Thursday, March 3, 2011
"Would you like a filbert, Melissa Gilbert?"
Kendra Wilkinson's (who?) asked, too, can't answer;
Horton hears a duuude, must be the bong, that hit's long
but you'd hit long if hit by a hitless Kim Kardashian song --
Radioactive Sino-French lizards & King Kong
don't dig theatrics, gets in the way of the gong --
CIA Chuck shouts "where's the blow?" (Charlie knows)
ow! don't hit so hard, dance is the word, dontcha know
Sugar Ray, "peace with hookers n' said blow"
says the Sheen 2012 Fucked Up Actors Need Sequels show.
Ford & interest rates, fiduciary swag, yawn --
Mikhail, didn't you out! damn spot! on a glasnost gig?
Pizza 'twas, all this, 'tis all garbage so take a swig,
me, mighty busy supervillaining zombie ants
to rescue from non-Randalness Christina Hendricks.
Noted Cleveland footie: someday, some of these tricks
'll be a juvie special. Learn from the master, puppets.
*title lifted from an English Pravda best-of the Pooty-Poot suckups. I simply wanted to share the too-few bounties of democratism with those poor post-mail check Yahoo trendies whose voice is never heard in our oversaturated monoculture & when do I ever have anything to add of substance on worldly fuckery that once the various The Mans find alternate means of being mean, mean everything drops, the cycle of shit, catch the fever. You're welcome & Cthulhu bless.
P.S. I know this is probably, despite the hefty competition, my lamest post ever. Je suis désolé (not really)