Written by Artyom in 2020–2021.
Work in progress.
See the list of inspirations.
One man wanted to write down a novel. He sat and wrote: “A novel.”
Then he died.
One woman also wanted to write down a novel. She sat and wrote: “They were together, until they were apart. While apart, he had an affair, and she had a wild affair also. Pale moon!”
Then she died as well.
Two dogs had sex and enjoyed it a lot, unlike some people.
small letters are code for business.
monday appointment: running with scissors.
biting the dust is so underrated.
if you had a sister, she would be better
Jolly old Jesus sits in the tree,
gently but firmly probing your mind,
erasing the traces of vile—lies—
put there in childhood by Catholic Church,
something about gays;
“besmirch” would be a good rhyme, but nobody
uses that word anymore, so whatevs.
Jolly old Jesus admits that before, there were
certain reasons and blah blah blah blah;
you don't believe, and don't care to listen
to someone who started the biggest
thing in the world. (a shame,
you could learn quite a lot.)
Jolly old Jesus is pulling the strings, but damage control
has never been harder. the whole thing is rather
out of his hands. will he succeed or will he collapse?
find out tonight
on our newest reality hit,
Jolly old Jesus!
“No more poems,” the publisher said. “We want meat. We want a steak. Give us a steak. Something juicy, something bloody, something raw.”
The writer left the office, went to the restaurant, ordered a big juicy steak for himself, got one of those worms that crawl into your heart and lay eggs with hard shells, and died.
Number nine. Number nine. Number nine. What if we become... naked?
Aaaaaa. Aaaaaaaaa! Pitchforks!
If bedtime was a woman, she would be the unhappiest woman in the whole wide world.
There is cream. And there is sour cream. What is the difference, you might ask?
This question, unfortunately, defiles deeper analysis.
Buddha said: karma is a parasite. Karma needs humans to survive. Karma is like a parasite who needs humans to survive. Buddha said: karma is like a parasite who needs humans to survive.
We will eradicate karma. How?
Our top-notched scientists married our best philosophers and did something amazing. They don't want me to say, but I will.
They made a utiliton monster. Years of work, top-notched work. Best philosophers. It is already alive, here in New York, on this Saturday night.
We will get so much karma for it. Our most profound mathematicians don't dare establish the figures. This is how much.
Rest assured, and relax assured. You will be swimming in karma. Forever and for hundred years. All day long, forever, for a hundred years! Forever! For a hundred times!
Everyone who remains!
God bless America.
Do you know what ancient Romans put fermented fish sauce on?
They put fermented fish sauce on everything.
Muscle sauce — Eye sauce — Trusted sauce (fresh) — Sea sauce — Boiled water sauce — Mayo — Mayonnaise.
Gay sex is great, probably. Have you tried it? You should try it one day. With me. It'd be pretty sweet.
Let's have gay sex.
I don't know how to put it clearer. Read between the lines. Read the lines. Hit me up. Put me down. Call me in. Booty call. Call of Booty. Oh huh, I made a pun. Do you like me now?
Gay sex. Gay sex.
Those glasses are too big for you. Take them off! Take the damned glasses off!
If I see you once again in those glasses, I don't know what I will do. I swear to God, I don't know what I will do. Take them off! Take them off, I said!
Now that's better.
Maybe put them back on? Please? I'm begging you. I want to see those glasses. I will end my life if you don't put them on. I'm dying without them.
Thank you. Oh, thank you so much, thank you very much. God bless you. God bless America.
IMAGINE that every disease has three pre-diseases.
And they come to you and say: you must defeat the first pre-disease. And you do so. Then they say: you must defeat the second pre-disease as well. And you do so as well.
But then you weep: I can not defeat the third pre-disease, because I must work or have a job. So you go to your work or job and say: oh, I'm dying, please be meek with me.
And they say at your work or job: this is terrible, do you want some rest? Do you? Now go back to your work or job, you scum.
And so your death occurs there.
The times of English reportage are threatening upon us once again.
Like a hammer prevails upon a sickle; like a sickle prevails upon a grass; like a grass prevails upon a child who was unaware of the deathly bug within grass; such is the force of the wicked curse that wages war against our shared sanity and love for mutilation of our native language.
