Brinesanity – an abide jar, filled with all the fuqs given.


Armstruth “I am just a good fella”

On the tour, around the world special diets and supplements were used, natural of course, good, simple food. So what if they were not in the cooked books, or the small pressings of re-issued prescriptions like microwaved media. Why can’t people just acknowledge that Armstruth was simply doing what he was told, to eat nothing too complex, allow the supplies to go in one end, be processed, then leaving the back end in tiny brown envelopes. There is no proof, and there is no flaming cigar syringe that proves he had any type of metabolic tantric relations with Usada Dope, the Nigerian immigrant that was purchased by a French Tour de Bovine route farmer, that hoped the annual traffic would help sustain his family.

Armstruth thought he was doing the right thing, when he stopped on the side of the road that day, and it all changed. As a result of believing what a simple dairy farmer had suggested would be a good remedy for his ailing pistons and pumps, believing that the cream was not frozen, it was warmed. It is really cream, and not cow shit with alfalfa in it and that is healthy because Pharmataint, the global authority on all things good for humans says so. Then after watching the 9 year old sistah lift the cows tail and Dairy Queen swirl one glorious mound of love into that beauty. I must admit, it was impressive to see the chase care footage show him knock that bitch out with one strike, and the round house delivered to the farmer – Bruce Lie approved.

That is not an ice cream cone you best be serving to some wise guys in Brooklyn. Even if you think it may go off like apologizing for calling them just slimy, and cunty, but not fat. So Pratatoe applies the FYLM (Fuck You Lie to Me methodology, invented in Staford by the same team that invented the Senate Sock, the enhanced congressional fleshlight found within all first world governing quorum facilities, including the public speaking chambers) principle.

*all re-enactments of the following parts of the Armstruth dialogues are meant to convey the appearance of a drug fuelled good guys dinner, in Brooklyn looking for guerilla footage of the elusive Zitizilla, a gargantuan fucking ape, with the ability to disguise his entrance into the Times Square Anal Bead Cinematography festival with daft integration, and limited repercussions. Please note, the extension of the mind required to imagine a giant mobster ape, of any ethnic background, eating a deli sammich, scratching the proverbial balls, may be elusive and should not to be attempted by anyone without two thumbs.

<scene III>

[the table is covered with reports from the UBS-Whorebird HNW Division, we see the Bogota emeralds outlining the pictures of the Kwanzaa tree from O. Pratatoe’s holiday trip. Sparkling Eunuch Springs water bottles remain, they are placed next to the CrewRig Insta-Adrenaline brewer strategically replacing the BO$E system for this segment]

