Hallo, My Humblings Of Kung-Fu Cajun, Chung Power-Hour, Non Soy-Milk, Real Skin Pieces, Diet-Fiber…

Firstly, before we begin, I’d just like to take a moment to say, “FUCK Dr. Fauci!” — Secondly, all of “YOU” pummel-squirt, squeeze-chips, did “you” really think “you” (or they or them) could keep me down?! 😛 — And — Thirdly, dig this aside; I ALWAYS knew I’d be censored one day however, I never knew it’d be because of something, “I didn’t do?” — So Ja, somewhere between WTH and WTF and, so what?? Absolutely! Who cares!! But as well, where do these butt-chimp mangle-carousels disembark?

Ah…

I know many of you are confused and of course, exiled. Against your wills, against your principles, against, your most outwitting desires towards the future now unknown? DO YOU NEED MORE SYRUP for that PANCAKE??

So what can my Whiskey-Cola teach me about all this tomfoolery…?

Well, primarily, I figure one item; no matter how bad shit is, there can always still be something tasty and relaxing in your hand, thrusting your tongue with a sense of freedom. Maybe it’s not complete freedom but I’ll be damned if it isn’t enlightening. And no, not because its a drink or that you can get buzzed on it, but rather, because no matter what comes beyond, it was something that was always there and that never changed. Even if they outlaw it and make it impossible to obtain, when you can eventually have “it” again, it will be what you remembered and perhaps, be better.

Now, I know things can be like STAR TREK and the whiskey-Cola could be a synthetic concoction made to simulate the beverage sans its soothing effects but you know what, fuck that as well because even though, after a long period of censorship, it could/would be a taste of freedom.

True freedom…?

Who knows.

So! Be prepared for more words to come via the sounds emitting from my mind into text that represent words on this digital-page called, a blog.

Do you feel what I’m sipping?

In off-topic news, I’m not social-distancing AT ALL during intercourse. If you are…..well…..good job then…?

Because…..HOW THE HELL-HOG-FIRE can that be fun?

And DON’T call it foreplay because my ear-hair can barely fathom being trimmed (let alone silenced for minions of unknown, unaccredited endowment).

If I toss the ball up and the bat doesn’t hit it then what was the point??

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The crapulous-confection has begun!

Can “you” smell the lettuce…..?

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Listen to the Lyrics in “this” Song?!


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