Freckles was a typical Springer Spaniel. He loved getting his belly rubbed. He loved chasing rubber balls. He loved killing chickens. He was a downright cute lovable little rascal and for all that he had going for him, he was still a dog.
Dogs are not the most intelligent creature on the planet though I must admit they are more intelligent than many humans, but all-in-all, they are creatures of habit, desires, and the environment. As far as dogs go Freckles was right in the middle of the doggy intelligence pack.
Age affects all living creatures. Some life forms such as the giant redwood tree's in North America, can live many hundreds of years while other forms of life can only live a few minutes, minutes needed to multiply before ceasing to exist. Dogs live various spans depending on breed. For example: An average lifespan for a Great Dane is five years. For a tiny dog yapping on the floor such as a Chihuahua, they can live eighteen or more years, providing they don't get drop-kicked by a sadistic neighborhood kid walking home from school.
Freckles was only four years old and if he didn't get caught killing more chickens he could look forward to many more years of being cute.
Dogs eat a lot of strange food. They eat their own shit. They eat cats. They eat chickens. They eat just about any damn thing they can get into their mouths. Some of what they eat is bad for them but that does not stop them from eating chocolate, nuts, grapes, and round-and-round we go : They eat it all.
That one particular Winter night there was a fantastic display over the town of Vegas as a Russian rocket re-entered the atmosphere. Many people were oohing and ahhing as the fireball raced across the sky. It was easy to see the multicolored light shed pieces, pieces which continued to fly across the sky and fall to earth.
One of those pieces landed in a field where Freckles was returning from after just killing ten of the neighbors chickens. He was not scared at all as he heard and saw the small piece of Russian technology hit the frost covered grain field. Sauntering over he sniffed the very small piece, and then after giving it a lick, he swallowed it and continued home.
Freckles was soon discovered by his owner to be in immense pain as the dog groaned and yelped, running to hide in his dog house. This was the first time the owner had ever seen his dog in such distress, and as he tried to enter the dog house he heard the dog say, "Get out!"
This scared the shit out of the owner as dogs do not speak English, or any language for that matter, they barely can master barking. Hitting his head as he quickly back pedaled his body away from the doghouse, the human master thought that maybe he was just imagining the voice.
"Freckles, are you okay?" Not so strange, humans talk to their dogs all the time expecting nothing in return but a bark or a lick or something 'doggy'. In this case however he got his reply.
"You human piece of shit, I'm much better than you will be in another few seconds. Prepare to die!'
The owner peed himself, screamed and ran towards the house but he was no match for the Springer Spaniel with blood red eyes, foaming fang filled mouth, and the speed of a gazelle.
"Yes, run human run, you can do it human, run..." Freckles said with a chuckle in his voice, and then he pounced high into the air and bit down hard on the neck of his master, bringing the body to the ground. And then the feast began...
***
Yep, life is like a box of chocolates. You never know if the piece falling from space is a part of a returning Russian rocket or a piece of 'something' else.
Now, go write something, or maybe eat some left over chicken in the fridge, or some chocolate, or heck, maybe some puppy on a stick.
Writers Parasite [Contains Adult Language & Situations]
Moderator: Editors
Re: Writers Parasite
oh no, i can't see my feet. Has anyone seen my feet? I know i had them this morning...
Have you seen my feet?
"Why are you talking to me? I don't even exist."
Sorry. Say you, yes you, have you seen my feet?
"Man, you're crazy, you don't have any feet."
I know, that's why i'm looking for them.
"Well, I think you're just wasting my time."
Hey! I found my feet. Boy that was a close one.
"Knock it off already Robin, you're weird."
No i'm not...hey, now I'm missing my hands.
"Then how can you be typing?"
Oh, yeah, you're right, never mind.
Have you seen my feet?
"Why are you talking to me? I don't even exist."
Sorry. Say you, yes you, have you seen my feet?
"Man, you're crazy, you don't have any feet."
I know, that's why i'm looking for them.
"Well, I think you're just wasting my time."
Hey! I found my feet. Boy that was a close one.
"Knock it off already Robin, you're weird."
No i'm not...hey, now I'm missing my hands.
"Then how can you be typing?"
Oh, yeah, you're right, never mind.
-
Lester Curtis
- Long Fiction Editor
- Posts: 2736
- Joined: January 11, 2010, 12:03:56 AM
- Location: by the time you read this, I'll be somewhere else
Re: Writers Parasite
Hey, look, Santa brought Lipinski a new bong!
I was raised by humans. What's your excuse?
Re: Writers Parasite
i wish Lester, got a ball of yarn instead and it kicked my ass. got the shit wrapped all around me. it got tangled in my balls and the dog is, is... Radar, don't tug! Ouch! Come here you little bastard...
***
On a serious note: Why do we party and feel good just before the hammer drops?
***
Tried to post a story here but it kept saying, "You need to be logged in to post" even though I was logged in. Tried to copy-and-paste the story and got the same results.
Anyway, a new year is coming and boy am i feeling inspired to write which means the parasite will feed, now i...Damn it Radar enough with the tugging of yarn. Here, have some peanut butter...
***
On a serious note: Why do we party and feel good just before the hammer drops?
***
Tried to post a story here but it kept saying, "You need to be logged in to post" even though I was logged in. Tried to copy-and-paste the story and got the same results.
Anyway, a new year is coming and boy am i feeling inspired to write which means the parasite will feed, now i...Damn it Radar enough with the tugging of yarn. Here, have some peanut butter...
Re: Writers Parasite
Oh my! The end of a the year leading to a 'New Year". Actually, in nature every moment is new and changing so picking a single 'day' to mark a newness is a bit redundant, but the parasite could care less as it will only continue to feed.
On behalf of my many personalities trapped in this body, the best to all and to you and yours. May your inner demons hunger be sated, your muse inspiring, and success abundant in the 'New Year'.
Now, for a shameless plug from Robin: He wants you to check out his website wishfulenigma.com
There you will find jewelry made by Margareta and his bizarre attempts at writing. Also, buy a copy of his book, Tick Tock Smash the Clock. Also, buy a .99 download of, Death of Misfortune. Robin needs you to do this because he is on a power trip and needs to satisfy his insecurities.
That's about it for now but soon the parasite will feed as it is always hungry.
On behalf of my many personalities trapped in this body, the best to all and to you and yours. May your inner demons hunger be sated, your muse inspiring, and success abundant in the 'New Year'.
Now, for a shameless plug from Robin: He wants you to check out his website wishfulenigma.com
There you will find jewelry made by Margareta and his bizarre attempts at writing. Also, buy a copy of his book, Tick Tock Smash the Clock. Also, buy a .99 download of, Death of Misfortune. Robin needs you to do this because he is on a power trip and needs to satisfy his insecurities.
That's about it for now but soon the parasite will feed as it is always hungry.
Re: Writers Parasite
I have to be quick as my time is almost finished and this computer is not mine. I killed the owner when I broke into her home and this is the page she was just about to type on.
My name is Frank, Frank A. Watson and I'm going to write my confession as I only have a few minutes left to live.
Today, I showed the U.S. government just how weak they are. It was easy beyond belief and I'm sure my actions will be very successful.
It was easy for me to procure the bio material, so easy and yet impossible for the government to control as it is impossible to control nature.
This particular material was a derivative of Anthrax but much more toxic.
Today I went to Costco, Safeway, Piggly Wiggly, and many other stores and with my own two hands I caressed the various fruits and vegetables, I dumped it into the bulk bins at WinCo, I'm sure I killed thousands, thousands of those weak minded Americans, and I am proud of my actions.
My only regret is that while I planned on being immune I was wrong and eve eeeen no w.,,,,,,,,., i feeel the avects... fuk emrica...
My name is Frank, Frank A. Watson and I'm going to write my confession as I only have a few minutes left to live.
Today, I showed the U.S. government just how weak they are. It was easy beyond belief and I'm sure my actions will be very successful.
It was easy for me to procure the bio material, so easy and yet impossible for the government to control as it is impossible to control nature.
This particular material was a derivative of Anthrax but much more toxic.
Today I went to Costco, Safeway, Piggly Wiggly, and many other stores and with my own two hands I caressed the various fruits and vegetables, I dumped it into the bulk bins at WinCo, I'm sure I killed thousands, thousands of those weak minded Americans, and I am proud of my actions.
My only regret is that while I planned on being immune I was wrong and eve eeeen no w.,,,,,,,,., i feeel the avects... fuk emrica...