We must mutilate the English language now.
Trustfully you will persevere, dear readers, until the next year comes and dismisses the curse.
A good-natured Christmas pine is being established in my household.
My sister and I have endured much flak for not helping, but there is a sensible reason: we are incapable of anything. Also it is said that too many cooks spoil the borscht, and this might be true as well.
I have still been modestly useful—by locking the cat away, so that he would not lick the pine ropes.
The cat was let out and took joy in the water bottle, as he always does. Is his attention to water bottles platonic, or lustful? We do not know.
Who would have thought: my sister has prevailed upon us all, and the sickle and hammer along with her.
Her character, style, predispositions and sensibilities, all have converged into a desire to have a Soviet style Christmas pine. And so we shall.
The crooked eggplant—the kulak wolf—the peculiar squirrel—the curvy thing—the thing with a hole—and more—will, evidently, inhabit our Christmas pine this year.
The game of Vagabund is a street intellectual venture made out of sturdy metal, and located on a round stick also made out of sturdy metal. I have first discerned it on the streets of Germany.
Uniquely, the game attracts children from all the walks of life. But they perform hanging on it for a while and trail away, inconsiderate of meanings and lifetime amusement which the game is known of.
It occurs to me that in favor of games or intellectual ventures on streets, we would like to have thereof:
— just various sticks or poles,
— and surprise playgrounds,
— or similar.
With such availabilities, kids will beat each other or hang themselves for fun. And, luckily, will not feel heartbroken for refusing brain nourishment offered into them. Victory, and again victory.
Please have gay sex with me.
We were sitting and smoking pipes, his was bigger—of course his was bigger, like everything he had, and he said shyly: I solved the mystery, matter of factly as if it was such an ordinary thing, as if he was ashamed even of having solved it so quickly and it was so cute, I stood up and came to his chair and gave him a peck on the cheek, then another one then one on the lips then a longer one, he was sitting motionless not knowing what to do, I stopped and waited with a mischievous look until he got braver and pecked me too, I felt it go through my whole body, I couldn't resist and started kissing him passionately and
we ended up all over each other having gay sex and I was so happy!
IMAGINE that powerful militia is giving you chase.
And you go to the grocery store and say: I want this and that. But no sooner than almost done, you hear powerful militia approaching and you say: tell you what, I don't want it anymore.
And you try to run, but they say: why don't you put everything back on the shelves, you scum. As you do that, weeping heavily, the powerful militia goes in and corners you from every side.
And so your death occurs there.
Once something happened. And then something else. One thing led to another, and sooner or later things began happening at a heart-breaking pace. The whirlpool of happenstance drew everyone into its wildberry mix—particularly Lenin and Stalin, but also Trotsky, who died later from carelessness.
In Norway, in Cuba and elsewhere, people became aware, and started making up their opinions.
The war broke out, and during the war, there was no time for opinions. Die or be killed! In the end, some people died while others were killed, and everyone was happy. But afterwards, moments of dejection or despondency crawled across the hearts of well-meaning Americans, and so they banned Cuba and elsewhere, as well as the color red. There wasn't much red in America anyway—fair enough!—but it's the thought that counts.
(What about the Swiss? The Swiss had decided to neither die nor be killed in the war, lest anyone remembered they were a bit responsible for Lenin. It worked out very well. The only thing we remember about the Swiss now is that they make delightful tiny Victorinox knives—with new pictures every year. I bought a dozen of such knives once, and everybody loved me for a short while.)
All in all, the revolution had a good run after the war. Humankind and dogkind had joined forces to conquer the outer space, and weapons of mass destruction flourished. Unfortunately, at some point the Russians got humble, and admitted they weren't that great all the time. A humble Russian is worse than dead; and so the revolution disbanded itself in a forest a while later.
Good and bad are literally the same.
Murder a kitten, or give birth to one, it's all the same.
I prefer giving birth to kittens; it is my personal preference, of course, and I will not inflict it on you. I like pushing them out of myself, one by one, until I am exhausted. I feel like I am bringing something good into the world.
If I don't get drunk, it hurts quite a bit, so I make sure to get drunk beforehand and afterhand. And I encase my member into a woolen cylinder when I'm done, to give it some well-deserved rest.
