is never before anwyehere....
Gather round, ye salty motherfuckers, whil’st I spiralize you with my tale. USS Tang. Double you dboule you two. Pacific. Diesel boat. 24 torpedoes. Mission—Seek out, engage, and destroy Japanese vessels. Unrestricted submarine warfare. Commander is O’Kane. Fucker is crazy. His attitude is ‘It’s a big ocean, and if you don’t want to find Japs, you don’t have to.” The guy goes after Jap freighters like Bill Clinton after pussy. Unstoppable. Sinks like a million tons on his first four missions. His boat takes, like, 250 depth charges. (It's not a ship, ye lubbers. It's a boat.) It’s not like Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea where Kowalski fights a killer clown with a rubber pipe wrench. 125 degrees. Guys are screaming. Wetting their pants and not ashamed. Not one bit. The oui-oui, it is a flowing. Ok, next paragraph is blow here. This O’Kane is so hard that one time he was sinking freighters and this Jap destroyer spots him. (He fired from on the surface because that’s the way he was. He was like fuck it all.) The Jap is coming dead on. A-oo-ga! O’Kane orders a bow shot. Impossible. First three torpedoes miss. They’re still on the surface. Everyone has wet pants. He fires another. Then another. Takes the boat down. At the last second, the destroyer blows up. Over their heads. It was the fifth torpedo. There be Japanese bo-day parts rainin' down all upon them. The crew is in total fucking awe of this guy. Total balls. So they run out of torpedoes, and they go back to Pearl Harbor because everyone needs to fuck Kate Beckinsale whil’st she’s still wearing her white nurse’s cap. And crispy dress and stockings and a grater belt, too. With her gweek-gwack-on-the-waxed-linoleum-sounding old-fashioned white buck nursey shoes too. The admiral—probably Chester Nimitz—calls O’Kane into his office and says, and this was tape recorded, he said— “Because you are such a total motherfucking motherfucker, I’m giving you your choice of missions. You can either go out with some other subs and all keep each other company and suck each others flaccid (pronounced 'flacksid') circumcised penises, or you can go alone to the Formosa Straits, which is like the heaviest traveled Jap shipping lane and you can blow shit up and get killed. Which is it?” O’Kane says, “Dude, I’m taking Door Number Two. But I want one thing, Chester.” End quote. The admiral says, “What’s that, bro'?” Quotation mark. “I want an ice cream maker for my men.” Admiral says, “Chocolate or vanilla?” O’Kane says real sly like, like he is Sam U. L. D. Jackson, “What you think, motherfucker? Chocolate.” So they get some waffle cones, too, and they sink everything in the Formosa Straits. The Japs think it’s Wonder Woman in her invisible airplane and pump-em-up corset bra. They don’t know what’s up. The whole ocean is on fire. To coin a phrase, and now we goeth to the next paragraph. Skip one line, please. O’Kane fires the 24th torpedo. Motherfucker goes haywire. Circles back. Hits the boat aft. The tail end. 800-pound warhead of Torpex or something. One-inch nickel hull. Goodbye. Boat doesn’t sink. Bow is bobbing above water. But the men inside can’t get out through the forward tubes or through the Momsen Escape Chamber. The angle is wrong. Or something. I dunno. Guy in the control room figures out what’s wrong. Pulls a level flooding the fow’d (or for’d) tanks. Down she goes…180 feet. Holy Jesus. Thanks a lot. Thanks a whole fucking lot. Now we're totally 180-fa-fucking-feet underwater. Talk about frumious bandersnatch. Survivors gather in the ford torpedo room. Smoke from fires is seeping in. The situation eats. Guys are crawling in bunks to die. Others are too afraid to get in the Momsen chamber. See, you get in this chamber the size of a shower stall. It floods. The change in the air pressure makes you scream like "Aaaaaaaaaa" for 20 minutes. Then you open a hatch and boogie. They won’t get in. No body wants to try it. (Would you go out