O. Pratatoe: You’re a pistol, you’re really funny. You’re really funny.
Armstruth: What do you mean?
O. Pratatoe: It’s funny, you know. It’s a good story, it’s funny, you’re a funny guy – like how the fuck you think you going to tell me, you was wanting to make sure she is dafriend still, an ‘pologized?
<lighter heard, bong rips>
Armstruth: What do you mean, you mean the way I talk? What? In circles, and always under the guise of not totally admitting fault, cause that would mean the bugs in the room youse gotz in here are gonna be all fazoole and shit?
<huge breasted 1920’s cigarette girl comes by, tray is filled with elastic bands with the FYPM emblazoned across them, hand gesture, with a sweet follow up ass slap and kissing lips sound>
O. Pratatoe: It’s just, you know…fuck look at dat azz…mmmmm, hmmmm…yeah, you’re just funny, it’s… funny, the way you tell the story and everything… called her a whore, but not a fat whore. That is bullshit, what a fucking joke, that you would not remember saying it, and yeah, prescilly portant to someone he knew was.
Armstruth: Funny how? What’s funny about it? Like you think I am not being sincere here?
Balls Lebowski (Voice, producer, off-set): Armski no! You got it all wrong!!
Armstruth: Oh, oh, Anthony. He’s a big boy, he knows what he said. What did ya say? Funny how?
O. Pratatoe: Jus…seems De Niro healed, know? Not analyzed-really. Not healed, and not telling the truth…you seem full of fucking shit, and a selfish fuck looking to get back into the circuit because your gravy train is now Purina dog food boiled in the kettle with some shallots from your fucking spice garden you fucking gamboom? You want me to get Van Fraudde to come over and show you how we play Two Nipple Monte?
Armstruth: How much for dee beetle girl?
<mimic best Belushi impression, and pretends to eat O. Pratatoe’s calf like a chicken leg>
O. Pratatoe: Just…Animal House?
Armstruth: You mean, let me understand this cause, ya know maybe it’s me, I’m a little fucked up maybe, but I’m funny how, I mean funny like imma not doing the blues like a brother well enough for you, I amuse you? I make you fucking laugh <hard glance to camera> Imma here to fuckin’ amuse you? What do you mean funny, funny how? How am I funny?
O. Pratatoe: Just… you know, how you tell the story. Keep lying. Hol’lying it up for the new rubber band sales person cause she is all “hearts on my door” and “I love you” and shit, playing the media whore with 38 abortions on your record – 3 of them francophone, speaking cows man.
Armstruth: No, no, I don’t know, you said it. What the fuck does “the only path back to wealth is his ability to placate now” mean? How do I know? You said it. How the fuck <holds up hands in papal fashion, clasping manicured nails purchased by donation tenderly to not wash off the glaze, shits expensive yo> – so many deserters, and now my Pratatoe appearance is gonna be like fucking a stranger in the ass?
O. Pratatoe: [long pause] Get the fuck out of here, ArmedTruth! Owl Grove
<throws gang sign, concealed by the wiggly box shit some techie puts over the film>
Armstruth: [everyone laughs] Ya motherfucker! I almost had you, I almost had you. Ya stuttering prick ya. Balls, was she shaking? I wonder about you sometimes, Poe-taught. You may fold under questioning if those motherfucker’s at UBS-Whorebird get snapped into the wood shed behind the lake during the Vig Split ‘n Spitt Cookout at the grove.

*The Gulch.

 photo goodFetastyles_zpsfc9af73b.jpg

You know what the real shame is, that more fucking people are going to think that all bad guys are in leather, or cheap suits trying to blend in until the Rolex flashes. Let those that cast no stones on the philanthropic tides remind us of why we must not believe anymore, and let one fucking asshole stereotype lead us into temptation. Paradigm is shifted with the lenses, and the macro or the micro look will tell the difference of reality, from where your mind really sits today. Wake up and fuckin’ live. The grass is fucking orange man. The grass. Is. Fucking. Orange.



Armstruthtonged: Flipflopology on the Bike

Go ahead, reach into your overnight Adidas bag, bring out the gold flip flops. Become a world class flipflipologist. Make it reign Frankie Wilde styles. Discover the beauty in the similarities of bicycle wheels and records both being round, look at those disco biscuits and come hurling into the stadium all confident and sure that your clean ways will be welcomed in the parting sea of flesh you witness before you, or have convinced yourself of existing for the sake of one blissful night dancing away to the tribal rhythms and photo album memories greased with 34% proof O’pratatoe vodka.

Or maybe you think the cameras don’t see that context smirk and your attitude? After all, the walls in the room are a mellow cobblestone tone, similar to the one’s in the 87 of the countries you toured in, disposing of your lies to people that hoped you could be real, and not another fucking human tragedy consumed by the masses for mind calories wanting for some kind of substance in the face of malnutrition.

*all re-enactments of the following parts of the Armstruth dialogues are meant to convey the appearance of a drug fuelled rave, in Goa looking for guerilla footage of the elusive jawmonger, a travelling modern day cyclist him/herself. Caution when invading the space of the jawmonger, as it may result in passive acceptance of his awkward dance moves based on the hope that you can experience love in this state. Please note, the extension of the mind required to imagine a cycle as a dose or a round of drugs, over a period of time that can be considered pretty “normal” to (ab)users, may be elusive and should not to be attempted by pop music fans, anyone who still has a Michael Jackson album, and sloth. Any and all sloth, or slothii, should not proceed.

