The Bunny

I lost my mind when I wrote this. Anywho that knows me, knows how things go when I go bonkers. THE BUNNY(A stupid story) Once upon a fuck-ass time, there was a bunny named Marbles. Marbles was blue with a pink underbelly, and giant stainless steel fangs in place of the ones he lost a few years ago. He lived in the far, far away land of Psychedelphia, deep inside the mind of the author. The author, by the way, doesn't exist, so keep that in mind. Anyways, Marbles lives in Psychedelphia, a magical land full of amazing animals, fabulous flora and fauna, stunning stratospheres and powerfully psychedelic poffballs. It was a land Dr. Seuss visited to derive his cleaner, kinder inspirations for his books. This land was as magical as Wonderland and as gritty as Wonderland. Alice is bisexual. So, this bad-ass blueassed pinkgutted monkey-fucking rabbit with stainless steel fangs and the name of Marbles sat there, on the trial, in the middle of nowhere, puffing on a jimson-weed joint and huffing his seventh can of Scotch-Gard, when this high and mighty trooper turtle named Sam (incidentally, this Sam is not related to that retarded turtle Sam from PBS. Stop retardation of our children!) came over with a bag of smack and two needles. 'Hey.' Marbles hollered. Sam instantly rivedted his blood-shot eyes, retrieved his Glock and ran rivulets of bullets through Marbles' heads, splattering that blue bunny bastard's brains everywhere between Britian and Bangladesh. ''What's up?' Sam wiped his nose with a deaden ear and pissed on Marbles' quivering body as one of Marbles' arms struggled mightily to retrieve what little was left of the feces he called gray matter. 'Nothing much. Whatcha got?' A fire in my underwater underwear underoos. The Marxists sat there and puffed on their high expensive cigars as they discussed the future of Cuba, and Marbles mumbled out six distinctly different dots on the New Jersey map, and Sam ran into all of the folks there and murdered them all with a Denny's Grand Slam meal. 'Uh. A bag of smack, two needles. Want a Coke?' Miami explodes into sixteen different forms of anaphasic glorified hell-balls; Utah is brought to its knees by a maniacal man wielding nothing more than a pen, a pad, an afro an dan angry, self-sustaining beard with sub-atomic capabilities as well as a deep-fryer stuffed deep into the crevasses of his backpack along with the Tottenham Hotspur FC and their supporters. 'Sure. I'll go get the burgers. You want one?' Ramen causes Cancer. Legs cause locomotion. Walking Ramen kills 20, ravages villages in southwestern India; KGB suspected in sexual fiasco involving fermented rice-fish and forty-two thousand Celtic druids resurrected primarily to participate in the X-Games in the Necro Vert and Rot Luge events. Ronald McDonald experiences subliminal rape from Hamburgular and the Cincinnati Bengals defensive line. Wreak Havoc! Wreak Testicle! Wreak Beer! David Hasselhoff must fricassee! 'Aight.' They part. Somewhere during this critical phase in our universe's time-continuum, two vast, foraging alien forces collide between galaxies in an elaborate game of Manatee Chess, and a war erupts in which French-fries are the obvious culprit, and the refrigerators made by Kenmore are used to annihiliate and cleanse the impury lobotomy patients like those sponsored by the 'Save the Children' fund, and etc, etc, etc killed Jack Kerouac. Meanwhile, a poffball comes along. 'Poff,' the poffball says. Suddenly, a powerful riptide rips through the poffball's body, and he explodes into billions and billions of parts, killing everything within a 16-mile radius. Nobody cares. Starbucks, Planet Starbucks. How may we help you drink our coffee, with its beans made by the enslavement of one-armed Mexican men with two teeth and a wino's breath, and endlessly stained shirts and grimacing toes, while the Australians kill and catch (Oui, zee is different. Different!) platypuses to use their skins for exfoliating soap and Tom incites a riot in Jambala, Brazil over the price of Skin-So-Soft and Swank magazines? No point, no point. Mark Twain, stay dead, please! I can take this job seriously! The psychedelic effects are temporary; the poffball has violated the temporal laws of 14th century Japan, and as a result, has commited to the elaborate tea ceremony of self-castration through intricate removal of the testicles through the Islets of Langhorne without sutures, on the eleventh hour of a day hiding a witch's moon while eating two cans of masala-flavored rice off the head of two exact dead replicas of Marilyn Monroe. I lost my mind. Find it. It might crack when you step on it, it looks so much like a contact. Satan is in my underwear again. Sam comes back. He holds two cans of Coke. In 1864, Atlanta burned. In 1992, Los Angeles burned. Christopher Columbus Sailed The Ocean Blue in Fourteen Ninety-Two In His Fuck-Ass Baby Blue Ass Spleunkers While Indians Recited Poetry And Fomented Against The Spainards for Bad Cooking and Bad Art, and The British Perfected Their Hicky, Hinny Hooey-assed Teeths and Accents Synchronized With Mr. Rogers' Hacking, Whacking Phlegm-Blasting Coughs. WE hold these truths to be self-evident, self-supporting, self ass-wiping, and thoroughly incorrigible, as incorrigible as Dolly Parton's breasts seems to the NRA in terms of sheer armor, and capable of stopping the overflow of the Tennessee Valley in case of another Civil War, which we shall call here forth 'Another Civil War' as to not treat the American Publick Stupidly. Marbles has hamburgers. I have typhoid. I hate Marbles. I hope he falls off a cliff, get a perfectly narrow tree trunk caught up his assjamb, and tears of approximately 22 and a half feet of intestines as well as a third of his liver, and 1/6 of Malaysia's Gross National Profit, plus every k.d. lang song ever written, before he hits the ground in a heap of torrential shit and flaming fungicide, liberally dosed by a loving Julia Child whose hump keeps her from competing with Julia Roberts, who should have never dated Richard Gere, who should have left all those poor hamsters alone so they could have danced more online, who lent propensity to the pornographical filth online that Larry Flynt made famous, while Clevelant deliberately torched the Cuyahoga in spite, who went down narrow alleys and wide upandishads in search of a white dharma, who beat Allen Ginsburg like a tin drum and sprayed his blood everywhere so Pollack could paint his works so that we could lose our minds and ram our heads melodiously into every open, cold crack in the sidewalks to loosen up mother earth's clutch on the sandstone supply in accordance to the Taft-Hardy law or some bullshit jive like that, who gives regular monopolistic folks like that a black eye, just like the cats' eyes I'm going to hit out of the ring. Anyway, I hate Marbles, and I ate Sam. Boredom ate my brain, and how about you? 'Poff.' This isn't getting anywhere, is this?Please don't turn me in to the UN International Court. You probably will, anyway, so I'll save you some legwork: International Criminal Court