A kid walked willingly into a tornado (fuck) with a spoon in his hand thinking he could eat ice cream and make friends with the giant moonwalking Tornado Jackson. He was dumb-wrong. Now he’s damn-right-dead-wrong. A man had an erection from not watching hemophiliac zoo porn and now he busted open that woody pee-room door and peed… guess, reader, just flocking guess… read the title, jackass! He peed blood. You’re gonna say, he had an erection, how could he pee, when we know woody erections are happy tree friends with sperm sea men. How? How?! What a dumb question… It’s what you need to ask! A gyroscope on a boat no-one lived on because a boat is not a hotel once upon a time turned by itself and the echo the haunted ship made was in fact self-sufficient enough to ask itself a better question than you could ever ask yourself, reader:

1) Why did people think I belong to the boat (fuck)? Just because I echoed in the boat? Boat-llocks!
2) Why did that gyroscope move?
3) Why am I asking all these stupid questions that start with why? Oh why why?
4) What do I, the echo, the gyroscope, the haunted shitty ship and the tornado and the kid and the banana

(what banana?!)

Exactly, reader, now you’re asking the right questions! MYYYYYY QUESTIONS!

the chocolate banana flavored ice cream banana, of curse(sic! hiccup), that the kid, what kid, fuckin’… what did they all have in common?!

 

Well… my oh my, in what a shitstorm of a well we threw ourselves in so we could save ourselves from the actual shitstorm…

Their only common ground is me, Simon, the writer, the Atheist, and this paralipomena will serve as a reminder that I own you. This is the proof. I oooownnnn you, reader. I’m your worst enemy, because I show you with each stupid little word that:

!) You can’t fucking follow a simple text without someone as invisible as the man behind the keys, the keyboardnist, the Architect of this madness, fuck with your brain like it’s Christmas in a poly kinky autistic archaic paleo family’s house and Santa’s got some wood to punish the little retarded booooy that can’t reaaaaad

@) You won’t fucking follow a simple text because it’s too simple and you’re far too mature to read stuff that looks like Italo Calvino and Tina Turner actually WANTED another hero, fuck me naked in the ass without lube like a distorted mental porn version of Rambo I, Stallone being raped by bigger Stallions in the precinct in the beginning because he was such a hard-on and “he can take it without soap”, no, I won’t stop, like Bertrand Russell on crack cocaine, like Johnny Depp on… well, like Johnny Depp… like… uhm.. think, Simon, think! Like Johnny Depp IN, like Johnny Depp in The Pirates of the Caribbean, para ram pam para ram pam ta da dam pam pa rararam, like Schopenhauer took Bohumil Hrabal by the ears for not pronouncing the full German quote properly when he would declare eternal fucking Platonic love to the pigeons that ultimately got him killed because

1) What banana?
2) What the actual fuck, Colin?
3) Are you on drugs?
4) What’s with all these lis…
5) Where were we?
[…]) Don’t you ever assume I forgot where we were!
666) I forgot where the FUUUCK we were, man…

#) You can’t read post-mod wanna-be literature because you have your own shit you wanna read/write, and it’s basic as fuck and it uses the word fuck less times because it reminds you of Balzac and Stendhal and because your public won’t have to stop having to read you and your steady but obsoletely obsoleting compact bijou income won’t have to look you in the mirror that is the stub you’re holding in your hand and tell you, “You fucking dinosaur, there are people writing far more interesting stuff that are making far more money than you! Aren’t you jealous? Aren’t Balzac and Stendhal dead?! Are they still necessary? Sure. But do you need to be on your knees as a writer and write for the meek like you’re fucking Jesus Christ?! I’m a pay stuuuuuuub, I’m a pay stub and I say fucking! Grow some balls, bro!”

YOUR MOM) Thought I’d use the next symbol from the keyboard as a way to order this list, the $, the dolla, dolla dolla bill ya, because what, you thought you got the pattern to this? Fuck you and fuck your mom, you have no idea what’s in my head!

I’m a giant, I’m a supernova, I’m what you couldn’t be because you were born in the worst fucking generation ever and you were still good but you were good compared to what your stupid paltry ass friends thought was good. I’m a giant ass meat planet engulfing your vegan planet’s atmosphere while you’re the ant with a nose that fed from the other ants’ fake blandishment. I know shit that you wouldn’t get to know if you’d live for another fucking 100 years and you’d have another fucking 100 PentiumComputers rigged for the internet to wobble around ailing like a dinosaur gasping for air after the Chicxulub meteorite hit the bottom of the pity-hole, where you were, jacking off to some k–pg boundary porn. When you type on your PeeCee you call your friends (who hate you, btw) and hedge bets with them(I say hedge because you’re too pussy to place one big bet with one friend, you place 100 small bets with 100 small friends because, like with the Roulette, you kinda hope you’ll win that 37 to 1 odd and see some Viagra pills be bought with that 35 to 1 that the house will pay you) that – are you still following, old man? ->

