…..Yup, and that’s why the Roman army crucified that poor soul. Well, that and that poor soul waited too long to listen to the manifestations of the songbirds. That’s right, the song birds. Nope, not those cooing pigeons; especially not those seeded pigeons – indeed, beware those seeded pigeons – trouble a’ lurks. Not those crows neither; mischievous, watching, stalking, waiting for some action – ever see a songbird not so aimlessly and arrogantly shit upon something just for the fun in it? Has one ever even seen a songbird shit? As for the seagulls – definitely not those seagulls. Seagulls: most clearly in analogous truism – the retards of the sky, and no doubt wherever they land for that matter. That poor soul – it must have been some simulation indeed. Guessin’ them crows pecked out and consumed his eyes so as to try and get to what was left of his soul. Eyes: windows to the soul. Tasty, tasty windows.
Speaking of those Romans, in latin based seagull derivative English anyways – squawk, squawk, squawk, squawk, squawk on the Roman see-shore. Vendetta Annus Horribilis Egyptus Blood Letus: Roman Emperor Caracalla and his legionaries once slaughtered thousands of Alexandrians for the mere matter of him being mocked in the Alexandrian streets. Jesus McChrist – talk about being offended by the alphabet. Ah, those were the days: hack & slash and leave no-one to ask questions later. Arterial spray; sinewy badness; rolling heads; divining derailed entrails; puddles o’ bile; tasty, tasty windows to the soul; osseous cleaving. So goes the swan-song-burred.
Fast-forward eighteen hundred years or so into the still perverted future known as the present to the past in gift form adornment. Et voilà – imperialist squawk, squawk, squawk, squawk, squawk on the seagull derivative English-Canadian-French scie-shore – saw that gin and baby-blood swilling imperial robo-pedo Teuto-disgusto clean in two, from the neck on down. Parlez vous guillotine? Oui, oui, Queen Charles the English bitch has arrived, again, for the twentieth time unto Cana-duh. Hmm, must be some good baby-blood that Canadian baby-blood; it’s probably the long Canadian winters! Yes, come along for deride – such is the vehicle; free-wheeling inbred skin-peeling while dancing on the clubbed sealing. Some may say a veritable truncheon luncheon of necessitative smorgasbord function harbouring absolutely zero compunction. What’s that “royal” bitch gonna do, send those human Q-Tip King’s Guard to my door? No wonder ol’ Chucky is only sticking around Ottawa for two days: like a prepubescent child’s grasp on his pitiful “royal” sceptre, he can feel such a perverted dominion unwillingly slipping away to his chagrin of now having himself to take it on the chin. Speech from the throne thrown – overboard please at high seas après keelhauling, with thirty pounds of weight bound to his knees. Let the Grand Banks fish for the remainder of his chips.
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put frumpy grumpy Camilla’s gin bottle-cap back on again! Nor keep those Rothmans King-Size cigarettes holstered once the spoiled limelight was squeezed for all the shameless public seeding any objective analyses plainly stirs of truly non-potable consumption in-digestive obliteration. Turn your head and cough up a lung – got your amputated balls by such a de-feat. Enter the latrine curtain-twitcher, the scoundrel, the scrotal amputee lookalike – Blimey!:
Contrived and deprived the lacklustre homogenized crowd has arrived – plainly shorn synaptically weathering worn – look at them squirm for such a crown of worms. Such a holey-pocket stunted jamboree slime-trail decree over thee too wee inhabiting limited see. Although, enlightenment surely abounds in having gotten the chance of seeing Cana-duh’s new PM, Mark ‘Heavy Petting Zoo’ Carney in the presence of such a greasy gimp gizzard the likes of that “royal” bitch King Charles the Turd: a now adjourned brief space-time retrospective reflective objective inflective perspective directive selective unearthing hectic dyspeptic frenetic dialectic gravitational realizational congealment cohesiveness – Holy fuck, there is someone in the running for being just as disgustipating as ol’ Chuck! Put Chomo Chucky and Mark ‘Heavy Petting Zoo’ Carney in a sixteen ton press and one would surely extract enough grease to form the necessary number of candles to keep the prairie province populations warm and in light for a month long power outage. Though, unlike Gwyneth Paltrow’s “vagina” scented candles, the Chucky & Carney collaborative candles would be aptly named: Pure Shit Extract. Now that is fucking greasy!
Yes, a “King” so great that he was invited to drop a ceremonial puck at a children’s street hockey game at a supposed market that seems to have been unimaginatively contrived in its entirety so as to concoct a harebrained public appearance scheme so desperate that the throne (toilet) barrel they were scraping was designer faux vinyl veneer of which was unimaginatively breached upon first limp-wristed stropping, only to let such shit out of its clearly illuminated containment vessel. Surely it is time to fully defenestrate such wasted “royal” conglomeration of shit, no? Yours Freelancer Truly is hypothesizing it now; on Chomo Chucky’s next visit, if he has not killed off his cancer host by then, Ol’ Chucky is going to be invited to cut the ribbon at a new hair salon catering to men with male pattern baldness – and of course they will be those giant novelty scissors, but even then, Queen Charles’ little blood sausage fingers may struggle to thread the cavernous needles. Or maybe they will just let him pick up some freshly laid dog shit at a random park in Newfoundland as the new sovereign nation of Quebec has written into its constitution to shoot down any English “royal” aircraft attempting to traverse its smug airspace. Viva la France Quebec!
And in closing: Go fuck yourself Chuck! You and your whole family going back however many inbred generations it takes to not be genetically predisposed to cancer of the soul. Assuredly Hell awaits.
The “Royal” Self Fulfilling Profligacy