of a submarine 180-feet under the Pacific Ocean wearing a rebreathing thing that looks like a purpol douche bag on your chest with Japs up top waiting to puncture you with machine guns? A difficult decision, for some men.) First guys go out. First guy dies. They can hear him outside, trapped. Between the hull and the deck, banging on the hull. Oh, shit, please, God, don't let me die like that. Poor bastard. Rule Number One: Never go first when leaving a Momsen Lung Escape Chamber. Never. Never, ever. Do not ever do that. They open the door to the chamber. The other two were afraid to go. They’d rather die. They're, like, on the chamber floor crying. Everybody is like, "Fuck." Really, like, oh, no, Mr. Hands. Just when it's about time to start passing the revolver and for folks to start doing themselves up, fiinally, a bunch of guys get out. Of course, some rise too fast, and when they reach the surface their lungs and brains explode, and the men on top watch them die agonizing deaths. The bends. It's not like a David Cronenberg movie wherein their heads are actually doing the watermelon pop, but they're, like, gurgling and begging, and they get swept away, and it's really really horrible because, like, just that morning everybody was eating turkey dinner with chocolate ice cream and playing darts and looking at pin-ups. Anyway, to make a long story short, the Japs pick up the survivors, including O’Kane. (They think they are Nazis!) What do they Japs do? They torture them. Every day. They starve them. Every day. They beat them with baseball bats. I am not making this up. Baseball bats. Babe-a Ruth, eat shit. You die, GI. But, through it all, O’Kane leads his men in the prison camps. They are in total awe of this dude. He is as frosty as a non-diet A&W root beer in July in Wyoming and your Wranglers are tight, but not too tight. Next paragraph. Finally, Harold Stassen comes. But not sexually. He really does come—the former governor of Minnesota. He's Mr. Navy Rescue Officer. The war is over. The rescue boat pulls up. Of course, all the men are delirious with happiness. They would wet their pants if they had any urine left. Of which they do not. So, get this—the commandant of the POW camp comes up all I.P Kawasaki and says, “I cannot lelease the plisoners without permission from Tokyo.” Fucking United States Navy officer whips out his automatic. He rams it up against the buck-toothed, bad haircut, slitty moustache, wire-rimmed spectacled, fish-fuckin', wipin' fish in his armpits, torture-permitting Jap’s forehead and says, “This is your Tokyo.” So the guy leaves. No shit. Everything in his country has been burned. Like in 'The Terminator.' Too bad. You start it. We finish it. We set the toaster on 'Char.' O’Kane is on the brink of death. The doctor says, “Leave him. He’s too far gone.” O’Kane says with his last breath, “Take me fucking home.” They do because this is total Hollywood, and after a month he’s able to leave the hospital. It takes that long for him to get his hard-on back. He and his extremely eager love torpedo gets together with his wife Ernestine who didn’t know whether he was dead or alive all this time because the fucking Japs didn’t lelease the names of the Tang’s clewmembers because they thought submaliners were war criminals with a hard 'r', and even though we, the United States of A. knew who’d been rescued because we’d broken the Jap codes nobody could tell the wives, and some them got re-married! Is that harsh or what? These broads also cashed in their husbands' life insurance policies. Yo, bitch! New paragraph. But not Ernestine. I suspect Capt. O'Kane set his lady's ocean way the fuck on fire. Blue lights. Red lights. His fish was running straight, hot, and normal. You can bet they had some really hot reunion sex, her and O’Kane. So what’s the point? O’Kane’s men idolized him to their dying day. And they lived a long time, the survivors. Fucker should have run for President.
Want some some? Here ya go....