Re: Writers Parasite
Gates conjure up images of large wrought iron hinges, hinges holding heavy wooden planks, planks bolted together with forged iron rivets. Gates conjure up the image of heavy bolts slid shut, slid shut and locked with heavy locks.
Gates conjure up the image of locking something in, or something out.
Hell has a gate and Satan holds the key and once and only once, he lost this key...
***
Lost and Found
Mike was a jolly sort of middle-aged joviality. He was a church going man who wanted to get married but his looks were not what women were looking for. So, Mike's days were spent in pursuit of chasing butterflies. He would walk miles in search of those many colored flittering through the hot Summer air.
Once back in the safety of his simple little home he would impale the insect neatly in neat little boxes and then stacked in neat little piles. His home could be summed up in one word: Neat.
One butterfly was a very strange butterfly. It was a total unknown for Mike and that is saying a lot as Mike knew his butterflies. Taking the dead creature in his right hand he peered closely and saw red flames appear in the lifeless eyes.
Screaming, Mike dropped the creature and jumped back. On the table before him the dead butterfly came to life and spoke, "Mortal, this is the riddle..."
"What? What are you talking about? What riddle? You, you, you're a butterfly and talking!" Poor little Mike, his nice neat world was now a world of fucked up.
"Mortal, this is the riddle..." and then from the eyes two worms fell upon the table. The two worms mingled and became four and four became eight and eight became sixteen...
"Stop!" and in fear for his life Mike took a heavy book and lifting it high into the air, smashed the growing mass on table. Standing back and breathing hard in his neat little world, he wiped the sweat from his brow.
"Mortal, this is the riddle..." this time it was the voice coming from the book, a book with red eyes. "Open and see mortal, open and see..."
Mike found himself powerless to do anything else but obey and obey he did.
Opening the book was the gate to Hell. It shimmered in the color of gold, of red, green, blue... It shimmered and with Mike's soul screaming, he smiled and reached his right hand out to grab it...
***
i wonder how this story will finish? take it writer, take it as it is my gift to you. what would you do with the key to Hell? you do hold it you understand...
HaHaHa,,,with a HeHeHe thrown in for good measure.
Gates conjure up the image of locking something in, or something out.
Hell has a gate and Satan holds the key and once and only once, he lost this key...
***
Lost and Found
Mike was a jolly sort of middle-aged joviality. He was a church going man who wanted to get married but his looks were not what women were looking for. So, Mike's days were spent in pursuit of chasing butterflies. He would walk miles in search of those many colored flittering through the hot Summer air.
Once back in the safety of his simple little home he would impale the insect neatly in neat little boxes and then stacked in neat little piles. His home could be summed up in one word: Neat.
One butterfly was a very strange butterfly. It was a total unknown for Mike and that is saying a lot as Mike knew his butterflies. Taking the dead creature in his right hand he peered closely and saw red flames appear in the lifeless eyes.
Screaming, Mike dropped the creature and jumped back. On the table before him the dead butterfly came to life and spoke, "Mortal, this is the riddle..."
"What? What are you talking about? What riddle? You, you, you're a butterfly and talking!" Poor little Mike, his nice neat world was now a world of fucked up.
"Mortal, this is the riddle..." and then from the eyes two worms fell upon the table. The two worms mingled and became four and four became eight and eight became sixteen...
"Stop!" and in fear for his life Mike took a heavy book and lifting it high into the air, smashed the growing mass on table. Standing back and breathing hard in his neat little world, he wiped the sweat from his brow.
"Mortal, this is the riddle..." this time it was the voice coming from the book, a book with red eyes. "Open and see mortal, open and see..."
Mike found himself powerless to do anything else but obey and obey he did.
Opening the book was the gate to Hell. It shimmered in the color of gold, of red, green, blue... It shimmered and with Mike's soul screaming, he smiled and reached his right hand out to grab it...
***
i wonder how this story will finish? take it writer, take it as it is my gift to you. what would you do with the key to Hell? you do hold it you understand...
HaHaHa,,,with a HeHeHe thrown in for good measure.
Re: Writers Parasite
Aaahhhh...feed me, feed the parasite...
***
Trusted Tattoo
Mother
Susan
U.S.M.C.
Tats and stats.
Body ink.
...
Waynes world consisted of his tattoo shop, The Lilac Lizard. His was the realm of ink and picture, body piercing and tits.
Men came into the shop for the Prince Albert, the women came in for the permanent eyebrows. Punctures and Pain.
Coin changed hands, 'In God We Trust', while Satan laughed as another demon was exposed to consume.
In the back rooms were the chairs while on the wall hung colored remnants of what the skin now exposed.
A crystal skull upon one shelf grinned in silent laughter.
One employee hired only last week was found by the shadows to be fucking one of the clients who wanted another nipple pierced...
"Uh, uh, uh..." the young tattoo thrust his inked penis hard into the open butterfly of his partner. Hers a body fitted with and entire fantasy scene.
The room dimly lit but showing a rhythm of twisting color.
"Ahhh!" The release resulting.
From just this one shop, one of many, cums the sounds of ink laughing.
Ink: Once important for just words now used to expose the raw emotions dwelling in the soul of mankind. Words used in novels, poetry, stories...Black and white now turned to colors bright. Raw. Real. Trusted to be deceiving.
***
Trusted Tattoo
Mother
Susan
U.S.M.C.
Tats and stats.
Body ink.
...
Waynes world consisted of his tattoo shop, The Lilac Lizard. His was the realm of ink and picture, body piercing and tits.
Men came into the shop for the Prince Albert, the women came in for the permanent eyebrows. Punctures and Pain.
Coin changed hands, 'In God We Trust', while Satan laughed as another demon was exposed to consume.
In the back rooms were the chairs while on the wall hung colored remnants of what the skin now exposed.
A crystal skull upon one shelf grinned in silent laughter.
One employee hired only last week was found by the shadows to be fucking one of the clients who wanted another nipple pierced...
"Uh, uh, uh..." the young tattoo thrust his inked penis hard into the open butterfly of his partner. Hers a body fitted with and entire fantasy scene.
The room dimly lit but showing a rhythm of twisting color.
"Ahhh!" The release resulting.
From just this one shop, one of many, cums the sounds of ink laughing.
Ink: Once important for just words now used to expose the raw emotions dwelling in the soul of mankind. Words used in novels, poetry, stories...Black and white now turned to colors bright. Raw. Real. Trusted to be deceiving.
Re: Writers Parasite
I wrote a poem and submitted to Aphelion last month and since I did not see it was worthy of making this months edition I will post it here. It is not a 'good' piece of writing or 'bad', it is what it is and it will make a point of what I'm trying to make, that being: No matter who you are or what you write, you will be put down, told to, "Shut up," told, "Your work is not what we're seeking" in short, get lost. Be defiant, don't be silenced. Write until you pass out and then wake up and write again.
Now, here is the poem I submitted. Was it 'worthy'? Who the fuck cares as I had to write it, expose it, and now throw it in the cyber trash bin.
Warlock Was
By: Robin B. Lipinski
<p>
Blood lore showed the flow of life.
Pulsing.
Beating.
Being.
<p>
Written on souls layers; parchment of magic to such as it is it is.
<p>
Mortal, corporeal belief in such as to the unread what is written.
Pulsing.
Beating.
Being.
<p>
Blackness of a sky buried neath the blackness of faith
Talon touch, yellowed Sun of nails to scratch with given death
Room to grow again, to know the Son, to twist the words as it is it is.
<p>
Your God cannot stop this
Nor you I
Shadows falling, falling to dimensions best fitted with dread.
<p>
Fool you are, a tool of belief torn asunder
Fire to feel the cold
Drought of spirit to spit the flooded deceit
Lost as it is it is.
<p>
Watcher of the Universe
*and Master,
**too/\/\to escape not
***those blinded, deaf, and dumb
****fools\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/as it is it is
*****death of Misfortune at its best.
<p>
Your End, as it is it is, nigh
***
pretty shitty huh? but at least it is what it is, and now the parasite will take his leave, at least until it again, needs to feed.
Now, here is the poem I submitted. Was it 'worthy'? Who the fuck cares as I had to write it, expose it, and now throw it in the cyber trash bin.
Warlock Was
By: Robin B. Lipinski
<p>
Blood lore showed the flow of life.
Pulsing.
Beating.
Being.
<p>
Written on souls layers; parchment of magic to such as it is it is.
<p>
Mortal, corporeal belief in such as to the unread what is written.