<scene II>

[crystal buckets, beach sized with small platinum scoops are lined up, each a different shape – cocaine, ecstasy, meth, et al. Sparkling Eunuch Springs water bottles remain. Swaying hips of Foodstamp Servers move gently to the house music in the background. The shot of the B0$E system is snuck into frame]

O. Pratatoe: Was it a big deal to you, did you feel thong?
Armstruth: On a dime? No.
<purses eyebrows, that tap out code to the black ops website translators, furnishing more information that must be buried in this HTML-Dali code: The Tall Elephants are Gathering>
O. Pratatoe: Was selling your soul, to wear thongs, wrong?
<head is swaying gently to some Digweed, just like it was on the shores of Maui when they rehearsed this set. O. Pratatoe was in charge of the light mixer over the ocean, and the signals to the Somalian pirates off shore ready to ignite the Roman Candle fireworks set to cascade in the form of a badger>
Armstruth: No, quite fair. E?
<head nods passionately, crows feet disappear>
O. Pratatoe: Did you feel bad about sharing your hammock and flipflopUniballogy?
Armstruth: No, just hairier.
<sign languages the two walking feet over his palm, in circular motions and the audio impaired reader posts “Fred Flinstone Can Start a Car Like This” as he nods his head and winks>
O. Pratatoe: Did you feel, in any way that your bullshit was overheating?
Armstruth:  No, the scariest.
<eyes pop open, the vowel hits here, pupils dilate, we see a reflection in the window of a man holding a cue card with the words “winning” barely visible, upon any screenshot and HD review of it, the viewers would see Charlie Sheen being the holder of the cue card crafted of tiger blood black ink and parchment layers of chemical peels removed from mattress quests of skewered goddesses and concubines>
O. Pratatoe: What do you mean?
Armstruth: Well, when you wear the flip flops man, it’s perfection.
O. Pratatoe: Seriously, your woo is peeing on my mind here dude…
Armstruth: When I can’t wait to ride, I am an artist.
<quick scene cut to page flipping media cards, camera pans as soon as the word Rat Salad appear>
O. Pratatoe: What?
Armstruth: I am the walrus.
O. Pratatoe: Phil, bring us a couple of bumps, this is getting good…
Armstruth: I just stare at the flip flips under the lever…
O. Pratatoe: Who exactly is the walrus, and did he force you to take the drugs and come perform at this magic festival we are at? <eyes thrust open like porcelain bone saucers, flying, fucking, saucers> SOMEONE THROW TULIP PETALS AT ME – I LOVE THIS TRACK!
Armstruth: Look I have a Campagnolo lever, I got from Ibiza!!
O. Pratatoe: I was considering buying that place once…
<camera DPS-HD1 fades to black, cut to a funny fucking link, and not a sponsor, so dig it, all the posts have multiple media links in them, that is part of the way we role>


“Do you suffer from PTEP? PTCP? PTSP? Post Traumatic E-potato Placement, Comma Placement, of Syntax Prolapse is a serious illness. Many claim it is done intentionally, however few have the tangents to prove it. Dr. Filinstein’s Poegrow metastasizes with all brands of soda and O’pratatoe brand chips. Free shipping by the US Postal Service, mailing parcels my not be exactly as illustrated.”