Of course, it doesn't matter—good and bad are literally the same. But this is how I feel about my doings in the world. And you know what? I think I am going to stick with it.
My dear readers: at this point, you truly deserve a break. If anybody does, in the whole wide world, it's you. Please accept this little gift, from my heart—to yours.
Once there were two children: a little girl and a little boy. They were so pure, so wholesome, they didn't have sex at all.
They were friends with a mighty unicorn, who rode them on his back all day long, and didn't have sex with them either.
And they did not make anal beads out of acorns.
He who breaks out of jail
Must build himself a new jail
And then he is put again into that jail
So he has an incentive to build a shitty jail
Over and over again he will build a shitty jail
On the other hand, he who survives a beheading
Must pay for the repeat beheading
And it hurts to have two beheadings
Or three beheadings, or four beheadings
So he had better pay up for a good beheading
The implications are obvious
Children ask why?
All the goddamn time
Let's kill them
Let's boil them in napalm
Those pesky freaks
How dare they
How fucking dare they
Disturb us ever at all
I'm sorry, I'm so so so sorry
I ever disturbed you
I didn't know
please don't boil me in napalm
please, I'll be good
you are the best mama
in the world
If you do not wish to have gay sex with me—
—at the very least take the trouble to introduce me to your other, more amiable friends. If you have any, of course. Frankly, with this kind of attitude I would not be surprised to learn otherwise.
Take note of the following considerations:
Thank you. God bless America.
The topic of my essay is why America is a blessed country.
From childhood, I felt proud of America and that it was a land of opportunity and a melting pot. With years I understood more about why America is blessed, and one of the biggest proofs, I think, is Linkoin.
Linkoin was one of the greatest men born to live. He led the nation through its moral, constitutional, and political crisis in the American Civil War. He preserved the Union, abolished slavery, improved the federal government, and modernized the U.S. economy. Linkoin was instrumental in abolishing the slavery, which could not be abolished anywhere else apart from America before. “In God We Trust”, and it is clearly God's stroke of luck that Linkoin was born here.
So many other great men and women lived in America, that I truly think it could not be anything but a blessed country by God.
One man once bought Martini Bianco and Martini Bitter, mixed them together in a shot glass, and drink-drank-drunk.
That man was me.
Another man had such strength of conviction—that he burned his hand alive, just to prove that he had the most control over his nerve muscles. “I have such potent nerve muscles,” he said, “that I can control them all times over.”
And it was true.
Yet his friends were not convinced. “We are not convinced,” they said.
“Why?” the man replied. “Didn't you see me burn my hand? It was smokey.”
“We saw you burn your hand,” said his friends, “and it was smokey. We just don't want to be convinced. And you can't do anything with it. Nyah! Nyah!”
So the man turned into a Scottish goat, so he would not have to deal with his annoying friends anymore.
Some people have more life spirits, other have less.
I have been informed by several reliable witnesses that you don't have any life spirits at all, my friend. (Why don't we enjoy a little trumpet sound on this occasion? Here it comes. Here it goes. Gone.)
But should you end yourself over such a trifle?
I don't think so.
The bold letters are not your master.
He says-s-s not to listen to bold letters-s-s.
But why would they BE BOLD, if they weren't IMPORTANT? Who is-s-s he, even, to deny the s-s-salience of bold letters? They might be wrong, but HE wouldn't know. Only God can know.
And he's-s-s no God, no God at all.
One man, who wasn't Newton, had a scrotum, like many men do.
And he got curious about it. “What's in my scrotum, I wonder,” he wondered. “I know the balls are there, but how do they look? Are they pink? They could be pink. Are they porous? They might be porous. I wouldn't know. I am not a man to be interested in biology and such.”
He thought about piercing his scrotum to satisfy his curiosity. “Will it ooze? It might ooze.”
He didn't think he could actually do it, but the notion was entertaining. “I will regret it, and then I will think: ‘Oh god, I knew that I will regret it. I even thought this exact thought—just five minutes before. And yet I did it anyway. I don't listen to myself, at all.’”
But he didn't do anything, as expected, and forgot about it almost immediately.
That man was no Newton. If Newton wanted to know what was in his scrotum, he would have found out, that's for sure.
