Crazy as a Coconut!
Having awoken this fine, cold morning, bleary-eyed and with a hint of a pharmaceutical hangover from last night, I found myself idly surfing ze web thinking of things to look for. Out of nowhere, between checking the footie results and any new pictures of Uma Thurman that might have been released, I suddenly remembered I had spent about two hours last night in a huge and drug fuelled rant about the despotic little arse-bandit that is Tom Mapother IV. My audience needed little convincing. Cederic, a wonderfully eccentric faggot friend of mine jumped up and demanded to be heard; “Honestly, I don’t know, but that little jumped-up bitch is giving us fags a bad name! He needs to exeunt from that closet of filthy lies and admit to owning a ‘Despoiler 14inch Sphincter Renderer - TM’ like the rest of us anal fanatics!”
Cederic sat down to a loud round of applause. More people started to voice their distaste of this damaged individual:
“Cruise hurts my sensibilities - the man is a terrible non-event….”
“…he’s an abysmal and confused twit, no, make that twat…”
“Yes, he clearly needs help, you know, the sort of help you give a small, buck-toothed rodent that you’ve just run over, kinda on purpose, and is now squirming in a dismal little pool of his own excrement. Hammer to the head, repeatedly, is the only form of medication that will work with his sort.”
This harangue went on for quite some time. Not one person could muster anything positive to say about Hubbard’s Numero Uno Beetch. Eventually we changed subject to something less distatseful; well, we had to really - Fiona had become so worked up with her dawning realisation of utter contempt for the Chief Wanker, that she vomited so hard her tongue almost came loose.
In retrospect and the clear light of this Sunday afternoon, I see now that, although it was fun, all the valid points that were brought to light last night were a waste of our time. The poisoned dwarf is so unbalanced in his head like area that all the logical and rational reasoning that might elucidate to him the insane proposition that he now is as a human, would be like water off a duck’s back - the man is deluded.
Therefore I would like to suggest that the ultimate aim of all like minded individuals should be MAKING MR CROOSE REALISE HIS HORRIFIC INSANITY. Admittedly, you might have to hook him upto some serious electrodes to acheive this but, then again, even if it doesn’t work it’ll sure be fun watching the little bugger jump!
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I would also suggest that anyone who is so inclined to spend some time Constructively Deconstructing something that needs to be DEAD AND BURIED check this link to some coherent criticisms of Scientology.
And more fun to be had here ripping the shit out of someone who is clearly full to the brim with it! Peace out.
Having awoken this fine, cold morning, bleary-eyed and with a hint of a pharmaceutical hangover from last night, I found myself idly surfing ze web thinking of things to look for. Out of nowhere, between checking the footie results and any new pictures of Uma Thurman that might have been released, I suddenly remembered I had spent about two hours last night in a huge and drug fuelled rant about the despotic little arse-bandit that is Tom Mapother IV. My audience needed little convincing. Cederic, a wonderfully eccentric faggot friend of mine jumped up and demanded to be heard; “Honestly, I don’t know, but that little jumped-up bitch is giving us fags a bad name! He needs to exeunt from that closet of filthy lies and admit to owning a ‘Despoiler 14inch Sphincter Renderer - TM’ like the rest of us anal fanatics!”
Cederic sat down to a loud round of applause. More people started to voice their distaste of this damaged individual:
“Cruise hurts my sensibilities - the man is a terrible non-event….”
“…he’s an abysmal and confused twit, no, make that twat…”
“Yes, he clearly needs help, you know, the sort of help you give a small, buck-toothed rodent that you’ve just run over, kinda on purpose, and is now squirming in a dismal little pool of his own excrement. Hammer to the head, repeatedly, is the only form of medication that will work with his sort.”
This harangue went on for quite some time. Not one person could muster anything positive to say about Hubbard’s Numero Uno Beetch. Eventually we changed subject to something less distatseful; well, we had to really - Fiona had become so worked up with her dawning realisation of utter contempt for the Chief Wanker, that she vomited so hard her tongue almost came loose.
In retrospect and the clear light of this Sunday afternoon, I see now that, although it was fun, all the valid points that were brought to light last night were a waste of our time. The poisoned dwarf is so unbalanced in his head like area that all the logical and rational reasoning that might elucidate to him the insane proposition that he now is as a human, would be like water off a duck’s back - the man is deluded.
Therefore I would like to suggest that the ultimate aim of all like minded individuals should be MAKING MR CROOSE REALISE HIS HORRIFIC INSANITY. Admittedly, you might have to hook him upto some serious electrodes to acheive this but, then again, even if it doesn’t work it’ll sure be fun watching the little bugger jump!
-----------------------------------------
I would also suggest that anyone who is so inclined to spend some time Constructively Deconstructing something that needs to be DEAD AND BURIED check this link to some coherent criticisms of Scientology.
And more fun to be had here ripping the shit out of someone who is clearly full to the brim with it! Peace out.
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