He who calls me THE ugliest of writers shall have not his name spoken. Nor of the publication nor broadcast nor streaming service failing to expose the open wound in the head of the head of our grated nation from which the eels, the leeches and the neon orange roaches crawl and slither too freely feeding heartily upon rights and wrongs and savoring age’d parchments of a Constitution, a constitution belching greedily in its golf cart driving over limits more than speed to take a mallet to the balls on green notes of tender gays ways a purple haze that daze the knightly splendor. The self-ass-kisser goeth to the pisser yet soils his toes during the picking of nose and cottons not to examination of one’s inflammation.
Whilst meanwhile back at the bunkhouse the lady first arrived before parents doth drown the dog spot before the blind eyes of the mighty macbreathian monster truck driver teeing off the mob and mobsters from Putinville and kingdom cum grabbing the pussy by the tale tall told the story old of a land so free it could decree death to the planet of ewe and the wee.
Reason is treason in this delirious season. The vanilla supreme tho cannot they sing like the ross Diana nor the prince in purple, oh purple people eater no friend of the wife beater or old macdonald eater who waves his misfired heater and boldly brags of being the cheater. Greetings earthling take me to the river, shiver in the brook now stolen by the crook the whale and dolphin never mistook the fishing hook for a diet of freedumb.
Fauxgive me farter far have I sent the laws of grammar and the logic bent.
James BigBoy Medlin © 2019
James BigBoy Medlin was the sports writer for the original Austin Sun. His column was called "Why Not?"
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