Better Boofing, Ltd.

 

3/3/24

Single (for a reason) mother believes her and her baby deserve the best! A man more manipulable to self-sacrifice. Praying mantis vibes, not all good, however evolutionarily viable. Historically, people with domestic problems would seek clement advice from the Church - the opium dens of the masses as they come to be regarded. These days many seek secular therapy from therapists too cautious of their livelihood to be honest with anyone let alone themselves.

Better Boofing, Ltd. - psychedelic suppositories.

Drunk, dreaming of writing, playing with my pen, nothing coming out. It’s the middle of the night and I’m wide awake farting. I took a weed gummy and some magnesium to chill out. My penis is no longer an option. Give me the knife. I cut away to an ex-wife brandishing it, owning me. Going back to possessiveness and how it feels to be owned in a bad marriage. She tells me to “do as I say.” I comply like a man out of options. She feels like she owns the place, which isn’t true, technically, but we’ve already belabored that point. Arguing against a mindset is shouting at a wailing wall. Except that little twitch buffaloes like a mouse to an elephant a’reel in my mind. If my memory serves me, I own the transcripts. Meticulous documentation is a success strategy. Succeed with others, not despite others. Why am I saying this? What else is there to say? If my ego is completely a’lea, who am I? Self? Not Will. That’s some other guy I’ve heard about, but never looked into, you’re welcome.

A baker’s dozen of chocolate ecstasy butt-plugs that effectively release MDMA as if melts (and you get fucked) from B.B., Ltd. Sold to all the sex cults popping up in my region. Once you’re in there, why not? Stir it around a bit and make it nice and consistent. Consistency is another key to success, a marketable strategy. People love to see it on paper. It’s a big word most people remember and feel smart about knowing. I’m remarkably consistent, anyway, not to brag, but I’m always on time, even when I’m late. It’s a skill obtained from wearing a watch that lets people know I know. “I know, I know, sorry,” is not something I want to have to say to someone I feel sorry about for forcing me into that position. It’s not like we ever agreed that it wasn’t all a game. Oscar the bulldog wags his sorry head with his eyes closed in admonition before his teeth latch, jaws clench, and jowls drool slobber all over a fresh forearm, snapping the right radius nearly in half.

Write more, but remain concise. What a paradox! Hole me up in a box here and now! Straight to the grave with an epitaph teenagers have uncensored sex upon; a headstone that read “Fuck Niggers” She happened to be ‘black’ (with a chocolate buttplug) before the ‘happening’ when ‘black people’ became ‘people’ all of a sudden, even if many handfuls of supreme justices don’t see it that way (in the old South). I know perfectly free people that demand incarceration! The attitude of these people! GIVE THE BLACKS WAKANDA! I mean, if they could do it for Israel, and we all see how well that decision is going (eyeroll). It’s interesting to witness oppressed people oppress with all the cares of the world. “Worldly cares,” to a monk off his sausage. Practicing farts at every conceivable angle. Proud of his anal symphony, “I think I’ve got it really tight,” like a butthole to a workaholic.

“This shit’s ass.”

“No, the ass shits, the shit doesn’t ass,” to an English teacher a’boof, “Technically.”

We contain multitudes, but my nigger just lost his right arm. “Ow!” he howls!

“Well I guess ass does smell like shit since one comes from the other, and it does smell like a particular ass we know we can both identify,” the teacher finally concedes, "In fact your colloquialism conveys the message more succinctly," observing Django, disarmed.

“Bargaining for consent is an utter waste of time,” reasons an efficient rapist in a limey British accent. “If I can get them to line up in droves for something they don’t need we will have achieved total psychic control, domination, and consent by proxy,” Bill Gates, the rich freak in a illuminati mask practicing hack cockney. There is one person in the world who cannot honestly say “that’s rich,” without making another person’s lifetime earnings soar through the roof as a boardroom full of executives imagines a line on a graph ad infinitum. “Apparently philanthropy is popular and makes you look like a good guy even with 125 skeletons in 124 closets. Let’s expand the marketing budget to include an advertising campaign designed to convince the viewing public that it remains in their best interests to support our well-oiled machine of progress. And add another party-planning bureau and call it some derivative of ‘education’ as a tax write off and to underwrite political entities open to writing exceptions for our particular industry into legislation in the name of charity!”