*For men experiencing a prolonged, painful erection, taking this medication to stay on Team Fur Munchhousen seek immediate medical attention or permanent problems could result in you becoming asexual. All persons  should contact a fucking doctor immediately. All medical treatment will be paid for by the machine, under the Fair Noshit Sherlock Statute of 1923, if you experience a missed menstrual period; breast lump or discharge; calf or leg pain, swelling, or tenderness; change in amount of urine produced; chest pain or heaviness; confusion; coughing up blood; fainting; irregular heartbeat; left-sided jaw, neck, shoulder, or arm pain; mental or mood changes (such as depression); numbness of an arm or leg; one-sided weakness; persistent, severe, or recurring headache or dizziness; severe stomach pain or tenderness; slurred speech; sudden severe vomiting; sudden shortness of breath; symptoms of liver problems (such as yellowing of the skin or eyes, fever, dark urine, pale stools, loss of appetite); unusual or severe vaginal bleeding; or vision changes (such as sudden vision loss, double vision as a result of buying this shit. This slot has been strategically selected to appease our corporate interests, the lobby teams coordinated efforts, Headscratch Cycle-psycho, and all narcissists willing to accept apologies over weight as a condition for kinship and financial remuneration from once again swinging on the hairy veins, like Tarzan buoys in the Armstruth jungle.



O. Pratato? Armstruth, tonged.

I do not dwell in my shit, or my fight for it. I recognize it, and the glory of remission in hand, is better than the hope for the two in the bush. Living strong means taking what you can get, to survive. That is what caused me to believe in the man, Lance Armstrong. A public figure that suffered much of the same fate as many a man, literally, and of course inspired millions with his “lies”.

That is what all still state, and yes, there were lies within the realm of everything else that is out there, and so you can not recognize that even to return, to ride and finish, is an accomplishment. To have been given what he had, and to disregard it with the brash wave of the hand is almost unholy.

Cancer is not to be fucked with. What it extent it played in all of this, and how, is not even being considered as a contributing factor, or a delineating one, and I find that not only tragic, but something that fully flies in the face of truth and convention. When someone is dealing with some pretty harsh shit, physical or mentally capable of killing more than just dreams or goldfish, it plays a role.

A big fucking role.

Here, what this fictional consideration looks at, is leagues ahead of the bullshit that Howard Lederer pulled in the online poker world, and I snapped watching all of his shit, I have some stuff I am going to micro ship as a rantella shortly. That is a blend of ranting mixed with some novella sizing to add a little love to the day/weekend. (*Fuck you buy a shitty paper on the street for $0.50 – slip a bro some change for some coffee would yeah, they took my medals too)

Well they tried to.

So in order to prevent any of the sensitive crap from the likes of folks that may go apeshit when someone like Rolling Stone splashes me on the cover for being brilliant and delightfully intriguing and funny and all of that other bullshit we read in the fake Twitter bio’s, which are pretty “obvious” – like finding that swamp sinkhole it the back of the family cottage. Digging for gold.

Getting Armstruthtonged means reaching into a shit infested swamp, to try to bring out gold and riches for others, hoping they will not try to wipe that shit eating grin off your face and its fallacious representations. Continued half truth’s that have to be waxed on and waxed off between pelican poses on sandy shores in distant lands with huge mother fucking tongs, used to hopefully disguise your missing testicular soul mate.

Which is cool, I mean, if you got to roll that way.

As a uniBaller, or as either of the two characters introduced below, you know, as fictional and satirical prose.

Call it Feta Verité.

That is the way I would role, and if they had the chance to run corporate America, to be able to follow the same philosophy I saw last night, and will cap off tonight, the world would be a great fucking place.

*the re-enactment of the following dialogue is meant to convey the appearance of a drug fuelled acid trip, into Phukit looking for guerilla footage of the elusive fuqranauticus Salonica, a large white tower shaped vestibule on the shores of distant brines. Please note, the extension of the mind required to imagine a huge stone building just walking around “trying” to be elusive in any regard is significant and is not to be attempted by mental fuqranauts.

[table filled with Belgian chocolate dipped Twinkies, sparkling Eunuch Springs water bottles, and Iceberg Oysters*]

*Iceberg Oysters are also highly forbidden, but this batch was delivered by Dr. Hiandrye. They are gathered by forlorn Norwegian widows who have been implanted with precious audience participation gifts like aqualungs and Icarian GPS for one purpose. To harvest sveal balls from virgin, organic Arctic sea icebergs. A sveal must be between a particular age, and the more exotic one’s are marked on the snouts with exotic tribal tattoo depictions of bacon, hockey sticks and pine cones.

