Turnip ink smoking catnip. Watching my thumb pick bugurs. Ain’t that spiffy. Hey there furry bugur. Friendly furry little bugur. You don’t mind if I flick you onto the couch or scrape off under the desk. Whistle you weed smoking maniac. I am totally numb, on the verge of bruking. Don’t even ask me about the things I have seen in my dreams. Crazy. Crazy. Crazy. I think the proper word for it would be being shot up the spinal column with four billion years worth of imagery every time I close my eyes. I am scared to sleep yet it is soo nuts that I have to do it. I am totally addicted to the madness. My orange juice is laced with elf doo doo.

Sew a squirrel tail to your nutsack!

My eyes are the dripping sizzle smouldering under the piss of a wino’s campfire. I am the splinter dust on the inside of a midget’s driving block. I can feel the scaly tarp, I can feel the scaly tarp listlessly crashing onto the surface of your brain. I am hobbling through musty woods wearing green leather, my arms are short, I trip over a twig and my concentration is jarred into the inside of your arms. I am a midget living inside of you. The outside of my body is just under your skin. Right now I am inside this stupid fuck trying to make up some sort of fake religion for fame, money and wicked broads. You make me nervous. Are you some sort of strange person. You are not like the others. You are special. Wash your forks in Hobo Ass.


      Gratz meef,
            Reverend Speefnarkle