@) You won’t fucking follow a simple text because it’s too simple and you’re far too mature to read stuff that looks like Italo Calvino and Tina Turner actually WANTED another – fucking time I tricked you… you’re reading the same text, asshole!!!!… homas Pynchon got sucker punched in the liver by a stranger that knew how to get past those security gates he has in his little house in Massachusetts? Manhattan? Haha. Who’s the stranger now, biatch, and the stranger’s fist turned into the kinetic energy necessary to throw Pynchon into a parallel galaxy, where

 

Plunging into a new found
Age of advanced observeillance
A worldwide, foolproof cage1

#) Are you ok, buddy? Walking Dead reference? Taking it like a champ!

<- you’re following, otherwise you’re not cut out to read my shit, fucker, this is too much for the masses, isn’t it? It’s not Balzac and Robespierre, and you make a bet with your ant-like friends that also sit in that gutter of a meteorite crater with you that you will pay them for them to find the letter P on the keyboard, because you looked three times, each letter at a time, like qwertyuio[]\’;lkjhgfdsazxcvbnm,./ like a blind man plowing a Chinese woman’s bushes in a boustrophedon manner and you haven’t found the letter P. And you haven’t found the letter P. And you haven’t found the letter P. Ergo, the letter P does not exist on your keyboard. There must be an error. But wait, are you Mr. Shit For Brains? You must have used the letter P before? No, you’re just learning how to type. You’re 9 and you’re on an ancient 484 computer in a school in a village in a country that still dances around in circles holding grandma’s sweaty hands at a wedding, you don’t even know the newly weds but you’ve been invited to pinch in with some $$$, on a Planet (there’s the letter P, pissant!, it’s next to O and [ + Shift-[ = {) you barely understand how it could have came into existence without a stupid explanation like God diddit – learning to type on

fuck

 

 

 

 

 

 

fuck

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

YOU’RE A FUCKING DICK AND I HOPE YOU DIE SO I CAN HANG MY AIDS INFECTED KNICKERS ON YOUR CROSS TO DRY. DIE!

 

 

And that is also an analogy

to how impotent you are,

if you were wondering.

The finger. Yeah.

Hmm-hmmmm…

 

Where was I? Oh, yeah! Where I wanted to be, because I’m writing this shit, you postmodern twat! You think you’re part of an archaic interpretation/hermeneutical/HansGeorgGadamer-ian triangle that portrays us, you, the reader, the text and me, Simon, as one big happy family? What, are you mad?! Are you mad?! You don’t even exist. Look ⇅⇅⇅ just look around you, look up and down, look at the fucking name I gave you, the reader, whereas I’m Simon, a real name, Colin, as I inadvertently called myself somewhere in this text, you? you have no name. You’re like Pip’s mom from Great Sexpectations. Wife of. That’s you, reader. Wife of.

So yeah, where was I? Oh yea, click/press this dollar sign here $
see, it dun’ press. It dun’ click, nun’ happenin’. Why? Bee cause eye oh nudge jew. And that jew is djou. Get me? Now click (bait) / press (hmm, me likes) this otha $ sign: $
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You didn’t know what the fuck you were supposed to see on that row, huh? Of course, moron, because I didn’t tell you what to look at. Stupid people don’t see the forest for the trees. Press on the $ sign again and look for YOUR MOM, beginning of the paragraph, capital letters just like a capital fucking crime in the Catholic fucking Church, and right next to her disgusting cunt the dollar sign. Of course, all that little anacreontic metaphor meant was “your mom is a dollar hungry fiendy prostitute bitch”, but would I just say that to your face? No, I’m a poet.

Now fuck off and read the rest of my website. You fuckworthy cunt! Take it like a woman, don’t be offended, be prepared for literature like the one your granny would never mention to you when you were six and she’s showing you how to shave with a cut throat razor over some out of tune Johnny Cash playing on the radio.

Good luck!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, and another thing: the echo, the gyroscope, the haunted shitty ship and the tornado and the kid and the chocolate banana flavored ice cream banana and you (yeah, I added you) and Simon, what do they all have in common? They’re fictive, and they’re a figment of my imagination, you good for nothing paper waster! You’re a paper town that looks like a paper village, and this is a literary invective that only the red blooded will understand, and you’re not red blooded, because I am Nietzsche and Zarathustra that only liked texts that would be written in blood, fervent antagonistic truculescent contrivance of the mind, and I am Stephen King, the author of the best word inversion that mankind has ever laid its eyes on, redrum, which actually reads murder, but not on my watch, because I’m more…

 

Liked it? Take a second to support Somebody Someone on Patreon!

2 COMMENTS

    • Bro, you work your end, I’ll work mine, and the world will be a little bit better. Hell, I’ll grow a mustache for the first reader that commented. Thank you!

LEAVE A REPLY

Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here