O. Pratatoe: The corporate team made you do it, 
but you still did it?
<slurps Iceberg Oysters, licks fingers>
Armstruth: I don’t want to say anything, but Ferrari – ummmm…
O. Pratatoe: Coke cans in the trash, admit liability?
Armstruth: Ummmmmm, nope.
O. Pratatoe: Dude, that is pretty fuqt.
<tucks a couple of the Iceberg’s away in the bra, winks to Camera FL-HD2>
Armstruth: Ummmmm, yeah.
<plucks nosehair, to shed a tear which made of diamonds crushed from the coal shoved up his ass from sponsors and crushed internally by his heart, and fired by lies, creating the perfect environment for synthetic diamond creation, the source of his wealth, and the black ops sponsor of fetaman.com the site, which is why my small descriptions of scene frames involve the same disregard for civility as teabaggin’ the UN Headquarters Main door entry knob, everyone would touch it and never know, right?>
O. Pratatoe: They said you all did that, and saw you.
Armstruth: Ummmmmm, potato.
O. Pratatoe: Seriously, are you telling me you can’t remember or this is some kind of Armstruthtongedian philosophy?
Armstruth: Oh, pratato?


“Yeah, you even got the back seat closet in the Mini to prove you mean business -see that, that is a sock pouch. Know why? Cause when they sign with me, I leave ’em my socks. So they can remember me, as they will never see these feet again after I remove them from their ass that lovely mourn.”*
*spelling meant to evoke a response, and those of you that did not get that are required to go back, read that again, and then ignore this asterix until it is no longer relavant, or until this has been filled with more feta and unicorn dust.



Tuesday two steppin’


I think this whole thing is a joke, and no one wants to speak out about it…why to avoid hurting poker? No the only way we are going to accept what the truth is with what has happened, is to be able to accept that what happened has happened, but do not try to fucking make me be an absolute asshole and believe that you did not know about separate accounts, or the need to keep your business, separate from the bitch you sleep beside? Really, so you are married – I was not speaking about your wife in the first place, so that folks do not think I was being cryptic, or evasive, really.

Fuck, and you sat on a board, that had all of this “common sense” – you are fucking poker player’s man, no one wants to compare you to a fucking CEO dude, you are a poker player, with some smart friends, that managed to make sure that the ultimate uber-level, this fantastic “usual suspects” (*does this strike a nerve, am I going to get some kind of ninja assassin to come back over to my place and just simply kill me?)

Holy shit, I can not believe I am watching this shit transpire, and I am at the 29:14 mark of the second video, and I had to do this, and then somehow tie it back to my site, the same kind of shit happened, with the wrong one’s getting the lime light, and somehow, the one’s that did all the work got fucked – sounds like some kind of bad WSOP tournament outcome…fucking jiving me?

Fucking joke, but then again, so is society, it is some bastard child that came out of the ass of Mary herself after she got pegged by Satan’s sister with a strap-on, a crucifix, a dead child hanging off her necklace, and laughing tax-man taking more than your soul to pay these bills.

Wow – this can be a real fucking gig, but there will be ZERO tolerance. The fucking liars, the cheats, the fucking pricks that do not simply stand there and say, yeah, it was a fucking gruesome bullshit taco – but someone needed to eat it, and I did not want to, nor do I – what do you want me to do? Wear a fucking carrot suit? I will, just make Annie the fucking broccoli.

I am guilty by association if I lay in a den of crack addicts, and this man can have stood at the alter of licking the cheat salt of the choda of Christ, well Jesus, and we now get to watch some half-assed attempt at a fucking Nixon tapes twat “asking the hard questions” – wow, I can’t believe I had to sign up here to do it, and I can assure you, TG the reason, not that fucking pussy licking the balls of the real dog now.

