Holey Fuck – talk about crossing the line. Up in arms – all the way to heaven, like. Blam, Blam, Blam – he shoots!, he scores!, and the crowd goes wild!, though not like those Girls Gone Wild of yore – ah, the good ol’ days. How the times change. Frank J. Zamboni, where is thou’st metaphorically inanimate, mechanically prodigal son resurfacing second coming saviour of rutted substrate encompassment intelligently designed to put things back the way they oughta be? Blades of Steel – the good ol’ days. Can one not see that the ICE needs resurfacing?? Or does it??
Holey Fuck – talk about crossing the line. Yours Offended By The Alphabet Creator Truly recently did, so he can – the 49th on down that is, in parallel crossing uninhibited likeness. Those lineups to get there are short y’all know, and the US Customs Agents seem to be easier than an inebriated ‘daddy’s girl’ trailer park senior prom queen of behind the bleachers remediation therapy. Say, Who Wants to be a Millionaire in America? Well, all one has to do is build a chain of street-side, publicly accessible panic-rooms that charge by the minute and accept all major credit cards, and the minor ones too. Heck, let them newfangled public accessible McPanic Rooms accept the balances from all them big box store gift cards too – it is America after all. USA! USA! US-Amoral antics! Yes, the land of the free, where one can legally make a living with their genitalia at the age of eighteen, but is not legally allowed to imbibe alcohol until the age of twenty one – Hooray! Hmm, Who Wants to be a Billionaire!? Buy the minute McPanic Rooms that double as automated gender reassignment stations – à la carte of course, if one’s credit or big box store gift card is bulging Super-Size enough that is. Which of 236 genders and 69 spirits will you choose??
Holey Fuck – talk about crossing the line. Boiled over, pasture-ization, the cattle of Seattle – they are out there, to some degree. This could be anywhere down there?? Walking on dilapidated and hemophilic eggshells none the less. Yes, Yours Punctuation Butcher Truly’s lady-friend emanates from beyond the lumpy and super swampy imperial D.C. & Co. pale of vaporized and force-fed whale tale normalization so stale, so after a lifetime of avoiding the stateside imperial dark-side, Yours Freelance Enterprises Truly has crossed that line on a couple of occasions. Good news for them and their system is, the psy-op is in full effect and genuinely inhaled by all those unable to escape their parameters: divide and conquer – left, right, left, right, left, right – march to their sickly beat you down trodden shod XXX political peepshow – opposing hemispherical arcs of the hermaphroditically pungent political circle-jerk, where those of reason and logic are drenched in the filth between. Strata Non Grata – Sticky, sticky grounds.
Holey Fuck – talk about crossing the line. There she was, overpass bound in ground in a kind of Hilti Hog concrete fastened manner, waving her Left-Wing Democrat Public Asshole Committee flag (painted cardboard) for us southbound humanoid peculiarities to so pay attention if so choosing, and it read: FUCK ICE, of which my first thought was, “Is she advocating for a romantic liaison with Frosty the Snowman, or is she making a 180 degree hemispherical higher-arc political statement in public while she should have perhaps been at work, or God help us, reading a book or other mind expanding like?” Do not jump to conclusions here y’all, Yours Defenestration Dreaming Truly is not picking on mind-wiped Democrats in isolation, no, for Yours Defenestration Dreaming Truly enthusiastically lambastes those other semi-pie, 180 degree hemispherical political circle-jerk perpetrators known as Right-Wing Republican Public Asshole Committee flag waving pudding brains and their cardboard lobotomite telling placards with statements like ‘Make America Great,’ or Heaven forbid Crown In America advertising opportunities such as Donald Trump sore-eyed support signs outside of a Chevron gas station just after the Ginger Buffoon bragged about spending taxpayer dollars so that multinational Lucifer affiliated corporations and their “shareholders” can rape, rape, rape the populace in varying penetrative degrees of insolent fascist literalism to reap them glug, glug, glug glugging profits.
Holey Fuck – talk about crossing the line. Walking upon dilapidated and hemophilic eggshells – well, at least riding on them in a corporate behemoth ride hailing service through them somewhat pasture-ized cattle of Seattle grazing grounds that is. For the talk radio program was yawing on about something of which that demonic ICE was uttered in word form a couple of times, and some in that ride hailing encapsulation chamber emitted panic just from the mere utterance of that audible ICE word. Scary stuff, that ICE! Well, as it turned out, said radio program was actually analytically talking about the Seattle Kraken of the National Hockey League and the actual skating ice that the Kraken played on. It was not Rolaids that spelt relief this time around. How dare that hockey sport count on that ice for support! Clearly, hockey ice should now be referred to as frozen water slippery substrate for politically correct patriotic synaptic safety measures to placate one half of them 180 degree hemispherical political circle-jerk dwelling perpetrators.