Pulsing.
Beating.
Being.
<p>
Blackness of a sky buried neath the blackness of faith
Talon touch, yellowed Sun of nails to scratch with given death
Room to grow again, to know the Son, to twist the words as it is it is.
<p>
Your God cannot stop this
Nor you I
Shadows falling, falling to dimensions best fitted with dread.
<p>
Fool you are, a tool of belief torn asunder
Fire to feel the cold
Drought of spirit to spit the flooded deceit
Lost as it is it is.
<p>
Watcher of the Universe
*and Master,
**too/\/\to escape not
***those blinded, deaf, and dumb
****fools\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/as it is it is
*****death of Misfortune at its best.
<p>
Your End, as it is it is, nigh
***
pretty shitty huh? but at least it is what it is, and now the parasite will take his leave, at least until it again, needs to feed.
Re: Writers Parasite
Puurfect example of writers inspiration Tao. There is always, always, alwaays a story hidden. This example you gave the parasite could be taken down the path of Unicorns and stuffed bears, or horror, or sex, or religion. The mind of the parasite knew immediately what to write but to let the writers out there struggling to conceive of an idea after listening to such mush, listen to the video's words, the video of a woman holding a microphone in a way teen boys fantasize about...write in a way your mind can understand and then write so the reader can understand your mind.
Now, lets see what the parasite can paint for the 'minds' out there...
***
Flying Rock
Space: Humans once made a show for television called Star Trek, on this show it was said, "Space the final frontier..."
Space is a huge void of nothing, a void filled with silence, heat and cold. Space is worse than the oceans of earth in that space is a bitch and will kill you. It is not a world of beauty, or birds, or love. If a noun could be used to describe space it would be, Death.
On earth there are birds that fly, such as the meadow lark, on earth there flies love and music. On earth there is life.
In space there are rocks, cold hard spinning rocks. Tumbling unknown and uncaring. One such rock was tumbling towards earth.
"Hello my fair lady, may I have this dance?" A young man with daring looks bows to a young lady dressed in a black dress at a dance.
"Yes, of course," and the two join hands and prance.
Outside, the meadowlark swooped in the air like an angel. It was the bird of love. It flittered and twittered, and it consumed the evening bugs.
Inside, the dance was wonderful. Lights of jewels and the smell of flowers. Boys and girls danced. There was laughter.
Outside the stars in space sparkled and the lark settled in for the night, thinking sweet dreams of the morrow.
Scratching a line, a spark bright high above the dance, the dancing rock announced its arrival. A cold rock spawned by the bitch of space, announced it was time for the world to die. From silence and cold it turned into heat and light.
The dancers were incinerated before the final kiss. The oceans drained. The world to feel the power of deceased.
The meadowlark was to be no more. No more love. No more kiss. No more world to fly over. Earth now was a tumbling mass of rocks joining the the space dance of death.
Now, lets see what the parasite can paint for the 'minds' out there...
***
Flying Rock
Space: Humans once made a show for television called Star Trek, on this show it was said, "Space the final frontier..."
Space is a huge void of nothing, a void filled with silence, heat and cold. Space is worse than the oceans of earth in that space is a bitch and will kill you. It is not a world of beauty, or birds, or love. If a noun could be used to describe space it would be, Death.
On earth there are birds that fly, such as the meadow lark, on earth there flies love and music. On earth there is life.
In space there are rocks, cold hard spinning rocks. Tumbling unknown and uncaring. One such rock was tumbling towards earth.
"Hello my fair lady, may I have this dance?" A young man with daring looks bows to a young lady dressed in a black dress at a dance.
"Yes, of course," and the two join hands and prance.
Outside, the meadowlark swooped in the air like an angel. It was the bird of love. It flittered and twittered, and it consumed the evening bugs.
Inside, the dance was wonderful. Lights of jewels and the smell of flowers. Boys and girls danced. There was laughter.
Outside the stars in space sparkled and the lark settled in for the night, thinking sweet dreams of the morrow.
Scratching a line, a spark bright high above the dance, the dancing rock announced its arrival. A cold rock spawned by the bitch of space, announced it was time for the world to die. From silence and cold it turned into heat and light.
The dancers were incinerated before the final kiss. The oceans drained. The world to feel the power of deceased.
The meadowlark was to be no more. No more love. No more kiss. No more world to fly over. Earth now was a tumbling mass of rocks joining the the space dance of death.
Re: Writers Parasite
Sometimes the parasite can feed off itself, cannibalistic bastard. Though, bite the head off and two more replace...
***
Robin B. Lipinski...you call this a name? Who and why would any human give a child of rape such a happy name? A mother who waited on men and women, babies and children, in a diner. B. B is for bastard as the bastard thrust his cock into the receptacle, thrusting and thrusting, and trusting his soul would bear a son to carry the evil of its name...
The cost?
$100. One-hundred dollars paid and Robin B. Lipinski was whisked away, given a name. Blood money for life, and why?
Love. Paid for with love and given a name to cover the shame when abortion would have meted justice for the prick, the bastard who gave me life.
My receptacle raped mother? She tried, she wrote later, "I could not keep you, you know, being the times?" only in the same letter to say, "You know, I could have kept you..."
Confused? Fuck you! It's my life. You with your names and letters. You so secure with your past.
My past is the pleasure of one tortured. I wish my biological father suffers in Hell, raped for eternity in the ass...
To my real mother and father, i say with as much emotion as this black heart can muster, Thanks. It is to them that has kept me from prison. From destroying a world. You see? It all lays in the power of the name given. One i was entrusted with.
There is power in words, power in a name. I wonder? If named different, what would be written...
***
See? Feed off what's inside. Write. Fuck those who read as it is the words needing release. And now the parasite has split into a million pieces.
***
Robin B. Lipinski...you call this a name? Who and why would any human give a child of rape such a happy name? A mother who waited on men and women, babies and children, in a diner. B. B is for bastard as the bastard thrust his cock into the receptacle, thrusting and thrusting, and trusting his soul would bear a son to carry the evil of its name...
The cost?
$100. One-hundred dollars paid and Robin B. Lipinski was whisked away, given a name. Blood money for life, and why?
Love. Paid for with love and given a name to cover the shame when abortion would have meted justice for the prick, the bastard who gave me life.
My receptacle raped mother? She tried, she wrote later, "I could not keep you, you know, being the times?" only in the same letter to say, "You know, I could have kept you..."
Confused? Fuck you! It's my life. You with your names and letters. You so secure with your past.
My past is the pleasure of one tortured. I wish my biological father suffers in Hell, raped for eternity in the ass...
To my real mother and father, i say with as much emotion as this black heart can muster, Thanks. It is to them that has kept me from prison. From destroying a world. You see? It all lays in the power of the name given. One i was entrusted with.
There is power in words, power in a name. I wonder? If named different, what would be written...
***
See? Feed off what's inside. Write. Fuck those who read as it is the words needing release. And now the parasite has split into a million pieces.
Re: Writers Parasite
Ah, yesssss... Time for the parasite to puke out some tidbits, maybe even a lesson for writers aspiring to be writers.
***
Do you know your readers? Unless you're ten years old and writing stories for mommy and daddy then the answer is, no. So why are you writing? What are you writing? And do you give a shit what your readers are reading?
It comes down to these simple answers: You write because you want to. You write because you want to make money selling your work. You write because someone is forcing you. You want to leave a part of yourself for history. You are retarded. You find writing to be therapy. You are addicted to writing. You are bored. You are horny. You. You. You. How about, me? Always seems to be about you, you, you.
Now, the original question: Do you know your readers? The actual question should be, do you know yourself? If you think you know yourself then you can also think you might know what to write that someone else would take the time to read it (me) Simple shit huh? Thinking is often just a window to illusion...
Some good advice for you writers, write whatever the hell it is you want to write and fuck the readers. I go so far as to say, fuck the publishers, the editors, the bookstores, fuck the world, i will continue to write what the fuck it is i want to write without any regards to what others think when they read it.
Try writing in ways that piss you off, let alone others. Try new styles and ideas. Rant. Rave. Cry. Scream. Laugh. You may not enjoy it but (me) will enjoy the crap out of it, or send a homemade bomb to your address for pissing me off...
Now, enough vomit and an exposure of a 'new' idea. The following will be written so the reader will have to decide just what the hell it is they are reading...