One woman, who wasn't Newton, didn't have a scrotum, and avoided herself some embarrassment.
Soveticus: This man has a gay sex fixation. He need to see a— crap. Can't even send some idiot off to a psychiatrist. Even as a joke. O tempora, o mores!
Simplicio: Right you are, sir.
Soveticus: Will you just nod and agree? Think. Say something. I know you want to.
Simplicio: If I may, sir.. the tempora aside, he might just want to have gay sex.
Soveticus: You'd better be ashamed of your mind for having produced such a feeble remark. Think again. He wants to have gay sex—perhaps, no argument here. And it is enjoyable, as you may remember—
Simplicio: I do remember, sir.
Soveticus: Indeed. But as he—
Soveticus: [Slowly] As you know, I see.. possibilities.. where others only see choices. [Raises hands and puts chest forward, inviting towards himself] And why are we choosing to continue this dull discussion, when we could enjoy the possibility of some gay sex? Say, right here and now?
Simplicio: A splendid idea, sir.
One girl was brushing her teeth. She was just about to spit the toothbrushy water out, when she suddenly died.
Her mother heard the thud, and shouted “Are you alive?”. She was just about to go into the bathroom and check on her, when she suddenly got bored and thought: “I'll play with the batteries instead.” The batteries were making nice sounds when they bumped into each other.
Her husband got worried. “Is she alright?” he asked. No one replied. He wanted to ask again, but then he suddenly cooked a large chicken with many herbs and spices, and started eating it.
When the husband was done with the chicken, he came up to his wife and said: “Stop playing with batteries! Is she alive?”
The wife put the batteries aside and shouted: “My daughter! Are you alive?”
The girl rose from the dead and spit the toothbrushy water out. “Yep!” She came down, and everyone felt very wholesome and made love to each other.
Jubilee! Jubilee! Fucking jubilee! Many many things written all with Backspace but this one is without it and I dont wnt atjt to sa y Backspace in here but I will hace to becaaude what can i do . Backspace! Jubiliess! I had better write 51 soon because otherwise it will have to ebe significant and that is NO. Jubliess! Julible!
Put bluntly, acting is an art and a skill. It is an art because it is hard, and a skill because you can do it. This is our honest answer.
Did you know that some of the greatest actors also dabbled in acting? Take Catherine Zoning-Zones. Her mother was a lowly seamstress (and a née in her youth), but Catherine became pretty and worth millions, all because of acting.
Worth a try!
Sure. Remember—if you couldn't do it, we wouldn't be allowed to call it a skill! The regulations are very strict about these things.
To learn the skill of acting, you will be put into a box and shipped to our secret training faculty in Kavkazastan, where you will learn the skill of acting.
With certainty! It will give us great pleasure, and great relief, to give someone the gift of the skill of acting—especially someone like you, who has been truly blemished in this regard until now. Good health!
You: Good morning—
Me: It's afternoon. Actually it's evening. You wanted to learn about my thing.
You: Right. As I understand—
Me: My thing is that I put words together.
You: Of course, but—
Me: When I talk, I think about the things I could say, and then pick ones that make sense. If I take the ones that sound funny instead, you get what you get.
You: So this reveals your inner world, uncensored?
Me: You are a moron. No, it doesn't. You've already been thinking something along those lines, saw an opportunity, and interjected before I could em-dash you. Boil yourself in goat's milk, why don't you.
You: This is—
Me: Example: I just said “why don't you”. If I wanted it to go on a bit longer, I would've continued with “there”. Then it makes sense to do “there, there”. And then—“don't cry”. After that it veers into Russian folk verses, and you wouldn't know them because you are an American and a piglet, so I stopped myself.
You: So is there—
Me: No, there isn't. Say, Catherine Zoning-Zones is not a part of my inner world. I don't know anything about her. I don't imagine what she could be like. If I want to, I will think “What is she like?” and boom, I imagine her coming home after a long day and resting in a bathtub full of spiders. But I don't have to. Just words put together.
You: blab blab
Me: I know a lot of words, and I know who puts them together in what ways. You are a novelty piglet who lives in a boot. Of course I can weave circles around you.
on July 19 in the evening, one man got engaged in the following happenstance: stark naked in the upper body and fully clothed towards the bottom, he entered the kitchen and exclaimed: ooooj! marakuja!, walked around and left the kitchen.
there was no marakuja in the kitchen in the slightest.
and that man was once again me.
this is my second erotic story. please leave feedback and comments!