“Hail, Spray Tan! SPF 52” Ad read. “The cult following is large enough to require mass broadcasting to reach individuals in need of purposeful messaging,” back in the boardroom, Gates not usurping himself quite yet, sips a dirty chai.

I need an answer only a doctor can prescribe and a pharmacist can fill, but the answer itself lies within one’s heart, however hypertensive. The nicotine in my blood is commanding its possession over my spirit. “We’re going to have to cut him open, aren’t we?” says not a nurse to a surgeon, but a schizophrenic to herself and her imaginary butcher boyfriend. The military training she received, little as it was, was enough to inform her mentality about the value of human life to a carpenter ant crawling over dead eyes. On the jungle floor, a skull still covered in flesh appears staring into the abyss. This represents a clean kill to a wealthy investor on a safari with the deadliest catch, Ice-T in one hand, sidearm in the other. “Stay here,” he tells the cameraman, “I want to be doing jumping jacks when I get shot,” bang! Goes the report and poor-compared-to Bill Gates Ice-T keels down. “It’s over for me. I’m out of here. Sayonara,” as he exits life stage left. The last life stage is the final frontier of longevity.

3/11/24

So I tell my doctor, “I think I’m dying and I want to live longer.”

He says, “Don’t we all?!”

I’m vomiting blood. Having a bad time. The bad doctor messes with his stethoscope and acts busily like he knows what he’s doing. Everybody’s scared and feels sorry for me and that’s the way I like it.

“No drive, no desire, no pain, no gain,” against a struggling blonde who could pass for legal if she lost her wallet. “I’m going to make you mine,” a rough whisper in her ear.

“Is that you Michael?” it dawns on her she’d been fucked by this particular rapist on more than one occasion. Her luck! He likes to go doggy-style bareback she recalls as sure enough he flips her over and proceeds with the creepy off-tempo fornication so characteristic of old Mike off his meds O’Malley. A real fart whisperer, he was always down to explore every invaginated intertriginous zone with his tongue and sure enough, before you know it, he’s kissing her asshole like on the mouth. “It’s kind of weird, but it feels good!” she thinks, kind of getting used to the idea of suddenly getting shoved into by a nut. “I mean he obviously thinks I’m pretty!” in vain.

He actually wishes he picked a slimmer target without as much experience, but it was a kind of spur of the moment thing. He knew where she’d be after school and her political stance against mass incarceration, having seen her at a protest declaring she’d go to the grave with her position unchanged.

He changed her position for her, flipping her over again, she busted.

Anyway, as we return from our autistic trance, we remind ourselves what the Founder and Father of all creation had to say through his prophets: “Allahu-Akbar.”

3/13/24

A name, an identity, a social security card, and a timestamp order the lifeform. “Looks like this one will grow a weiner, shall we cut if off now or wait until it’s ‘her decision’?” doc using his fingers for air-quotes, “it will be less painful now, and she’ll resent you either way for introducing her to this blasted place we call Earth 2049.”

The sin of Mike O’Malley was not omission, “for although it wouldn’t all fit, he left nothing out,” like a Zen koan. “There’s only so much space in that attic upstairs to put stuff and you don’t give a shit, you fuck and throw things everywhere, I’m over this,” to the target of bipolarity.

“Let me live the way I want. I don’t miss us.”

“So why are you still here?”

“I’m very sick. I’m too weak, scared, tired, and intimidated to go back where I’m from and leave a good impression with those I assume have high expectations of who they think I am, so I am what we believe. I am the sum of my ‘Be Here Now’ slant shifting parallelepiped with sharp corners 2D thinking."  There’s a problem that wouldn’t be a problem if it were addressed promptly. The longer it goes duration-wise, the worse the hell to pay.

Some people drink a culture of beer. It’s what puts life into dead stuff. Wheat, barley, rye, malt, hops all have had a life of their own. And it’s not what they were, it’s what they can become that ties the room together. The mind reflects the environment like a nice book collection.

Addiction is simplified recreation – love removed. Smoke weed, stay inside, and fill in the blank.

Will I get the fear?

Apply logic to abortion, addiction, and pornography/prostitution.