***
Trump dunce and donald, flew fly and by, bullets. Bombed and gourded, gored and exploded. Obama, assassinated, not Gore and gourded. Character assassination, not Obama. Muslim, Christian, assassinated Trump. Yes. Change. Great Obama, not change. Hope? Fucked. Rome, exploded. Ha!Ha!Ha! Airforce 1, assassinated. Gone, gored, goaded, gourded.
The End.
***
"Gee Robin, you feeling alright? A bit hostile lately..."
No, actually the exact opposite Never felt this good in my entire life.
What you're actually reading is what a writer wants to portray.
Vulgarity usually denotes a crude personality or anger yet I am neither. So, did the writing succeed?
Writing is fascinating.
I feel it is a 'good' thing to shake up the literary world. Make a menu funny. An obituary hilarious. A public announcement for a broken water main, sinister and downright scary...
Sign you name backwards on the check. Does it make it any less 'legal'
Fill out questions on a form with the truth: Place of birth? Earth. Sex? Often Age? 3.2 Nalicks...
Now, go write something. Maybe give the parasite a real challenge by writing something you don't think anyone can understand.
***
Do you know your readers? Unless you're ten years old and writing stories for mommy and daddy then the answer is, no. So why are you writing? What are you writing? And do you give a shit what your readers are reading?
It comes down to these simple answers: You write because you want to. You write because you want to make money selling your work. You write because someone is forcing you. You want to leave a part of yourself for history. You are retarded. You find writing to be therapy. You are addicted to writing. You are bored. You are horny. You. You. You. How about, me? Always seems to be about you, you, you.
Now, the original question: Do you know your readers? The actual question should be, do you know yourself? If you think you know yourself then you can also think you might know what to write that someone else would take the time to read it (me) Simple shit huh? Thinking is often just a window to illusion...
Some good advice for you writers, write whatever the hell it is you want to write and fuck the readers. I go so far as to say, fuck the publishers, the editors, the bookstores, fuck the world, i will continue to write what the fuck it is i want to write without any regards to what others think when they read it.
Try writing in ways that piss you off, let alone others. Try new styles and ideas. Rant. Rave. Cry. Scream. Laugh. You may not enjoy it but (me) will enjoy the crap out of it, or send a homemade bomb to your address for pissing me off...
Now, enough vomit and an exposure of a 'new' idea. The following will be written so the reader will have to decide just what the hell it is they are reading...
***
Trump dunce and donald, flew fly and by, bullets. Bombed and gourded, gored and exploded. Obama, assassinated, not Gore and gourded. Character assassination, not Obama. Muslim, Christian, assassinated Trump. Yes. Change. Great Obama, not change. Hope? Fucked. Rome, exploded. Ha!Ha!Ha! Airforce 1, assassinated. Gone, gored, goaded, gourded.
The End.
***
"Gee Robin, you feeling alright? A bit hostile lately..."
No, actually the exact opposite Never felt this good in my entire life.
What you're actually reading is what a writer wants to portray.
Vulgarity usually denotes a crude personality or anger yet I am neither. So, did the writing succeed?
Writing is fascinating.
I feel it is a 'good' thing to shake up the literary world. Make a menu funny. An obituary hilarious. A public announcement for a broken water main, sinister and downright scary...
Sign you name backwards on the check. Does it make it any less 'legal'
Fill out questions on a form with the truth: Place of birth? Earth. Sex? Often Age? 3.2 Nalicks...
Now, go write something. Maybe give the parasite a real challenge by writing something you don't think anyone can understand.
-
Lester Curtis
- Long Fiction Editor
- Posts: 2736
- Joined: January 11, 2010, 12:03:56 AM
- Location: by the time you read this, I'll be somewhere else
Re: Writers Parasite
You've inspired me ... when filling out forms, state your age as the distance light has traveled during your life.
I was raised by humans. What's your excuse?
Re: Writers Parasite
Exactly Lester, I tell them I'm so old I'm ended up right back to where I began...
Thanks for feeding the parasite.
***
Filling Out Forms
Deceased
"When?"
They found the body behind the Sportsman bar.
"When?"
I don't know, I just know they found the body behind the Sportsman bar.
"When?"
Look, asshole, are you mocking me?
"When?"
Can I talk with your supervisor?
"When?"
Now! Hey prick, you want that I kick your ass?
"When?"
(imagine our future where forms are obsolete and robots run the world, much like Obama, Bush, and the rest of the meat computers, but imagine when the robots have a cranky day...)
Thanks for feeding the parasite.
***
Filling Out Forms
Deceased
"When?"
They found the body behind the Sportsman bar.
"When?"
I don't know, I just know they found the body behind the Sportsman bar.
"When?"
Look, asshole, are you mocking me?
"When?"
Can I talk with your supervisor?
"When?"
Now! Hey prick, you want that I kick your ass?
"When?"
(imagine our future where forms are obsolete and robots run the world, much like Obama, Bush, and the rest of the meat computers, but imagine when the robots have a cranky day...)
Re: Writers Parasite
So much data out there begging to assembled into a story. Jalapeno's, chili's, sardines, cheese...Oh, oh, sounds like food is the inspiration behind this plate of mush...
***
The Dentist
Drugs are used when having the pearly whites worked on. There is happy gas, novocaine, and in some countries still too cheap to use drugs there is always a large club applied to the head.
Here in Amer-i-ca you can go to the Dentist and leave without feeling a thing. You can't feel your lips, your tongue, nothing. Numb and dumb. Appropriate for the current batch of Democrats and Republicans.
George left the dentist office with a happy numb face. He was blissful because when the drugs wear off he would be able to smile again and not scare little children.
Drugs do wonders for the body. They act differently and in different ways. For George, he had absolutely no feelings other than the soles of his feet hitting the floor and the feeling of touch at the tips of his fingers.
George was a likable enough fella, short, fat, jovial, and a practical joker. Oh yes, George loved to play jokes on Robin and Robin loved to play jokes on George. It was sorta like a 'tit for tat' situation. Currently it was Robin's turn to play the jokester.
The worlds hottest pepper is the Trinidad moruga scorpion. The name alone sounds sinister and evil, like some voodoo shit a witch would sell out of a New Orleans sorcery shop. This is the pepper Robin so kindly cut into tiny pieces and put into Georges left-over sandwich in Georges fridge.
Did you know George was a likable enough fella, short, fat jovial, and a practical joker? Yep, of course you know unless you're stupid and forgot what you read about 100 words ago. Fat people love to eat which is why they are fat, which is also why they go to the dentist as their teeth rot from all the sugar and crap they consume.
Arriving home, George reached into the fridge for the sandwich and with drool falling out of lips with no feeling, he munched on the food, oblivious to the fact he almost bit his tongue in two.
Bite after bite... Little pieces of Trinidad maruga scorpion in each bite...
When the coroner did Georges autopsy he was amazed on how the insides of George could be so destroyed. The esophagus was perforated, the stomach -melted, the upper and lower colon -gone.
As the doctor of death finished he pulled the white sheet up over the body of George who still had remnants of drool falling from his now eternally numb lips.
***
The Dentist
Drugs are used when having the pearly whites worked on. There is happy gas, novocaine, and in some countries still too cheap to use drugs there is always a large club applied to the head.
Here in Amer-i-ca you can go to the Dentist and leave without feeling a thing. You can't feel your lips, your tongue, nothing. Numb and dumb. Appropriate for the current batch of Democrats and Republicans.
George left the dentist office with a happy numb face. He was blissful because when the drugs wear off he would be able to smile again and not scare little children.
Drugs do wonders for the body. They act differently and in different ways. For George, he had absolutely no feelings other than the soles of his feet hitting the floor and the feeling of touch at the tips of his fingers.
George was a likable enough fella, short, fat, jovial, and a practical joker. Oh yes, George loved to play jokes on Robin and Robin loved to play jokes on George. It was sorta like a 'tit for tat' situation. Currently it was Robin's turn to play the jokester.
The worlds hottest pepper is the Trinidad moruga scorpion. The name alone sounds sinister and evil, like some voodoo shit a witch would sell out of a New Orleans sorcery shop. This is the pepper Robin so kindly cut into tiny pieces and put into Georges left-over sandwich in Georges fridge.
Did you know George was a likable enough fella, short, fat jovial, and a practical joker? Yep, of course you know unless you're stupid and forgot what you read about 100 words ago. Fat people love to eat which is why they are fat, which is also why they go to the dentist as their teeth rot from all the sugar and crap they consume.
Arriving home, George reached into the fridge for the sandwich and with drool falling out of lips with no feeling, he munched on the food, oblivious to the fact he almost bit his tongue in two.