Say it like you mean it, and be true to it.

lmao  *e-thug sign inserted here*

fucking bullshit.

I really wonder if he will look that fucking good in prison – please, just stop this bullshit about giving folks the goods, when they provide some goods back to the right department – this is law? This is common sense? This is the reason that we get to advance a society and hope that we can make a real difference?

Yeah, funk and games.

What a fucking well orchestrated script eh? I mean, a genuine re-re-re-re-re-re-re – fuck, exponent, unreal dimension raise.

Who else could convince him to come back to actually do this sitting with the right ‘reporter’?

Really, you can not stand in front of a jury of respected peers, or minds and answer this question?

It will be too hard?

Like the nights you left the other’s sleepless wondering how the followed down this road of learned wisdom and followings from other’s only to come to the same realization that Locke did? I would think that is my Locke of the day right now in fact, thank you very much. As I sit here and listen to some of the shit that you are spewing, as the corner of the screen hinders my vision from your eye’s time to time, fret not, I will come back and watch this again, and again – how many times?

I am not sure, does it matter? You are going to always be the same, the words, are always going to mean what you want them to, and when you try to seek the mighty banhammer, the God’s will surely find a quick hand to lay down on your breath, and shush you back to sleep.


Making me puke, but then again, the idiot’s, the fool’s, the lemmings – they all grow, the move down the stream, do they remember the readings from mr. t. caum? Do they recall they scandals of the last spawn?

Do they remember the rubbing of sticks to create fire, as they heat the knife of Mac, who ran off with cheese to create a fortune, a fraction of a noodle and dehydrated curd at a time?

Woe is me fine sir, I have sat there, did not know that at 2:14 of the third episode, this douchebag could actually say, we “were never shown” that, or for that matter “no shareholder, was ever shown that…” – oh the mystery of the fine silk

So are you claiming here that you never saw “that particular” one, or something like it in fact? That you never even inquired about how that state of affairs might be – that as Rome was fucking burning, somehow, you sat there pretending your ass and thumb could create another great “iron-tard” competition to see how man tards would lift the weight of time, and health, and sleep, and effort, and study, and play – to become an IronTard © for FTP VPP’s…yes, you can become a Zeus Factor Player, simply keep passing us cash, and we will keep selling you gas, as we grope your wife’s ass, and then look around the life you lead for more sass…Jordan, one fine river, no?

Are you for fucking real Howard? I mean, please at least wear some kind of skull and crossbones fucking flag across your forehead to declare you are a dickhead, a major fucking mark of wtf on the IQ of the intelligent one’s, but don’t put me in that category…do you really think that somehow I would fall for it, and do something that may make me regret my last breath – like deposit on FTP after this?

I love the fucking game, it is fun, but it is not my life, and I will not let my life get taken by it – I will be entertained, I will win by luck or by crooked fate falling on the fucking cunts that try to bypass Abide Blvd.

The truth is, you can get to your Boulevard of Broken Dreams, with passing Abide.

You fight it, and it – well, it eats you only if you are lucky enough to have eaten the bar in the first place, sarsaparilla in hand or not…

I know this is jumping and I will go back and fill in some more of the review on the second go, but is he saying around 4:50 (3) that he is “offended” as a BOD, that he was “never made aware of this” – are you fucking kidding me – you KNOW it went into a 9-digit range, and then sit back and state, oh yeah, well, we should have seen some paper come across the desk, or at least the Bat signal go off…

You are a genuine con man dude. A fucking pos, that happened to hit some money with poker, and ran like a fucking con-man running well and now, I really do hope, not for the sake of poer, or letting many lemmings, as well as some real, innocent and genuine people – no I hope for the sake of humanity, pieces of shit like you are fed to wolves. For entertainment, the same way you can laugh with the champagne and the cars as you pass that poor bastard with the shopping cart heading into the caverns of the sewage you spew.

That way.
That same contempt, but mutated into my own malfeasance, covered with the icing of being able to know what a real fucking waste of space life has become.

