Ten days have passed since we last communed. Juan has been growing a salty facial affectation and experimenting with bearded kook-against-bad clam as novel literary devise. Alas, his quaggy Moby Dick is dulled from quixotic thrusts. Juan often feels like Monty Clift playing Freud, simultaneously attracted and repulsed by Susannah York’s hysterical vagina. Fresh supplies of Blend Number One (bless you, Medium Mike) hasn’t yet propelled the potty scribe to venture far from the hovel’s pituite environ or don the heavy plastic attire required for delicate litter box ‘deturding‘.
No pity, please. Save that tender grace for the gal with 14 kids. Red Wing is furnishing Ms. Suleman with free footwear to rear her brood; corporate America is not completely heartless.
There was a baggy lady, nesting in a boot
She ran out of sperm…
But not Food Stamp loot.
Her chicks are all quite frisky, swinging to and fro
Fully incubated…
High on Public Dole.
Bill O’Reilly can’t decide if he should shower-bone Ms. Suleman before or after beating her unconscious with Neil Cavuto’s head. Perhaps Bernie Goldberg can help Father Christmas decide on the proper, morally peculiar sequence. It’s comforting to know Murdock’s mouthy meat puppet is looking out for Juan. Not entirely convinced Cher is a pinhead, Juan is waiting for further proof of treasonous diva-speak. There’s no doubt, however, of Betty Rubble’s Marxist inclinations.
Juan consumes jarred samplings of spongy psilocybin before catching Glenn Beck‘s televised psychosis-cum-tent revival. The eyeball close-up was inspirational: Mormon clowns began dancing around after peering into his tiny car’s fly-specked window. Who knew Beck had the wet spark to combine Giacomo Balla and Emmett Kelly into an ongoing homage to impalpable spoof? The appearance of Cryin’ John Boehner will render the set awash in tears should Glenn and the tanned Cincinnati Kid delve too deeply into Buckley’s old toy box and discover a black baby Jesus. Babs Walters must be turning green with envy.
Blackwater, Inc. changed its name to Murder, Inc. in hopes of improving a reputation tarnished by wonton slaughter. Meyer Lansky’s relatives quickly filed an injunction, claiming copyright infringement. Unfortunately for the Lansky family, John Negroponte traded Vito Genovese a slice of the lucrative Bolivian sex slave industry for the rights during the Reagan Revolution. Negroponte’s son, Belial, claims to have evidence of his father’s DNA on a bloody Accademia di Vino cocktail napkin.
“It’s complicated”, said Gino “The Prick” Colombo. “We’re gonna have a sit down and work this thing out. If we can keep the Amway boys out of it, maybe everybody can stay off the mattress”.
The Prick’s sentiments were shared by Abby Fister-Gein, Blackwater’s Director of Human Resources. “Of course we're disappointed that the company’s decision to re-brand created such an outcry in the underworld community. Although Murder, Inc. was a good fit for our corporate culture, Bastardevil is available and meets our marketing criteria”.
Omega: Saying “porkulus” more than five times can lead to permanent mental retardation.
Juan
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