when i grow up i'm going to be as tall as an airplane ~when i grow up, i'm going to be a magnet
i'm going to blow shit up~ buildings, schools, hospitals, fire stations, airports, congress, the white house, my house, your house~
the school play was titled show us your ass, about planets shaped like children who exist as vehicles for civilisations of bacterium, who show there hive mind power by creating dresses and denim pants and striped knit shirtsor~
the play was titled, the Aryans from the moon want their freedom or it's war, while the future hope of the world, USA, stands in the way
Get down my comrades, let me annihilate these friends of fascism with my deathquantic Ray, our pipsqueaked anit-hero croaks, accidentally killing everyone
when will they stop building prisons, Tommy ?
hey, come down and help pour this milk out, then we can fill the bottles with gasoline and attack the cigarette machines
i can't, i'm going to throw this grenade at the postman, my first act of sedition~ my first step to destroying the state
keep walking, smile and just keep walking, that's right wave to the nice lady, and RUN !
but it's flat~ hollow and expanding !
the moon told me to slice your throat Mister Bunny, or is that just a shadow of a knife that grows in the imagination of young girls, don't be cross with me~
see how wheels will help the democratic party finally put an end to the health care stale mate of 1963
shortly before the looters. . . spurred on by the commie pinko fags, who blew up the prison, to feed the poor, who, will not be drawn by any of our professional union artists
look children, the filthy dirty workers are taking another coffee break, sucking the life out of our economy, damn, it we should have bombed them, instead of those japs
Mrs. Martine, are those men Mexican ?
they really eat eggs ?
Mommy, Mommy, the new robotic dolls are out, can we buy one, can we buy one ?
the play was titled, the Aryans from the moon want their freedom or it's war, while the future hope of the world, USA, stands in the way
Get down my comrades, let me annihilate these friends of fascism with my deathquantic Ray, our pipsqueaked anit-hero croaks, accidentally killing everyone
when will they stop building prisons, Tommy ?
hey, come down and help pour this milk out, then we can fill the bottles with gasoline and attack the cigarette machines
i can't, i'm going to throw this grenade at the postman, my first act of sedition~ my first step to destroying the state
keep walking, smile and just keep walking, that's right wave to the nice lady, and RUN !
but it's flat~ hollow and expanding !
the moon told me to slice your throat Mister Bunny, or is that just a shadow of a knife that grows in the imagination of young girls, don't be cross with me~
see how wheels will help the democratic party finally put an end to the health care stale mate of 1963
shortly before the looters. . . spurred on by the commie pinko fags, who blew up the prison, to feed the poor, who, will not be drawn by any of our professional union artists
look children, the filthy dirty workers are taking another coffee break, sucking the life out of our economy, damn, it we should have bombed them, instead of those japs
Mrs. Martine, are those men Mexican ?
they really eat eggs ?
Mommy, Mommy, the new robotic dolls are out, can we buy one, can we buy one ?buy one, oh, honey, you are one !
i can't believe how small god is,
and more slaves. . .
Tommy tried to grab his hat, before he'd realised that he'd been shot in the head by their father
grandfather killed and junked the alien mother ships, while our neighbours came to pray
people grow and change addictions~ thanks in part to the criminally negligent pricing of Alcohol, beer, cigarettes, candy and processed foods
people grow enslaved to corporations because it is easy and feels good, can't live with themselves, or the boredom of this world behind glass, viewed, have never been comfortable around each other because we are all animals
~ thank god we, won the war
now people are telling me that cake won the dessert wars, because people were too uncomfortable eating pie, because they don't like to eat anything shaped like pussy
themselves
all kinds of workers work for you~ Master ! is what i meant. . . until i get a gun
love the crap out of drunk elephants, mid century mascot
could you pass me that big fucking pencil ?
yeah, i need a few salvations
scary, and brilliant
damn it, i just can't ride a trycyle, or share !
whatever became of all these juvenile delinquents roaming the streets in hot rods, with leather jackets and switchblades, greased up hair, where'd they all go, did they get jobs and have kids who grew up to be hippies, who grew up to be disco drug suckers who grew up to be. . . America
i love all of this generic commerciel art form the early sixites such an incredible odd time, so preposterously perfect, could it have actually been real, or was it actually all fantasy,
i can't believe how small god is,
and more slaves. . .
Tommy tried to grab his hat, before he'd realised that he'd been shot in the head by their father
grandfather killed and junked the alien mother ships, while our neighbours came to pray
people grow and change addictions~ thanks in part to the criminally negligent pricing of Alcohol, beer, cigarettes, candy and processed foodspeople grow enslaved to corporations because it is easy and feels good, can't live with themselves, or the boredom of this world behind glass, viewed, have never been comfortable around each other because we are all animals
~ thank god we, won the war
now people are telling me that cake won the dessert wars, because people were too uncomfortable eating pie, because they don't like to eat anything shaped like pussy
themselves
all kinds of workers work for you~ Master ! is what i meant. . . until i get a gun
love the crap out of drunk elephants, mid century mascot
could you pass me that big fucking pencil ?
yeah, i need a few salvations
scary, and brilliant
damn it, i just can't ride a trycyle, or share !
whatever became of all these juvenile delinquents roaming the streets in hot rods, with leather jackets and switchblades, greased up hair, where'd they all go, did they get jobs and have kids who grew up to be hippies, who grew up to be disco drug suckers who grew up to be. . . America
i love all of this generic commerciel art form the early sixites such an incredible odd time, so preposterously perfect, could it have actually been real, or was it actually all fantasy, and i am straightedge on the inside~ always
