Fragment From Book of Zen Nachos, Volume 175
Hung From The Tree of Life, Underneath This Tree There Was No Aegis, Only Sean Connery And Tom Green, the New Gods on the Block[edit | edit source]
Download my dingdong, I'm a sexy boy, come home for Christ-mass and eat another Ding-Dong ditcher's ass around the hostess's campfire/paganistic bonfire where she burns the Satanic Verses of Allen Ginsberg, but you won't notice the ashes around the tree sprinkled into a pattern of black words- "SONIC WAS HERE". He was too fast for you, but he always was touching you in a place or way that made you feel like you were the man now, dawg, sheeeit that THC is harm-on-y to mah braingasmic alchemical shotgun wedding. I ran, I ran so far away from the blue blurry mugshotified hejhaug.
Shoes Glued to the Floor, The Origin Of Power Offers Itself to the Redeeming Dungheap in Anno Domini MVII[edit | edit source]
From Genesis to Dreamcast revelation of failure, Service Games is there for there you for yours own larvae. No matter what the how the submit to your new masters method of spliced cheesy phantasms. Way past chili dog gotta step it up, brainless consumer. Drool. 2006 for Palin Kanye West. Sonic. Is that not what you want. Snoic. Not what that you want is. Icons. We have defiled blue furred feathered friend, forgive us Service Emperor Pokey the Penguin.
The New Master's Voice Echoes Into Infinite Overexposed Analysis-Paralysis and Digitized Bliss (Steve Havelka is Dead)[edit | edit source]
DAMN ITALIANS STOLE MAH SPACE CHIP POTATOES— artic cricle alser waeapons fire fire fire fire fire like MADD. We get signal. Signal is lost in noise, such is the fate of all data in this cold ocean of drunk motherboards driving packets home to snake/worm into another man's (Adam's?) Apple. I have tasted the bad apple that was shot in the fish barrel of monkey lawsuited lawyers on trial, but the flesh gave me a tumor of afterthought about eating the apple, was still tasting apple, jumped into a free candy pit full of dildos and whips to escape my own rectal brain, cause of all my hipster idiocy, a Leica flashed freezeframing me into the road...dear oh deer in headlights what do we do now that we know the world isn't real?
Myriad Swarming Phonemes In the Living Wax Museum, Twang![edit | edit source]
Look out, the cosmic police are on the prowl, dammit too late, Zed's dead, Zee's been linguistically resurrected, ZZ Top's bearded balls ascend to Hell.