Having Had Enough of it All.

Obesity reaches toward the sky and King Bitch slams a XXX Gatorade while caressing a "Lil Baby Bangarang" mini sweater slowly riding up his front side. Hair is all the rage from his belly button and it smells like rotten cheese and the mountain King Bitch stands upon emanates some sort of tired lull of sexual vibrations all inside himself. It hasn't gotten to him yet but the ideas are mounting and he's sleeping so late these days he can't tell if morning wood even exists anymore. If it weren't for massive sedation he'd be out on his ass for something like what seems like a long time; probably seven seconds. Being what he is, an over ripe toy of destiny, there is nothing to do but swing out over the Canyon of Joylessness. Swing until there is nothing but stars in his eyes; saunter about the seedier sides of life with the creamier characters of the city. Needless oblivion pours down his throat as pores do their vomiting of sweat down his increasingly creased brow. No more Yesman. No more Baby Tee'd, cryogenically frozen grandma's from the twentieth century. No more Kept Off Drugs Teens done with euphoria. No more Kooky Bongos rumbling Mr. Roger's Theme Song for the Ages. No more mistaken flake of Raiden electrocution section. No more. Just no more.