Speaking of wasted space, I love the professional duckface leading up to 7:30 where he brushes off the “backlog” as well, would not have been an issue if we had money (insert slipper slope, or a slippery slope fallacy reference here for those that might appreciate the humor, and like a dog moving from side to side via it’s own tale) – yeah, we know we had small anecdotal stories about missing buy-ins, or couple days late with a syntax issue or digit issue from someone, no big woop – yes, that is a great place to draw a parallel – please, connect the 9 digits of backlog, with a “handful” of issues each day? Is that fair Howard?

Fuck you are good – did you do nothing but practice this off of the shit that Phil did post-UB? Look at him now, skating through it all, being so grand – is he not so pretty?

You can be too, just figure out what the old lady in the shoe was looking to do, and then move from there.

(*insert waterphone, or acid reference here, some kind of youtube video may be too long and ISP issue – go with quicker feta/fuck you asshole bullet…)

Oh yes, the 10th commandment was to use the world “clearly, they were hiding something in Dublin” – so let’s NOT go over there and ask questions, or fuck, based on the madness, even knock on the crack dealer’s door and inquire about any peculiar noises they may have heard – shit, you folks are crushing the DOJ, the State, the people – you can stare into those eyes, and repeat “well, what did YOU see?”

Say it enough times, and begins to sound like, well, what did you pee – no actually, it sounds like that almost right off the bat – I like turtles.

Same kind of logic, no?

We are far, there is an issue – bake cake, sing, dance – it is all good, see/hear/speak evil is so under-the-radar.

Pardon, how?

Easy, the amount of bullshit just piled so high, they had to move the radar higher, grown swell effect.

(*insert picture of ferris wheel, circus, some kind of funny show time/vaudeville bullshit – inject some laugh, this is getting pretty hardcore) – so onward, and I guess, supposed to be looking odd for using diff syntax, omg – like – totally…karma man – fucking chinks bombed us – sell them – steal fire – survive.

Where on the fucking scale are you, how do you think you are that much different than the rest of the world, and all it brought to this table.

Oh wait, yeah, you invented poker and how to scam.

Were you part of the original “star chamber”, or just the MLM off-shoot of it you got dragged into thanks to those negatives with you and Lee Jones, yeah a whole slew of pure pos-lemonade who know just how lovely, delightful, magnificent the blessing and parting are.

Salt atop a sardine, swim on top of swine. Toast with the most jam and the last butter on the block, and I do not mean the marlmelade or anything else like it.

Can you hear the words that are going to be coming fro your mouth, or have you closed you eyes and tried to at least type the last paragraph as yu prepare for you life in blindness.

Then they ask why so angry – because I am going blind, because I have the cancer, or the bad jeans, and somehow assholes like this fucking cunt, are allowed to walk.

LOL *head smack*

With a mess like this at 10:20, how was there still distributions? He is claiming innocence, post April 15 – “of course we need to find an investor, or fix this problem – if only we knew in Decemer or January…it was not us, it was HIM!”

Beware the drowing man selling you his shirt. He does not want to sell you the shirt.

I was never shown a balance sheet, or financial document that would have suggested we were in trouble, because if I had, my immediate finance senses, so keen and honed like the landing strips on our families genitalia, I would have been able to see that, to detect, like an investment banker the discrepancies…”

Um, you know how to catch bluff’s, if they are important, and you are in the game – how the fuck did you manage to not only miss the bluff, but the game in it’s entirety?

*shakes head*


Brilliant – it was the game, a new game, more of a challenge, with 52 cards, played in sequence, in 13 separate universes…those will provide tangets we can cross over by blowing flour and honey dust over the beams…just don’t leave the memory stick behind…whatever you do.


(fragment of the whole document…lol…message for complete version…maybe…)


Attack, defence, beautiful.

“For every moment of triumph, for every instance of beauty, many souls must be trampled.”

Hunter S. Thompson