Bite after bite... Little pieces of Trinidad maruga scorpion in each bite...
When the coroner did Georges autopsy he was amazed on how the insides of George could be so destroyed. The esophagus was perforated, the stomach -melted, the upper and lower colon -gone.
As the doctor of death finished he pulled the white sheet up over the body of George who still had remnants of drool falling from his now eternally numb lips.
-
Lester Curtis
- Long Fiction Editor
- Posts: 2736
- Joined: January 11, 2010, 12:03:56 AM
- Location: by the time you read this, I'll be somewhere else
Re: Writers Parasite
Y'know, as practical jokes go, that one failed big-time. The whole point is to be able to laugh at the victim's reaction. You failed to show that happening.
The joker would also like for the victim of the prank to be around for a while so they can both relive the event, hopefully in the presence of other acquaintances and/or total strangers.
These days, of course, live presence isn't needed, since we have access to video cameras and internet outlets to spread the fun around.
So—post the link.
The joker would also like for the victim of the prank to be around for a while so they can both relive the event, hopefully in the presence of other acquaintances and/or total strangers.
These days, of course, live presence isn't needed, since we have access to video cameras and internet outlets to spread the fun around.
So—post the link.
I was raised by humans. What's your excuse?
Re: Writers Parasite
Au contraire Lester, Robin laughed his ass off and is still laughing. Now he gets to play jokes on the ghost of George and since George is a woosy spirit, Robin still gets all the laughs. Amazing how funny destroyed entrails are.
Thanks for feeding the parasite Lester, lets see what happens.
***
Post A Link
Anthony Weiner posted pics of his weenie
though
I can confirm it
'It' was actually a sausage much larger than what is found in beanie weenies...
Posted on Facebook today? Why would you, unless, you like to share bowel movement updates
or
an endless stream of children's/baby pictures.
I posted my first killing, sent it directly to the head of the FBI, the NSA, and the CIA
(it was a bit 'international')
I must say, they were impressed and posted a picture of me
looking at the camera
with a mask making my identity
ridiculous.
Some who get caught get to post bail with their criminal behavior linked to defective genetic material.
Just wait world, until I post a link to what's coming, and when clicked there won't be 'Error'...
more like
"Oh shit..."
Thanks for feeding the parasite Lester, lets see what happens.
***
Post A Link
Anthony Weiner posted pics of his weenie
though
I can confirm it
'It' was actually a sausage much larger than what is found in beanie weenies...
Posted on Facebook today? Why would you, unless, you like to share bowel movement updates
or
an endless stream of children's/baby pictures.
I posted my first killing, sent it directly to the head of the FBI, the NSA, and the CIA
(it was a bit 'international')
I must say, they were impressed and posted a picture of me
looking at the camera
with a mask making my identity
ridiculous.
Some who get caught get to post bail with their criminal behavior linked to defective genetic material.
Just wait world, until I post a link to what's coming, and when clicked there won't be 'Error'...
more like
"Oh shit..."
-
Lester Curtis
- Long Fiction Editor
- Posts: 2736
- Joined: January 11, 2010, 12:03:56 AM
- Location: by the time you read this, I'll be somewhere else
Re: Writers Parasite
The Adventures of Deadman and Robin, up next!
I was raised by humans. What's your excuse?
Re: Writers Parasite
Interesting thought Lester, but the parasite will feed on your identity instead, "I was raised by humans. What's your excuse?"
***
"Excuse me sir, but the wife and I couldn't help but notice how messy you are, eating like a savage. Were you raised by monkeys?" Some people may consider the question to be strange but if you were there watching the man asked, you would have noticed what a complete and utter mess the man was making while eating hamburgers and fries.
There was ketchup and mustard flung all around the area with bits and pieces of french fries sticking to various surfaces in the immediate area. As for the messy man he was almost fully naked with only some boxer briefs remaining, and even these were covered in what could only be fecal matter and urine stains.
"Uh, uh, uh...aggh. (other muffled sounds coming from a man that could either be sounds of pleasure or savagery)"
"I say there, would you mind leaving. Your actions are disturbing our dining experience." Why do people try and reason with insanity? For that matter, why try and reason at all, why not just pack up the family and leave a disgusting scene instead of confronting it?
"Ooh,oh, ooh, eee, eee, ah..." and with the sound made the man removed his last bit of clothing denoting he was human and was buck assed naked. Reaching behind to his behind, he flung some fresh excrement at the civilized complainer.
"Yee gods man! Have you no decency?" Amazing. Absolutely fucking amazing. Three times now the gentleman sought reason with what is not reasonable and now to stand here and get shit thrown on him by another crazy person, absolutely crazy. You see, both parties involved are crazy and I find more fault in the shitee instead of the shitter. The shittee can run away but instead chose to stay while the shitter can no more make an intelligent decision than he can help himself. It seems like the shitter was raised by monkeys and the shittee was a product of human society.
As the man who originally asked the crazy question had had enough and was leaving, he and his wife turned to see another man dressed in a flamingo costume making the sounds, "Coo, coo. Coo, coo. Ack, ccc,ccc,ccc. Coo, coo..."
***
"Excuse me sir, but the wife and I couldn't help but notice how messy you are, eating like a savage. Were you raised by monkeys?" Some people may consider the question to be strange but if you were there watching the man asked, you would have noticed what a complete and utter mess the man was making while eating hamburgers and fries.
There was ketchup and mustard flung all around the area with bits and pieces of french fries sticking to various surfaces in the immediate area. As for the messy man he was almost fully naked with only some boxer briefs remaining, and even these were covered in what could only be fecal matter and urine stains.
"Uh, uh, uh...aggh. (other muffled sounds coming from a man that could either be sounds of pleasure or savagery)"
"I say there, would you mind leaving. Your actions are disturbing our dining experience." Why do people try and reason with insanity? For that matter, why try and reason at all, why not just pack up the family and leave a disgusting scene instead of confronting it?
"Ooh,oh, ooh, eee, eee, ah..." and with the sound made the man removed his last bit of clothing denoting he was human and was buck assed naked. Reaching behind to his behind, he flung some fresh excrement at the civilized complainer.
"Yee gods man! Have you no decency?" Amazing. Absolutely fucking amazing. Three times now the gentleman sought reason with what is not reasonable and now to stand here and get shit thrown on him by another crazy person, absolutely crazy. You see, both parties involved are crazy and I find more fault in the shitee instead of the shitter. The shittee can run away but instead chose to stay while the shitter can no more make an intelligent decision than he can help himself. It seems like the shitter was raised by monkeys and the shittee was a product of human society.
As the man who originally asked the crazy question had had enough and was leaving, he and his wife turned to see another man dressed in a flamingo costume making the sounds, "Coo, coo. Coo, coo. Ack, ccc,ccc,ccc. Coo, coo..."
Re: Writers Parasite
Let the readers know: Such sites such as Aphelion are a treat indeed. Yes, I know I stretch the rubber band of acceptability to the max with some of the shit I write here but let me tell you what, it is a blessing such sites as this exist. Don't know for certain but I suspect when I first started to write 'freely' here, there probably was some mental statements made such as, "Oh bat shit! What kind of stuff is this guy writing? Will we get sued? Should we terminate his ability to write? Will Allah send us all to hell?"
I truly am thankful to find an outlet here for sharing creativity and hopefully promoting some creative juices out there. So many sites are, well, garbage. So many restrictions. Some cost coin of the realm. And freaks? Makes me look like a nice guy who is normal.
Recently I had a dust up with elitist poetry slobs over at a site called, Poetrycircle. They represent how bad the literary world has strayed from individual expression. Or, on that site, it's "Our way is the right way, your way is ignant" To be fair though, they did tolerate me for a few years until I challenged the the collective hive of snobbery masked in the, "Oh, I'm so loving and special. I just put those kind of people (me) on ignore..." Ha! Sad bastards. They don't even hold a candle to those who edit and run Aphelion. So, to any of you readers out there, this site is a keeper. In fact, get off your ass and submit something, write something,
For you poets out there, some advice. Unlike learning how to be a fantastic hooker or the best mass murderer in America, poetry should never be altered by anyone but you. NEVER allow your insecurity to fall for, "Hey, you lost me in stanza one. Change Kitty to pussy and spell Kow, c-o-w..." Horseshit. If you want to use Kitty instead of pussy and spell cow, K-o-w. Stay with it as only poetry of all the works of expression, only a poem is truly who the individual is.