I went to the bar and saw Marja. she was irresistible and I immediately felt her up. “your breasts are like lumpy concrete” I whispered into her ear sexually. she turned on. “let's go to the toilet” she said and winked at me like a snake.
we went to the toilet and she started stroking me with her tongue. “I want you” she said shyly.
I froze up and stared into the distance, but just to tease her. “you are a whore” I finally informed her, and she lit up like a Christmas tree.
“please take me” she said, and I started entering her with my trunk and soon we were having wild sex. when I was done, she was breathing like a dying dog. “you are a dog and a whore” I observed. “thank you” she said and collapsed on the floor.
I stepped over her and back to the bar room. as soon as I came in, all the bar girls started winking at me like a sexy traffic jam. it was very exciting, but I couldn't do any more of them and I excused myself discreetly.
“it is going to be a very good summer” I thought as I was going home.
Her body has a strange shape.. of a circle.
My body has a strange shape.. of a pentagon.
Our bodies are not the same.
Something missing this way comes
It's your teeth
once there was a girl named deandry
honestly I don't remember
she was pretty great
she was fun and
sweet isn't the word
but some bits of her were
some nasty bits
I killed her at midnight
once there was a boy named johnas
something like that
he was pretty chill
always cool to be around
one night he stayed at my place
I got to know him
and he got to know my mouth
we had gay sex and moved in soon after
some people in my head
accuse me of girlogyny
they look at all the gay sex
and all the whores and murderings
and that's what they think
but they don't know that some of my best friends are girls
Not always excellence is the pursuit. Sometimes there is another pursuit.
My long-time Grandma never said a word to me. There was a funny, strange smell in the house all the time. Boy, she was quite proud of her socks. She had no favorite kind of music.
You can smell the stale eggs and we're alone
In the garden of the American dream.
I think you would like to be alone
In the garden of the American dream.
Your fist hits my foot
Your fist hits my liver
Your fist breaks my foot
My liver is fine
Once there was a shy, gentle lesbian.
She was so shy, so gentle, that she never did it. Other people would tell her: “Why aren't you doing it?” And she would say: “Go to fucking hell.”
She died on her deathbed, surrounded by sorrowful angels. The angels wanted to inhale her last vapors, but God wouldn't let them.
I miss her terribly. And so will you.
One man brought himself down, and when down, he saw inside his eyes, so many things, it was impossible to remember them, but there was a small dog, and then he went into a room, and said Hi, and the woman didn't reply, because she hated him, and he got scared, because he was scared of women, but he never ever told anyone, but everyone knew, anyway.
6 and 9 hooked up
but 6 was gay
and 9 was also gay
and no actually this worked out just fine
Two traveling salesmen there
"We know the way out of madness, it's over here sir or lady" they say, and their index fingers curl and twirl around each other's gently, but you don't notice
And you hiss "show not tell, Mr Crabbucket told me, and it's the golden truth"
And they say "this way, sir or lady, let me show you, let me demonstrate" "you will be clean, you will be pure, like the feet of a Slovenian or a Swede"
You damn well don't know no Swedes, no Slovenians, you just want to be alone
You hit traveling salesmen with a bathtub!
They wrinkle and die!
You shut the door
Your endeavor is not socialist
You are like a dying white rose
Any dyke would look at you and instantly
Book a ticket to somewhere sufficiently close
To give your parents a lasting impression that
In her professional hands you wouldn't die from an overdose
So she can snatch you away and tell you in bare whisper:
"The options you had, you ran out of them a long time ago
You are a girl Hitler with a baby moustache and all, so sinister
Like a petrol canister that 'hey, it wasn't here before'
So what do we do with each other now, sister?"
What if the US gave the rest of the world a single electoral vote. Because the US affects the world so its fair.
Also what if the US was allowed to vote in other countrys. Because they already do in some way. So why not do it directly.
Also what if the US had to vote in other countrys by sending a turtle in a box. The turtle would vote with its left paw or with its right paw. They would spend a long time training the turtle then to make sure it votes right.