Holey Fuck – talk about crossing the line. That corporate behemoth ride hailing service navigational humanoid and his inanimate, non-saddle-bagged work donkey dropped us off at our destination, a place of nourishing sustenance. Nourishing sustenance, it makes the world go ‘round, in more ways than one you know. Our waiter wanted to know what brought us in? Not having a rigid stick or any other falsely pointed support structure up my psyche, nor asshole – which in literal terms means that, Yours Not Offended By The Alphabet Truly has something called an all encompassing sense of humour and diametrically rancorous existence (apart from being traumatically sexually exploited inside my own house for years by cowardly members of unaccountable power, with zero closure passed in my direction), and does enjoy reading others reactions in benign pot-stirring action, so, Yours Not Offended By The Alphabet Truly let him know that Yours McPanic Room For Profit Creator Truly was from that geographical location unofficially known as ‘the 51st state.’ His dejected and dishevelled response was, “We don’t talk about that here.” He broke my comedic heart then and there. And he was a transplant from Ireland to boot – WTF is in that Seattle drinking water, or was he and many others getting drunk and stupid on the CNN, NPR, NBC…addiction forming mind altering substances? Then this offended by the alphabet waiter recommended we not order the papaya salad as a side to our main dish. What The Fuck is wrong with papaya salad? The waiter’s lack of comedic molecules assured the kitchen would be plating papaya salad! It was delicious. And then a poetic classic materialized in epic defabricification!!
Holey Fuck – talk about crossing the line. So when exactly did cracking down on illegal immigration become such an asunder nation splitting, diaper filling headache and heartache? Could it be when the thoroughly Broken Undulation Machine unceremoniously plopped out that tactless, bought and paid for political puppet McGinger Buffoon corporate whore galore known for full effect as Trumpty Dumpty? Reminds one of a hotdog munching, chicken finger gulping and Pop Rock soda swilling, Southern pouty trailer-park out of control sass-mouth little girl that is in need of a stern transformative derriere walloping and then enrolment in an etiquette regime extolling one to the understanding of base necessity, elementary manners, where in the end a belle of the ball miraculously emerges to woo the audience in tear to the eye, zero to hero amazement – Well that ain’t gonna happen here, Eric Cartman Syndrome has leached to the antiquated estrogen teeming tiny handed marrow of narrow-mindedness afflicting the King of the Whirled and his Right-Wing Republican Public Asshole Committee semi-pie 180 degree hemispherical political circle-jerk dwelling perpetrator parameters. Oh by the way, that past 180 degree hemispherical political circle-jerk dwelling perpetrator known as Barrack Obama: has anyone so up in evaporated arms about Trumpian ICE-capades actually dug into president Obama’s administration and the Three Million plus illegals they deported, using the same ICE agents the likes of Trumpty Dumpty did??
Holey Fuck – talk about crossing the line. But ICE shot and killed two people!! Really, all of ICE killed those two people out of a whopping 350 or so million McAmericans?? Hey, certainly those two souls did not deserve to be de-lifeafied by anyone at all, let alone ICE agents, but as they say, “Shit Happens” and unfortunately it happened to them, where in the scheme of things, grains on the terraformed beach. But is there a point, a moral, an allegory perhaps, or just endless logorrheic alphabetizations to this alphabetical drivel? Well, it has been proven that indeed ICE hiring policies did put in the hands, of at least two fucking idiots, firearms that should not have been given the responsibility over, and the implements became implements of death. Let Yours Tradesman Truly tell y’all some shit – there are plenty of “tradesmen” who should have been given any implements other than possibly a broom and dustpan, yet there they are, day in and morning out fucking shit up with their implements (sometimes ending in death). It is the human condition, there are millions upon million of fucking idiots out there doing whatever it is they do, and fucking their duty up profusely in whatever implements they wield, metaphorically or otherwise, be it a tradesperson, line-cook, ICE agent, parent, prime minister, pilots…..People and their implements: sometimes people and other living beings end up dead because of the recipe and the admixture. Really, it could be implied as a basic mathematical equation: people + implements = death on many occasions. It is the human condition. Quit your leaked lactic blubbering!
Knock, knock!
Who’s there?
ICE!
ICE who?
ICE see you, Alligator Alcatraz too!