Now, as for stories being formatted for sale to the masses, then we're stuck with change but, NEVER poetry. Poetry is sacred and if anyone tells you otherwise, tells you that to become a 'better' poet you need to be shit on, or your work changed, tell them to go to (use you imagination of profanity)
Everyone is a poet. You, and you, and...hey, what are you doing to that pussy? Yes, everyone is a poet, and if you write poetry complete with errors of spalling...fuck it, it's yours.
Now, thanks Aphelion. I do love all the work the people behind the scenes are doing. And thanks for tolerating my form of expression. And for any newer members, go ahead feed the parasite, it's hungry...
I truly am thankful to find an outlet here for sharing creativity and hopefully promoting some creative juices out there. So many sites are, well, garbage. So many restrictions. Some cost coin of the realm. And freaks? Makes me look like a nice guy who is normal.
Recently I had a dust up with elitist poetry slobs over at a site called, Poetrycircle. They represent how bad the literary world has strayed from individual expression. Or, on that site, it's "Our way is the right way, your way is ignant" To be fair though, they did tolerate me for a few years until I challenged the the collective hive of snobbery masked in the, "Oh, I'm so loving and special. I just put those kind of people (me) on ignore..." Ha! Sad bastards. They don't even hold a candle to those who edit and run Aphelion. So, to any of you readers out there, this site is a keeper. In fact, get off your ass and submit something, write something,
For you poets out there, some advice. Unlike learning how to be a fantastic hooker or the best mass murderer in America, poetry should never be altered by anyone but you. NEVER allow your insecurity to fall for, "Hey, you lost me in stanza one. Change Kitty to pussy and spell Kow, c-o-w..." Horseshit. If you want to use Kitty instead of pussy and spell cow, K-o-w. Stay with it as only poetry of all the works of expression, only a poem is truly who the individual is.
Now, as for stories being formatted for sale to the masses, then we're stuck with change but, NEVER poetry. Poetry is sacred and if anyone tells you otherwise, tells you that to become a 'better' poet you need to be shit on, or your work changed, tell them to go to (use you imagination of profanity)
Everyone is a poet. You, and you, and...hey, what are you doing to that pussy? Yes, everyone is a poet, and if you write poetry complete with errors of spalling...fuck it, it's yours.
Now, thanks Aphelion. I do love all the work the people behind the scenes are doing. And thanks for tolerating my form of expression. And for any newer members, go ahead feed the parasite, it's hungry...
Re: Writers Parasite
Feeding off of Trumps words...
***
Hate
"If I say do they will do it..."
History is filled with rhetoric rants revealed. Hitler, Pol Pot, Obama...
Dictators filled with words to instill doubt and doubting there will be anyone to stop them and now there is Trump.
Mmm, imagine the power of words by those in power, those who can follow through on their threats... Imagine, to kill the families of terrorists, "If I say do they will do it..."
So, why stop there?
Lets say I say, "Stop Trump."
Who am I you may wonder? More likely who am I not...
I am the one of many faces, one you may not want to see, and I can't be stopped...
So, let it be as the lead has been melted and the cylinder cleaned, as the words have been spoken and unlike the words of dictators, when I say, "If I say do they will do it..." as in this world at this moment, hate cannot be stopped.
***
Hate
"If I say do they will do it..."
History is filled with rhetoric rants revealed. Hitler, Pol Pot, Obama...
Dictators filled with words to instill doubt and doubting there will be anyone to stop them and now there is Trump.
Mmm, imagine the power of words by those in power, those who can follow through on their threats... Imagine, to kill the families of terrorists, "If I say do they will do it..."
So, why stop there?
Lets say I say, "Stop Trump."
Who am I you may wonder? More likely who am I not...
I am the one of many faces, one you may not want to see, and I can't be stopped...
So, let it be as the lead has been melted and the cylinder cleaned, as the words have been spoken and unlike the words of dictators, when I say, "If I say do they will do it..." as in this world at this moment, hate cannot be stopped.
Re: Writers Parasite
This Robin B. Lipinski character has been banned from Poetrycircle, and now probably has made some here at Aphelion wanting to get rid of Robin also. Fine with me, little pussy that one is. Little bitch whining about this and that, better he'd put a barrel of a pistol in his mouth and squeeze the trigger.
Anyway, this Robin guy submitted another poem to Aphelion and it was not deemed worthy, you will soon read it below and see for yourself how writing can be rejected or accepted. I personally could write a much better poem than that shit.
Robin did want me to pass on to Iain that he won't be troubling him anymore with submissions. Last time I saw Robin he was sucking his thumb and holding a little stuffed teddy bear, sitting in a corner crying about the rejection.
The point of the parasite talking about this is that you, a writer, know full well how the literary world will mostly reject what you write. It leaves one to wonder on why some writing is accepted and most rejected. Who deems writing to be good or bad? Is it sales? Money? Is it because the words reach out and speak to the reader? Embrace the rejection as is it worth selling your soul to the pricks who want to hold the fate of your mind in their hands? Write. Create. Be who you are. And never let this fucking world get you down, in this you will find peace in your writing.
Who gives a shit, I'm a fucking parasite. Look up in the 'All mighty' Websters just what the definition of parasite is. Wait, I'll save your lazy ass the trouble and post it.
Full Definition of parasite
1
: a person who exploits the hospitality of the rich and earns welcome by flattery
2
: an organism living in, with, or on another organism in parasitism
3
: something that resembles a biological parasite in dependence on something else for existence or support without making a useful or adequate return
(Mmm, interesting about # 1. Sounds like a modern day author prostrating themselves to the literary world with deep pockets. Sounds like a lot of writers are parasites.)
Blacklisted
By: Robin B. Lipinski
In the game of cosmic attention: Stars shining bright, nova’s, and black holes sucking the matter
Are there winners when everyone are losers?
<p>
Birthed from the start to show and be
Living almost the period of eternity
To die and fade without a trace.
<p>
Blackness of nothing holds more than light
Fear stokes emotion as strong as anger
Peace does not exist when observed close up.
<p>
Every and all and nothing escapes
Gravity of attention
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing…
<p>
Though some try to balance and sort
Find reason
Find why
Looking under the microscope and screaming, “Look at me, Look at me, Look at what I am,
Who I am, What I say, What I write…”
<p>
Planets
People
Universal acclaim,
Nothing matters with God as the editor
<p>
Fuck the end
Anyway, this Robin guy submitted another poem to Aphelion and it was not deemed worthy, you will soon read it below and see for yourself how writing can be rejected or accepted. I personally could write a much better poem than that shit.
Robin did want me to pass on to Iain that he won't be troubling him anymore with submissions. Last time I saw Robin he was sucking his thumb and holding a little stuffed teddy bear, sitting in a corner crying about the rejection.
The point of the parasite talking about this is that you, a writer, know full well how the literary world will mostly reject what you write. It leaves one to wonder on why some writing is accepted and most rejected. Who deems writing to be good or bad? Is it sales? Money? Is it because the words reach out and speak to the reader? Embrace the rejection as is it worth selling your soul to the pricks who want to hold the fate of your mind in their hands? Write. Create. Be who you are. And never let this fucking world get you down, in this you will find peace in your writing.
Who gives a shit, I'm a fucking parasite. Look up in the 'All mighty' Websters just what the definition of parasite is. Wait, I'll save your lazy ass the trouble and post it.
Full Definition of parasite
1
: a person who exploits the hospitality of the rich and earns welcome by flattery
2
: an organism living in, with, or on another organism in parasitism
3
: something that resembles a biological parasite in dependence on something else for existence or support without making a useful or adequate return
(Mmm, interesting about # 1. Sounds like a modern day author prostrating themselves to the literary world with deep pockets. Sounds like a lot of writers are parasites.)
Blacklisted
By: Robin B. Lipinski
In the game of cosmic attention: Stars shining bright, nova’s, and black holes sucking the matter
Are there winners when everyone are losers?
<p>
Birthed from the start to show and be
Living almost the period of eternity
To die and fade without a trace.
<p>
Blackness of nothing holds more than light
Fear stokes emotion as strong as anger
Peace does not exist when observed close up.
<p>
Every and all and nothing escapes
Gravity of attention
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing…
<p>
Though some try to balance and sort
Find reason
Find why
Looking under the microscope and screaming, “Look at me, Look at me, Look at what I am,
Who I am, What I say, What I write…”
<p>
Planets
People
Universal acclaim,
Nothing matters with God as the editor
<p>
Fuck the end
Re: Writers Parasite
"Yikes! You're a bit strange Mr. parasite, or is it Robin?"