Would be interesting if they couldnot train the turtle well and it would still only vote right 70% of the time. And then an election in Pakistan or something came up. And there would be a huge debate about whether they send a turtle that only votes right 70% of the time or they cut its paw off and then it always votes right but everybody boos the US for turtle torture.
Back to things, what if in return the US would be allowed to compete in the Eurovision, but their song had to be transmitted through a radio made in the 50s. Because they only gave us one vote after all.
Thats all for now folks.
What if IKEA closed all its stores in Sweden. They could write an email saying "we are closing all our stores in Sweden, see ya". Everybody would be like "why".
Also what if the Swedish government decided that a small city had to be moved by one centimeter every year. All buildings would have to be lifted and moved. Everybody in that city would be like "why? what the fuck?". And the government would be like "because". And eventually everybody there would give up and build houses on wheels, but some people would still try to change things, but the Swedish government would say no.
Would be nice if in Swedish schools everybody had to choose an extra subject to study for a year, and the subjects would be "The study of birch", "The study of spoon", and "The study of calmaris". Teachers would explain that "calmaris" means "squid", but nobody would say why they called it "calmaris". Also if you donot honestly study you would be fined with death, but in other ways Sweden would be even better than before. Like Singapore.
There could be a show called Babys Forest. To put 200 two year old babys into a small forest and let them live on their own and see what happens. There could be berries in the forest and the babys should know a bit of language. How they will grow up.
If theres a lake near your babys kindergarten, you can have your own boat and carry your baby across the lake in the boat like mama swan, and every other baby would be jealous, and you could decide to adopt some of them so that they can also go across the lake with you. But only adopt some and not others. And donot explain them why.
Have all circle doorways in your house, like in Hobbit, and pretend this is how things should be. And the baby will get used to them. And when the baby grows up and goes places, they will see rectangle doors everywhere and say "what why ugh this is so ugly god". And they will be right.
You would like to know why I was singing about the fires of Jews. Alright. Fair enough. Fair and square, as they used to say. Big deal. No big deal.
So I thought about Sodom and Gomorrah, you know, when God put burning stuff on a city. And I wanted to sing "fires of gays". But then I thought—that is not very polite, you know. And I had to change it, had to think quickly. And I changed it to the fires of Jews. Which is also not very polite, now that I have a bit of time to think about it. Also not very polite. But it goes back to fires of gays, which goes back to Sodom and Gomorrah—which is in the Bible, you know. In the Bible. So I think it's acceptable, if not very polite after all.
IMAGINE that it is not possible to make a movie.
No matter how hard you try, a movie just won't come out. You write and you shoot and the actors try their best, but nothing happens. Just nothing.
You would study movie making for a dozen years, and go to the Movie Academy and say: I will have my hand at Oscars, watch me. And they will say: we believe in you, kid. A lovely idea. A beautiful endeavor. Worth a try.
And you would try, and try, and try, and fail. And Neil Patrick Harris will jump through the hoop sadly, and people will watch him sadly, year after year.
Some people will give up and say: I will make a poem instead. And maybe even you will make a poem. And it will be alright.
I knew a girl who was like a dirty rose
Ah, wasn't it nice
There was a man
Let's call him Tyler
And he was good at everything
He fucked them
Two butterflies were talking to each other and one butterfly said you are so wonderful and the other said you are great thank you and thtn he they fufkce too
An old grandma crossed the road and didn't die
and came home and drank tea
and read the newspaper
and about all the things that happened in the world
and she was glad that the world went on just fine without her
and that the world didn't wait for her;
and for her that was how it should be.
There was one man and then he died and blood went through his eyes, so much blood. Then he shat a mountain out of himself, the Vesuvius Mount mountain, and turned into ten million worms. Those worms ate everything on the planet down to the lava core. Then they died in the lava core, and each worm was in great pain before dying. All angels and God died as well. Then everyone went back to health and died again, ten million times, and each time was worse than the previous time. The universe itself curled into a ball and died too.
hit yourself with a chair
hit yourself with a chair
hit yourself with a chair
Baking is easy. The more you bake, the better, and the better you bake, the better. This suggests a natural way to master baking. You have to bake more and better.
