The Horn of Pornocopia and the Masturbating Custers

Reflections in a Petri Dish – Oct 15, 2012

Dog Poet Transmitting…….
May your noses always be cold and wet.
(By some serendipitous quirk of fate an earlier, though relevant radio broadcast, by The Vis, has manifested over at What Really Happened this day, so, given that circumstances on the other end made this weeks broadcast a non event, I give you this one as a palliative; take two quaaludes and bang me in the morning)
Greetings friends and neighbors! Welcome to Dog Poet Transmitting, standing in thigh high gum boots in the Petri Dish. You can look up at the stars and see the stars, or you can look down and see the stars reflected in the rainbow slick of The Petri Dish. Mr Apocalypse is beating the bushes, all kinds of bushes, apparently …and soon intending to kick ass, state names and ruin false front reputations. We are surrounded by lugubrious lickspittles, whose black-light shining examples of Satanic obeisance, set the guidelines of behavior, for all the little dupes who have accubation as an avocation, supported by fixations of adelphepothia, adelphirexia and adelphitymia. Yes, they’re thinking they’ll turn into princes if they kiss enough bathykolpian frogs. No wonder they’re all suffering from cagamosis, brought about by outbreaks of advertent colposinquanonia. Well, infantile sexuality is nothing new in the late, not so great, United States of Arrested Development. Porn to the right of me, porn to the left of me, into the valley of Pornocopia, marched the masturbating George Armstrong Custers. Could you jerk off any better with that cellphone jammed up your ass? I know you’re not waiting on the ringtone, since you got that thang set to vibrate. What? You’re saying, “It ain’t no thang”; square bidness for blockheads.
Trickle down is a functioning reality, even if the result is similar to Chinese water torture. In the example about to be given, one can confidently state that crime trickles down like anything else would. So, if you’ve career criminals at the top of the pyramid, it stands to reason that you will, sooner or later, have a good collection of criminals at the bottom. When your country is being owned and manipulated, by a tiny crime nation, who has placed a large percentage of professional criminals, in positions of power, you are going to have a crime nation too. What you need are a bunch of super sized, roach motels, placed at strategic locations in The State Department (a subsidiary of Israel), the Justice Department (a subsidiary of Israel), the White House (a subsidiary of Israel) and pretty much any and every government agency (subsidiaries of Israel). Gigantic glueboards should also be set out at random, in the late hours, when The Servants of the Infernal, scamper through the halls and make eerie music as their rats feet move over broken glass.
The eccedentesiasts are gladhanding, in the process of their perfunctory perversions, dreaming of dippoldisms, when not actually engaged in them. These cannibals, up close, are reeking of nidorosity. These steatopygic swine, need to get into some skoptsy, hopefully there is a government grant for that sort of thing. Yes, there is an epidemic of slubberdeguillions and jumentous creeps. They got uniforms. They got nametags. They got weapons and official documents, so that they look like goose-stepping colostomy bags; armed process servers, from The Church of the Final Vinyl ♫When I was just a little boy, I asked my mother, what would I be. Would I be handsome, would I be rich? Here’s what she said to me, “No fucking way Jose, whatever you’ll be you were, a tool or a dirty cur, Que Sera, Sera”♫
These inaniloquent, ambulatory toadstools, with their krukolibidinous fixations, are a serious embarrassment to the act of creation. Their chronic mumpsimus, is unlikely to be ameliorated by anything less than the Ceausescu method. I don’t advocate this sort of thing, except as a last resort …but when the world comes to be defined by Formica junkies, who ♫put up a lot of ugly boxes and Jesus people bought them♫, you are talking, last resort.
I recognize that there is a lot of hippopotomonstrosesquipedalian activity going on here today but I really didn’t have much choice. Sometimes it is the only way to get something said. Luckily, the readers are more than passing familiar with all of these terms, unlike the great unwashed, out there in vegetable cranium land. Unwashed? Well, some stink doesn’t go away with mere soap. Some rot and stink are internal. Obama and Romney are uncommon felons, along with being pedestrian psychopaths. Obama and his soft voiced sycophant Biden, are presently appearing in an anti female abuse commercial, entitled, “1 is 2 Many”. These sleazy, venomous scumbags, posture in slick hypocrisy, decrying this sort of behavior, while killing without regret or conscience in countries around the world, with drones operated by retarded gamers. I’m sitting there screaming at them about it but I’ve got no two way radio hookup to feedback into the vile dishonesty of their native state, cue Bruce Springsteen ♫The door of evil slams, Satan just waits. Like a vision he dances across the porch, as Richard Speck plays. C’mon lets stab some nurses, bring on a fleet of hearses, don’t turn me on again, I’ll just have to sell my ass again♫
I offer my dactylion to these light weight reprobates. Heck, I offer them the whole finger. They gather in endless, plotting concilliabules, taking direction from the monsters of The Mideast. They do what they’re told. They don’t make the connection between their actions and the retribution that waits in the wings. They seem immune to that hot breath on the nape of their neck. Nice to see that Biden got his hair transplant together. I remember way back, when he was just another balding bureaucrat, trying to make his way up (or down) the fellatio chain, stopping off at the neighborhood glory hole, for a little something warm in his stomach, parading his phony, family values and fucked up Christianity front, like some breast cancer awareness, whore, promoting non existent cancers, in order to bulk up the profit portfolio, of scalpel mill hospitals and bloodthirsty, incompetent doctors. Don’t tell me this shit isn’t going on. It is.
Cancer is a big money scam, just like bank bailouts and the private prison industry. Every one of these odious corporate suits, are looking to apply the McDonald’s formula, to any and every industry they are using to siphon off public monies. Vampires and werewolves exist, we are simply confused about their composition and method of operation. They are sucking your blood and they are ripping you to pieces, it’s just not gong down in the classic Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney format, “Children of the ignorant night, what pitiful music they make”. Yes, you’re sheared and slaughtered and hanging on hooks. Have your family take a few photos for the mantelpiece.
I don’t mean to be a philosophunculist, honestly I don’t. Sometimes one is just reduced to a state of lethologica and the ordinary language is no longer adequate to the task. You have to get inventive and creative. You have to go back into the stacks and dust off old pretentious tactics, to satisfy the inner pseudo-intellectual, given the amount of pseudo-intellectuals hoping for a posting at some Tribe infested, poison Ivy League college. Yes, they’re high percentage residents, ever looking to suck the blood from the infected foreskins of this gone missing gonorrheal culture. There’s conjunctivitis in the arthritis of the brittle boned, infrastructure. It’s riddled with countless holes, through which the Alzheimer weasels, slink back and forth on a Milli Vanilli loop. The majority can’t remember any more than they can imagine. Their imagination is duct-taped to the Horn of Pornocopia. The television is speaking into the dead weight of paralyzed brains. It’s an endless short circuit, attended by electronic sizzling and the smell of burning meat. Meth, it’s what’s for dinner.
Ah well, we’ve come to the end of the cataloging of the fruit in this particular defacatorium. It’s time for a dry martini, in some razor blade, branding bar. Like Obama might say, while enjoying an idyl in that Chicago bathhouse, “It’s an ill wind that blows no one”. Rahm Emanuel is off in one of those ink black rooms, filled with the sounds of flesh moving on plastic mats, attended by murmurs and groans; a horrific epiphany; this scorching finale of an endless depravity …but… watch what you say about these tender and all too human engagements. It could well be against the law, the same way proselytizing and promoting normality is sure to be by next week, if not before.
End Transmission…….
Les Visible sings:  ♫Reggeanomics♫


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