Nope, ain't Robin, just a parasite.
"But, you must be human or some A.I. computer program?"
Nope, ain't either, just a parasite.
"That's impossible. So, are you some kind of alien?"
Nope, aliens by definition are strangers/visitors to this planet. I've been here for a long time, much longer than the human species.
"Ha! So you are delusional. Seems you suffer mental illness."
Nope, just fine.
"Then why do you write such sick stuff? Why don't you write something kind, something compassionate, instead you seem to write in a combative and destructive way."
Nope, you just realize it as such because you and your species are combative and destructive. Or, as the saying goes, 'takes one to know one.'
But, to show your ignorant, primitive 'mind' that the parasite can write anything, to include children's stories, the following is just for you...
***
"Oh, a pink pony on the merry-go-round! Can I momma? Can I ride the pink pony?"
The mother was a heavyset black woman (you fucking racist, your mind already conjured up a young white girl asking ergo, mommy must be white also)
"Yes, of course dear. I'll wait here and you go have fun."
Off skipped the young black girl whose father was Irish and Mexican. Standing in line, she turned smiling and waved at her mother, who was sweating profusely and sitting on a bench beneath a shade tree.
Soon the girl was seated on the wooden pink pony and with a mechanical whirring sound, the carousel spun into motion. Round and round the various colored animals bounced up and down with their happy passengers holding the bar tightly and giggling.
The young girl on the pony waved at her mother everytime the circle was completed. Her wave was received with a wave in return. Soon the motion came to a stop and all the children dismounted and ran to their custodians.
As the little girl was running towards her sweating mother who struggled to lift her ponderous weight off the sweat laden bench, she tripped. It was horrible as the girls momentum carried her forward to where her head hit the side of a marble covered water fountain. As she lay dying, her mother ran over yelling, "Dial 911! Dial 911! Oh lordy, my little girl is hurt. Help me. Help!"
***
See? The parasite can write a touchy feely story. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside...
Nope, ain't Robin, just a parasite.
"But, you must be human or some A.I. computer program?"
Nope, ain't either, just a parasite.
"That's impossible. So, are you some kind of alien?"
Nope, aliens by definition are strangers/visitors to this planet. I've been here for a long time, much longer than the human species.
"Ha! So you are delusional. Seems you suffer mental illness."
Nope, just fine.
"Then why do you write such sick stuff? Why don't you write something kind, something compassionate, instead you seem to write in a combative and destructive way."
Nope, you just realize it as such because you and your species are combative and destructive. Or, as the saying goes, 'takes one to know one.'
But, to show your ignorant, primitive 'mind' that the parasite can write anything, to include children's stories, the following is just for you...
***
"Oh, a pink pony on the merry-go-round! Can I momma? Can I ride the pink pony?"
The mother was a heavyset black woman (you fucking racist, your mind already conjured up a young white girl asking ergo, mommy must be white also)
"Yes, of course dear. I'll wait here and you go have fun."
Off skipped the young black girl whose father was Irish and Mexican. Standing in line, she turned smiling and waved at her mother, who was sweating profusely and sitting on a bench beneath a shade tree.
Soon the girl was seated on the wooden pink pony and with a mechanical whirring sound, the carousel spun into motion. Round and round the various colored animals bounced up and down with their happy passengers holding the bar tightly and giggling.
The young girl on the pony waved at her mother everytime the circle was completed. Her wave was received with a wave in return. Soon the motion came to a stop and all the children dismounted and ran to their custodians.
As the little girl was running towards her sweating mother who struggled to lift her ponderous weight off the sweat laden bench, she tripped. It was horrible as the girls momentum carried her forward to where her head hit the side of a marble covered water fountain. As she lay dying, her mother ran over yelling, "Dial 911! Dial 911! Oh lordy, my little girl is hurt. Help me. Help!"
***
See? The parasite can write a touchy feely story. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside...
Re: Writers Parasite
"What should I write?" Sound familiar? Why ask when you know but are afraid to ask.
Write about whatever is on your mind. If religion, write about your god, gods, or God. If it's about food, write something about food. Write about life. Write about sex. Write about love. But, then again, "What should I write?'' Sounds so damn insincere if a writer ever, ever, ever has to ask such a question.
Speaking of what to write, how about a kiss.
***
The Kiss
First came the look of acceptance, her eyes meeting his eyes and with an agreement comes such feelings, time stops.
When time stops you'll know it as all but the moment ceases to exist. There is no clock to glance at, no sounds to intrude, no witness able to decide of the mutual decision, nothing exists except the beating hearts, the eyes locked in communication, the touch of flesh, and the kiss...
"Come on parasite, what kind of shit are you writing, an instruction manual for nerds?"
Ah, something the parasite can now feast on, a question asked by one of ignorance. Just like the world to want to jump from cause-and-reaction, jumping into the meat of an action as wonderful as anything existing on this planet.
The two heads moved closer, their gaze into each others eyes showed this was more than conversation, it was an action to a reaction, and it was magic.
His lips moved towards hers while hers moved towards his, and with her eyes closing in anticipation, his lips altered their travel and found the soft side of the left side of her neck.
Biting softly, the lips surrounded teeth nibbling softly followed by the soft touch of tongue and lips feeling the salty taste of her tender throat.
Her eyes opened in pleasant surprise, looking not at him yet glancing towards his direction and opening her lips with an involuntary gasp of sound.
This was when his lips moved to hers and the two locked in embrace and soft kissing, lips touching lips. Both following their own unique tune known only to them.
What is time when lost in an emotion so strong? The answer: nothing. Only this moment matters now.
The two took time to separate their lips and once again look into each others eyes. Both were filled with emotions, both were in tune with the other, both wanted this moment to last forever...
***
Or, you could write about eating pizza, having sex with a duck, maybe make those pamphlets you find in front of you while sitting in a airplane more interesting> For example: Hi idiot, you're not really reading this pamphlet to see where the nearest exist is because truth be told, you're going to die when the plane crashes. You will die because your body will either be burnt to a crisp or mangled so badly only DNA testing will show the world what your meat pieces belonged too. And if you actually manage to survive the crash, rest assured you will be crushed by the fat prick sitting next to you crawls over you trying to escape first...
See? Writing can be fun. It can be erotic. It can be whatever it is you want to write. For me, just thinking about pizza makes me hungry...
Write about whatever is on your mind. If religion, write about your god, gods, or God. If it's about food, write something about food. Write about life. Write about sex. Write about love. But, then again, "What should I write?'' Sounds so damn insincere if a writer ever, ever, ever has to ask such a question.
Speaking of what to write, how about a kiss.
***
The Kiss
First came the look of acceptance, her eyes meeting his eyes and with an agreement comes such feelings, time stops.
When time stops you'll know it as all but the moment ceases to exist. There is no clock to glance at, no sounds to intrude, no witness able to decide of the mutual decision, nothing exists except the beating hearts, the eyes locked in communication, the touch of flesh, and the kiss...
"Come on parasite, what kind of shit are you writing, an instruction manual for nerds?"
Ah, something the parasite can now feast on, a question asked by one of ignorance. Just like the world to want to jump from cause-and-reaction, jumping into the meat of an action as wonderful as anything existing on this planet.
The two heads moved closer, their gaze into each others eyes showed this was more than conversation, it was an action to a reaction, and it was magic.
His lips moved towards hers while hers moved towards his, and with her eyes closing in anticipation, his lips altered their travel and found the soft side of the left side of her neck.
Biting softly, the lips surrounded teeth nibbling softly followed by the soft touch of tongue and lips feeling the salty taste of her tender throat.
Her eyes opened in pleasant surprise, looking not at him yet glancing towards his direction and opening her lips with an involuntary gasp of sound.
This was when his lips moved to hers and the two locked in embrace and soft kissing, lips touching lips. Both following their own unique tune known only to them.
What is time when lost in an emotion so strong? The answer: nothing. Only this moment matters now.
The two took time to separate their lips and once again look into each others eyes. Both were filled with emotions, both were in tune with the other, both wanted this moment to last forever...
***
Or, you could write about eating pizza, having sex with a duck, maybe make those pamphlets you find in front of you while sitting in a airplane more interesting> For example: Hi idiot, you're not really reading this pamphlet to see where the nearest exist is because truth be told, you're going to die when the plane crashes. You will die because your body will either be burnt to a crisp or mangled so badly only DNA testing will show the world what your meat pieces belonged too. And if you actually manage to survive the crash, rest assured you will be crushed by the fat prick sitting next to you crawls over you trying to escape first...