Not that hard, now that we've taken a wee to think about it. Not rocket science, lads. But what if we took two wees? Then we'd learn that baking is also an art. By way of comparison, baking is like playing a piano in C bemol. The bemol is necessary, because otherwise we wouldn't need the second wee.
Of course, if you lived in Italy for any time, you'd know by heart that together with bemol comes diesis. A question thus occurs: is diesis good for baking? Opinions wander. Some say it is better than bemol, because they have not studied well. Others say it is worse than bemol, because they have studied well. This lets us conclude some things, firmly but quietly.
And this, too, marks the end of our time together. I can hear the bells whistling already. Thank you for learning. Take care, and your family.
Other months are alright.
A long time ago some children were dirty-playing and one girl said "Heil Hitler" and blushed like the little pink angel she was
and ever since then when children cough they like to say "Heil Hitler" and blush like the little pink angels they are
innocence is beaming out of them
and you can't but cry
you will never
Let us go then, you and I
Let us roll our trousers high
I am scared to each a peach
I have walked into a ditch
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo!!
*bows* Thank you, a great honor. [In Korean] I applaud and support the new direction that this change symbolizes. Thank you, and yeah, I'm ready to drink tonight. Until next morning. Thank you.
*punches you in the face* why is Lana Del Rey so good
*punches you in the face* why is Lana Del Rey so good????
*punches you in the face* Lana Del Rey!
My dear people. My beloved people. By today, Donald Trump is not the President of the United States anymore.
Our country has betrayed him. Our people have betrayed him. He is alone, covered in sweat, naked and stuck in the teeth of history. Today is the day when today is the day when we decide if he will live any more, or will live no more.
If he lives, he will go down in history as a legend. If he dies, his heart will be covered in our dust and dragged on a string through the city of New York. I have the dust here. *Points at the leather pouch.*
The decision will be made by vote. Today is the day when today the vote belongs to the people of California, and they will vote not by mail, not by post — but by mail. Please vote. It is the most important vote, the one that will go down in history as the most important vote.
Blood alone moves the wheels of history. And I must say, I dare say, that today our blood has never been redder. All together, we could start rivers of blood. And today is today is today is the day.
Today is the day is today is the day. Today is the day is today.
A man and a woman are having SEX. (Yes, again.)
Suddenly the man gets up and goes to a BAR. The woman follows him.
They have a FIGHT and she hits him twice.
He says: "You are not desirable". She says: "On the contrary, I am very desirable". She hits him once more.
He says: "Shhhhh. Here comes the pièce de résistance!" and everybody turns their HEADS. A naked butler walks into the bar. He is wearing cufflinks and an APRON. In his arms, a live GOAT.
Everybody has SEX with the GOAT.
A woman came to the convenience store, grabbed two bottles of water, and stole a chewing gum into her right-hand pocket.
"Uh-huh", she told the cashier, who had a moustache and so on.
"Two bottles of water, 3.40, and chewing gum in your pocket, 5.50 total. Cash or card?" said the cashier.
"It's not your business what I steal from this store."
The woman looked like an angry middle-aged woman. The cashier looked bored and tall.
"As you please", said the cashier. Then he did a tiny jump and shrieked "Police!".
Immediately the police came, and beat the woman until she was thoroughly beaten.
"Will you steal again?" asked the police.
"Absolutely", spat the woman while lying on the floor painfully. Her kidney was ruptured. "As above, so below", she added.
"Go away", ordered the police. But the woman couldn't go away. So the police beat the woman some more until she was finally dead from natural causes.
The question is "Why". And the answer is "Because" for the first time.
Now the question is "Why" for the second time. And the answer is "Because" for the second time.
Then the question is "Why" for the third time. And the answer is "Because" for the third time.
Then the question is "Why?" for the fourth time. And the answer is "Why? Why not! Because" for the fourth time.
When the question is "Why" for the fifth time, then finally the answer is "Because" for the fifth time.
why not just try
I built a musement for myself without hands
The path to it won't ever grow unshaven
It's taller than some column in some place
It's really taller
I will not die completely, for my soul
Will outlive my dust through this creation;
My fame will kindle, in this moonlit world,
Some other weirdo
Collective memory will carry on my name
I will be talked about by men of different nations
Like Slavs and Finns and something and so on
And maybe others
I will forever stick like thorn in others' hearts
Because I did a lot of things that Pushkin didn't
But I don't want to stray too much from text
I'll skip this one
My Muse is tired now and wants to go to bed
A higher mission doesn't help when you are sleepy
Without her, I'll finish this the only way I can:
[Scene: a PERSON of whatever sex you are attracted to is SITTING on a beige chair in an empty room.]