So the French, being idiots, want to build a railway across the Sahara. Not east to west, but up and down from some nowhere shithole on the Mediterranean to Timbuktu. This is like around 1875. They all think they are Jules Verne. When I tell you what happened to these morons you will agree that moron idiot fool shitheads is too kind a description for them. And why did they want to build le railroad through le sand? Aside from the fact that they admired les Americaines, which they should have, because we conquered our continent and killed the savages and built our own transcontinental railroad from which buffalo could more easily be butchered, they wanted to export salt to France. Yes, they are going to build a railroad through the vast wastes of sand to ship salt to Paris. Of course, no one has explored the route. Well, except for one French guy who got shot in the hip by the Tuareg who also chopped off his right hand. And then it took him nine days to reach some shithole village where he recovered by being in a delirious coma for nine days. Then, once he was the picture of health, some other Arabs decapitated him. Now, if you are a close reader, you have noticed the word “Tuareg.” These are like those desert raiders from ‘Star Wars’ with the knobs on their faces, except that they are Muslim and will defend their fucking useless wasteland to the death. I can’t remember any of these French guys names, and it’s not really important because they all get slaughtered and no one makes it back alive. They haven’t even gotten to the Holy Mountains of Hoggar, which they shouldn’t have detoured into but wanted to explore because they thought being French would protect them, okay, are you with me? They haven’t even gotten there yet, and the camels start dying. Camels always start dying. They slit their throats and drink hot camel blood. They eat the jelly out of the dead camels’ humps. Best of all, they eat hot raw camel liver spiced with “the lemon juice of the desert.” That is hot dead camel gallbladder juice. Time to go home, I think. But no. Sometimes they have to push sticks down the throats of camels so that they will vomit up juices to drink. That is pretty fucking bad. So, one day the Tuareg ambush them. They ride up on camels and hurl spears, which they are pretty good at because they impale a lot of French guys. Oh, I forgot, everyone is also always drinking camel urine, too. The French try to run away but the Tuareg just follow them. Finally, the Tuareg come up and say, “Oh, sorry. We want to be friends now. Here eat some dates.” The French eat les dates, which are all poisoned with a desert hallucinogen—efelehleh, also known as henbane. I am not making this up. They all go insane. They eat sand. They cavort naked. Time goes by, and the Tuareg spear, stab, behead, and poleaxe more French guys and their Arab helpers. They pretty much do this whenever they want to. They kill a priest, for good measure, along the way. After a while, there’s no more camel urine to drink, so the French guys start gobbling up the corpses of their mes amies. Then they start killing each other, just for supper. And raw. No time to cook. This is where the word ‘ghoul’ is good to use. They became ghouls. They would rip up the people and eat thighs and fingers and the gooey squishy bits. And they ate their own shit, as well. Maybe by this time all the French guys are dead now, and it’s the Arab helpers who are eating each other and their shit. I can’t remember. Anyway, about 25 years later the French decide to go for some big-time revenge, and they send their army into the desert with machine guns and shoot the guts out of a ton of Tuaregs. It’s like one of those scenes where the Frenchies are outnumbered four to one and Arabs are all running up screaming. Happened at the tiny hamlet of Tit on March 7, 1902. By this time, no one wanted to build a fucking railroad across the desert anymore. They did it with cars. I guess they shot the Arabs with guns like they were buffaloes. Who knows? Maybe George Lucas.
Congratufuckinglations, you made it to the end. Next up: The story of damn idiot English fucks who get stranded in Antarctica with nothing to eat but penguin and cocoa and nothing to do but dress up like women, put on musicals, and get chased across the ice by sea leopards that look like dinosaurs. They also get giant inflamed smelly abscesses the size of canteloupes on their buttocks. (Incidentally, I looked up henbane ("stinking nightshade") on Wikipedia. It will fuck you up. Henbane, not Wikipedia. It can cause hyperpyrexia (300 degree fever) and ataxia (spazzing out) and make you think you are flying when you are not.
|
|
||||||||||||||||||
|
|||||||||||||||||||
|
|||||||||||||||||||
|
|||||||||||||||||||
|
|||||||||||||||||||
|
|||||||||||||||||||
|
|||||||||||||||||||
|
|||||||||||||||||||
|
|||||||||||||||||||
|
|||||||||||||||||||
|
|||||||||||||||||||
|
|||||||||||||||||||
|
|||||||||||||||||||