Addiction: sex, gambling, overeating, codependency, drugs, alcohol, etc. Any subject an Anonymous group that meets at churches biweekly discuss. All the indulgent acts performed in isolation.

“I’m so in the moment I forget whose party I’m at! I drop out. I become so small I blink into inverse eternity.” Observing the celestial from the subatomic, being both. What keeps us temporal is undisciplined behavior. Unevolved consciousness – monkey brain. Control your goats! Grazing past confines, paltry. One kills what one cannot otherwise contain. An overflowing chalice of Christ’s blood – too pure for this world? Abounding in compassion.

“Does anyone know how one would go about capturing a person and forcing them to work for you these days?” The loophole! Some call it a snare, but it’s all legalese over Johnny’s head in the court so drunk he can’t wait to be sentenced so he can finally go home for the next 5-10 depending on what happens. He hasn’t been able to stay anywhere for more than a month lately (threadbare welcome) so the consistency seems nice by contrast.

The first guard grabbed his ass. The second one kissed his mouth. Third exposed a length of foreskinless phallus and put it in his mouth with guard Gloria on gonads. “Ong-ong-ong,” was about the sound she’d make with her stuffed larynx. “Two hours to cumshot so make yourselves very comfortable around the house and don’t forget to get creative!” goes the porn director.

Pornography means “the study of a poor man’s head,” which I know is wrong because I have little money. What I want is unattainable to obtain or unobtainable to attain or something.

Part of me fears I’ll miss loafing if I pursued success (and I really like just laying around!)

If I write more, will I loaf less? Yes. Will I miss loafing? Probably not, but it’s hard to say. It’s pretty good eating some drugs, getting fucked up, screwing around. I make the international sign of contagious tiredness. YAWN!

3/16/24

I’m not fulfilling my quotas. Yes, I know the blacks already have a place they call home called “Africa” so Wakanda is pretty redundant really, even if it is even today increasingly overrun by “civilizing forces” formerly known as colonists straight to Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. “The horror!” And this is the sort of story that drives me to drink large drafts. I’d rather not contribute to consumer culture, but man I don’t know where to escape but inwardly! And if I could convince a wealthy industrialist to consume 36 buds a day by example the world would be wiser and I could get off my gas station medicine. So in a way I’m doing what needs to be done and in another I’m derelict of duty. I get the impression however that it’s impossible to please both sides. Some people hate to see you succeed. And success brings its own care and concerns. I don’t really care one way or another. I think we ought to love one another regardless. And not like Mike or Bill. Something tells me they’re both off their rocker, but even then I’d rather kiss mad Mike than “where’s Melinda?” Gates.

Is thinking out loud the same as thinking in silence? “All I know is what I have words for.” went Wittgenstein. Third eye inward, throat chakra muted, 110% sleep I follow my dreams in overdrive. For me: a formee: she assumed the fat-ass form of my darkest ideals. Part of her alters to accommodate increasing turgidity suspended like a fishing lure on a liquid plane.

“We’ve done enough damage,” mused the witch, stick in her crotch, stirring, “but we could always do more.”

“Until the day I die, I’ll spill my heart for you,” Storyof the Year screamo emphasizes her conjuration. An image in her mind, one quite reprehensible, “Spill away,” she quoted, mirroring an illustration in a leather-bound book white cutting quietly, but not silently into a lamb’s heart, easily obtained in Shepherd’s County. She relies on “Mohammad the Blasphemer,” his D&D moniker. He even delivers the goods and throws a bone in the old bag, “his sort of thing,” when he thinks about old broads in the third person while perusing the county’s heritage seed vault with a stave in his ass. “Down donkey!” he commands the braying beast wearing a saddle and a tiara he’s selling on eBay. Outside, an owl gives a series of hoots unheard before taking of t’wards Myra’s with a fresh pellet she’d unpack in order to perform divination. “Fuck, her breath stinks,” he expressed facially before flipping her on her hands and knees. She knew it, and expressed her satisfaction with a low moan, “only real arseholes don’t acknowledge my stench,” she considered many moons ago, “they ur afraid of the truth.” She pulls a cock’s head (rubber chicken) towards her knowing ass and let out a loud snort. “The treatment” always does something to her and this time it even felt a bit pleasant.