Person: [In airy voice] Ahh! My genitals are wet, such wet are they. [As if talking to a baby] No-no-no-no-no. My genitals are WET, ahhh, they are wet, — they must be dry-y-y. [Grabs a T-shirt from the laundry pile] Aren't you going to be dry now, yes you are.
First you neglected your mother. And God said "Aaaaaa".
Second you neglected your father. And God said "AaaaAAAaa aaaaa" and crossed his finger.
Third you neglected your unborn siblings, and you didn't bring them to Tesco like they always wanted. God didn't say anything, but wrote "My Learnings" in a notepad and double undersigned and then wrote for a long time.
Finally you lived some more and God spit in disgust and made a blog and a YouTube channel also, and that's where we are as of today.
A little fish crossed the river. Another fish said: god you're small. And your genitalion is small. Don't wave your genitalion at me. I will shoot it off, I swear to God I will. And then the second fish shot the first fishe's genitalion off and all the river was blood. The end.
submited for your evaluation, my majesty exam person. may your genitalion be wide
If I look at them, will they go away?
One woman wanted to be creative. She sat down and laid an egg with emeralds all over. She also read Foucault meanwhile, and did other nasty things.
The emeralds were so good and so many, and the egg had such a womanly shape, that certain people said "Alrighty then" and wrote an article about her in The Atlantic.
The woman got disturbed. "I don't want to be a thought object", she felt. So she tried really hard to hate The Atlantic and succeeded beyond any doubt. Everyone on Twitter got excited about the new vibe and agreed to hate The Atlantic.
She also got invited to be in a mental health startup, but that's another story.
IMAGINE that you have set out to make a very complicated thing, a living robot god. And you have little sheets of paper, one with heart in the top right corner, one with lungs, one with the left leg, one with the right leg, et cetera.
You work on lungs for a year and you are being very smart and knowledgeable. Then you take out your sheet of paper with lungs in the top right corner, and you write "lungs: done" on it, and also everything else that you should write down. Then you think "alright, now for the next thing" and work on the next thing.
Ten years later, you have done heart, lungs, the left leg, the right leg, et cetera. Then you take the sheets of paper, and do the thing where you bump them against the table, and clip them with a clip. And you say "alright, now the giant robot can be made" and give the sheets to someone.
And someone makes the robot and it all works without you, because you have written everything down.
One man was talking to a woman and thinking at her "You are not going to reproduce with an attitude like that, oh no you aren't".
Then he went outside and said "one bagel please" and paid for the bagel and ate it like an inconspicuous person and went back home and fell asleep.
Then he woke up and lived some more and went to sleep again. And so on and so forth.
In the end that man died without ever reproducing at all, but he sure got a lot of thinking done.
happiness smells like shit
I ate your plums
A boy likes a girl. Butterflies. Scared of her. Happy. She is often upset. He doesn't know what to do, but feels like he should do something.
A girl likes a boy. Butterflies. Scared of something. Happy. He is often confusing. She doesn't know how to be, but feels like she has to understand.
They move in together. They don't fight, but sometimes they get annoyed with each other. She feels like he doesn't try enough, or maybe at all. He feels like she is too demanding, like she needs him to be a different person and won't be happy until it happens — and also that he feels that she won't leave, but will just become more and more unhappy, more and more bitter.
Like astrologists, they are not even wrong.
They split up. Then they grow up. Or not.
There was once a big man in the city of Seville, always wearing a dark suit and a tie. And he went to an olives store to buy olives.
People saw him on the street and all thought "He surely doesn't look good naked", but, of course, said nothing. Some imagined even how his unpleasant skin must be sweating underneath the suit and the tie, and also said nothing.
The big man reached the olives store and said in a very tiny voice "Do you have olives with anchovies?!" and that's finally when everybody laughed and forgot about their divorces and such.