If Your Dick Were Any Smaller, it Would Mail Me Love Letters from Micronesia
The S.S. Minnow gets on my knees. Jimmy Boy Rock guts a twelve string Fender with his galloping back nine horse teeth. If your dick were any smaller, it would mail me love letters from Micronesia. I am not trying to be kind, so much as honest. Dredging lakes named after habitual nose-pickers out of their only spawning water. It’s Rocky Horror for rocky shoals. Jack Daniel’s and smoke rings and layer cake concept albums over a garage sale turntable. Friedrich Nietzsche stuck in some squeaky animal balloon threesome that never included god. And those rats you keep trying to catch all look like syphilis with legs. How Byron came to see the Greeks once he soured on the Ouzo and pita. Do not commit suicide, everyone commits suicide these days. The inmates have replaced the warden with a Barcalounger made of Hate. Awning over awning like sunscreen for cracking death-march sidewalks. That crunchy yellow grass that makes you think you are walking on tiny instances of tinfoil. Someone to carry the baseline that is not a stork or a flatbed or some yummy mummy surrogate offering up her high end hotel womb for an extended stay. “You’re so overrated that Tripadvisor can’t keep up,” I hear some familiar smart mouth say. In a voice that could be mine if nails started eating hammers and jimson weed made a comeback that nervous Nancy guillotine never could.
Horror Sleaze Trash 