One lamb is enough meat for one big fat guy. I imagine the maw of a great beast and a burning intensified by acid. I imagine death’s door arrayed with teeth individually pulled and organized by category up and down the ivory exterior. A BladeSaw® brand circular saw spins to life for death. It severs the spine before any feeling amounting to agony. The French used to practice this technique on the bourgeois in public to perfect it. They’d even put a tourniquet around their necks to help them breathe less. That way they’d want to die! They’d be asking for it like, “please just kill me,” you could read in their bulging eyes as their faces got red with pressure before the head popped off. “Boo-gee...boo-gee,” Myra back to reciting from her brown book while visualizing torture. An encyclopedia of world history is as good as any spellbook to an experienced witch. “There’s even some good images,” she thinks in a way back to emaciated corpses on their backs everything about them agape, “in a ditch,” to an Entelechy™ resonance sphere that harnesses her energies. She utilizes it to commune with powerful entities on the fringes of the unknown universe bent on unholy retribution, “burning blood in native soil. As above, so below.” They laugh now, but soon they’ll be howling.

“How are you, Nancy?” the Spirit wryly queries Pelosi experiencing metempsychosis on drugs on the floor of a trailer park in Elizabeth, CO. Realizing her worst nightmare. Middle America. Two kids. A third she can feel kicking. Second husband passed out on a used couch. High-gravity tallboys strewn. Immediately her congressional training kicks in and she starts searching the cabinets up and down for rat poison. “I’ll kill the motherfucker while he sleeps,” to “Goodbye Earl,” with warped acoustics. Nobody knows how to serve one’s country like an experienced bureaucrat. She knew intrinsically like a lawmaker how to abuse the children so they’d enter state protective custody and she wouldn’t serve serious time. She could abort the third with the art of tong-tea which defies state sanctions. “Soon I’ll be on my way to Wash…” she glanced at a mirror and lost hope. “Ugly! Ugly!” Could it get any worse? It could. Her water broke.

3/20/24

Online chatrooms: the silent shouting match.

1) The world is all there is, it behooves humanity and moreso the morose individual to improve upon it. "Make the world a better place," is an apt platitude. Simple! Smile! YOLO! In the moment...

2) If Heaven exists (ideal forms), what is the purpose of this world at all? Discounting mere purgatory and Earth as Heaven's waiting-room (duality) we've stumbled upon realms one considers higher or lower. "Proving ground" comes to mind even if one only judges oneself without a greater intercessor. Moral basis of existence.

3) If Hell exists and there are only lower realms of existence, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter," for this life is only a comedy of errors. One is born in blood, decays, and dies. Epicureanism at best (to Sisyphus) or absurdism to Camus. Moral retreat into atheism or...

4) Nihilism - nothing exists - all is a dream, illusion, maya, or otherwise devoid of intrinsic meaning/value (beyond this message ineffably understood). Entertainment is the highest ideal. It follows that the most entertaining would be the most highly praised/prized, which leads back to the Lord of hosts, Jesus Christ, lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the World. Happy are we to be born in His image (the highest illusion!)

Is a truck 500 horses more complex than one mere horsepowered horse? 500 times more logical and unnatural! Humanity is stuck in an absurd time when efficiency is a high ideal. A slavish mindset.

"So what you're saying is kill all the Slavs?" to an alien hallucination, purpose of an Area 51 visit.

"Correct. Convince Putin to invade Ukraine, and convince the comedian Zelensky with big numbers that he'll be considered a historical figure of magnitude. Enough for Dante to consider amending his opus from beyond the grave," goes the little gray man, lips ventriloquistic to advanced telepathy (a more convincing command on account of the high fidelity (oracular) direct input upon the relatively weak monkey brain of the standing U.S. president, Joe Biden) not oft observed in Pennsylvania (except to Quaker mountebanks). Add to this the dithering effects of radioactive nuclear waste buried in the great state of Nevada, burning holes through to the core of the Earth like MDMA to the brain of a druguser on DARE all the way to "China" in caricature of caricatures' Trumpspeak. What a boof! The children are still humping on the grave of the rolling racist. Revisionist historians overlaid "Fornicate with Everyone!" on the bad epitaph everyone remembers, but no one can say without fear of reprisal from next door neighbors eavesdropping for next month's rent. One World Government 'saw to it all' from its Flanders, Belgium HQ. Invictu!