See? Writing can be fun. It can be erotic. It can be whatever it is you want to write. For me, just thinking about pizza makes me hungry...
Re: Writers Parasite
Sometimes a writer has to write as if who they are so for tonight's bit of writing I locked up the parasite...
"No you didn't, you bastard I...Mmpph..umm."
See? I tied him up and now I gagged his profanity laced mouth.
"Mmmph...grrr...argh...oomf..."
Sorry, you've been busy here. It is your thread but you're definitely a weird piece of mind-construct.
Anyway, I'm going to write a poem as if I were going to submit it to Aphelion.
Will it be good or bad? That is up to whoever reads it. I will no longer submit as submitting any piece of my writing has only ended in rejection and I'm done with that.
You, the reader/writer may agree but I suspect most writers are mainly concerned about monetary gain or at least a following of sycophants. How many of you writers write purely for the joy of it? Show of hands? A few hands raised but not many.
I now write because I'm addicted to it and just enjoy the heck out of writing.
So, here is a poem that will never be submitted, never rejected, never accepted. It is what it is. It comes from Robin B. Lipinski and it belongs to whoever wants it.
***
Loving An Alien
Sensory pleasure induced by dreams, filled with moaning and wet sheets.
Outside the sky colored black, filled with stars, a moon, and blue light.
Window ajar as it was a hot Summer, cool breeze enters with an off-world sound.
Silent to the ear but howling to the mind, it merged. it kissed. it pleasured.
Human eyes could not picture, seen though by owls perched afar
A form, a ghost, a presence.
This night moment was fertile, it was 'female' now pregnant
Finished now, and drained, this man.
Soon, the night was black, filled with stars, a moon, a fading blue light,
A man dreaming,
In the distance a star blinked, while owls blinked and screeched
Blinking a new species now, into existence.
"No you didn't, you bastard I...Mmpph..umm."
See? I tied him up and now I gagged his profanity laced mouth.
"Mmmph...grrr...argh...oomf..."
Sorry, you've been busy here. It is your thread but you're definitely a weird piece of mind-construct.
Anyway, I'm going to write a poem as if I were going to submit it to Aphelion.
Will it be good or bad? That is up to whoever reads it. I will no longer submit as submitting any piece of my writing has only ended in rejection and I'm done with that.
You, the reader/writer may agree but I suspect most writers are mainly concerned about monetary gain or at least a following of sycophants. How many of you writers write purely for the joy of it? Show of hands? A few hands raised but not many.
I now write because I'm addicted to it and just enjoy the heck out of writing.
So, here is a poem that will never be submitted, never rejected, never accepted. It is what it is. It comes from Robin B. Lipinski and it belongs to whoever wants it.
***
Loving An Alien
Sensory pleasure induced by dreams, filled with moaning and wet sheets.
Outside the sky colored black, filled with stars, a moon, and blue light.
Window ajar as it was a hot Summer, cool breeze enters with an off-world sound.
Silent to the ear but howling to the mind, it merged. it kissed. it pleasured.
Human eyes could not picture, seen though by owls perched afar
A form, a ghost, a presence.
This night moment was fertile, it was 'female' now pregnant
Finished now, and drained, this man.
Soon, the night was black, filled with stars, a moon, a fading blue light,
A man dreaming,
In the distance a star blinked, while owls blinked and screeched
Blinking a new species now, into existence.
Re: Writers Parasite
Ha! That arrogant prick Robin thought he'd keep me tied up. What an idiot.
So, today is St. Paddys day... Green beer, shamrocks, wearing green...
What will the parasite be inspired by tonight? Sex. Fucking A! Imagine writers, a little horny leprechaun let loose upon the world on March 17...
***
A Romp In the Clover
Written by a dirty little parasite
She was what you'd call, well endowed. She was young. She was alone in the woods. She was feeling a bit...bothered.
Glenda was her given name. Glenda A. Almor. Glenda was short and rather plump, but sporting huge breasts that would make a guernsey milk cow jealous. Glenda also had not been laid in over three months, her last lover a truck driver for a company going by the name, Swift. Appropriate name given the driver came in about thirty seconds and left Glenda to say, and I quote, "What the fuck?"
Alas, Glenda was alone now as her car had broken down on this forest road half-way between here and there. There was no other traffic and it looked like the poor lass would have to wait for a long time, just as she has had to wait a long time to be serviced properly.
As she waited she heard the sound of a creek nearby and since she was bored out of her mind, she walked over to the creek to see if there was anything interesting to see. She had big breasts but tiny feet so as she walked she hardly made any sound.
Nearing the creek, she was startled to see two little naked Leprechauns engaged in carnal activity. By carnal, one was sucking the cock of the other. Poor Glenda was shocked just as much as Robin would be if he were writing this but Robin is a pussy...
"Oh my!" she exclaimed.
With her voice heard, one of the Leprechauns disappeared instantly while the other was trying to zip up his tiny little green pants but the little fella was sporting a huge cock which was having none of it. It was a humorous sight. A wee little guy dressed in green trying to wrestle his manhood...
Yes, Glenda found the scene erotic and blushed, reaching out and picking the little man up by his shirt, holding the green, soft cloth at the back of his neck.
"No, no, don't hurt me," the Leprechaun spoke. "If you let me go, I'll grant you three wishes..."
Now, unless you're a pussy like Robin, what three wishes do you think Glenda thought of while hold a little green man with a huge erection and who had not had a proper shagging for over three months?
See? This is the power of writing. This is what gets the mind going and thoughts flowing and if you're into two green covered Leprechauns engaged in blowjobs you're probably a little excited my now.
If you're offended, I could give a shit. If you like the story, I could give a shit. If you're Robin, I think you're a pussy. If anyone wants this story it's yours. Expand it. Explore it. End it.
So, today is St. Paddys day... Green beer, shamrocks, wearing green...
What will the parasite be inspired by tonight? Sex. Fucking A! Imagine writers, a little horny leprechaun let loose upon the world on March 17...
***
A Romp In the Clover
Written by a dirty little parasite
She was what you'd call, well endowed. She was young. She was alone in the woods. She was feeling a bit...bothered.
Glenda was her given name. Glenda A. Almor. Glenda was short and rather plump, but sporting huge breasts that would make a guernsey milk cow jealous. Glenda also had not been laid in over three months, her last lover a truck driver for a company going by the name, Swift. Appropriate name given the driver came in about thirty seconds and left Glenda to say, and I quote, "What the fuck?"
Alas, Glenda was alone now as her car had broken down on this forest road half-way between here and there. There was no other traffic and it looked like the poor lass would have to wait for a long time, just as she has had to wait a long time to be serviced properly.
As she waited she heard the sound of a creek nearby and since she was bored out of her mind, she walked over to the creek to see if there was anything interesting to see. She had big breasts but tiny feet so as she walked she hardly made any sound.
Nearing the creek, she was startled to see two little naked Leprechauns engaged in carnal activity. By carnal, one was sucking the cock of the other. Poor Glenda was shocked just as much as Robin would be if he were writing this but Robin is a pussy...
"Oh my!" she exclaimed.
With her voice heard, one of the Leprechauns disappeared instantly while the other was trying to zip up his tiny little green pants but the little fella was sporting a huge cock which was having none of it. It was a humorous sight. A wee little guy dressed in green trying to wrestle his manhood...
Yes, Glenda found the scene erotic and blushed, reaching out and picking the little man up by his shirt, holding the green, soft cloth at the back of his neck.
"No, no, don't hurt me," the Leprechaun spoke. "If you let me go, I'll grant you three wishes..."
Now, unless you're a pussy like Robin, what three wishes do you think Glenda thought of while hold a little green man with a huge erection and who had not had a proper shagging for over three months?
See? This is the power of writing. This is what gets the mind going and thoughts flowing and if you're into two green covered Leprechauns engaged in blowjobs you're probably a little excited my now.
If you're offended, I could give a shit. If you like the story, I could give a shit. If you're Robin, I think you're a pussy. If anyone wants this story it's yours. Expand it. Explore it. End it.
Re: Writers Parasite
"HeHeHe, tonight I'm going to write.."
No, no you're not going to write tonight. Tonight I'm going to write.
"What, you gonna tie me up and gag me again? Ha! I covered myself with Crisco. Go ahead idiot, just try and catch me."
(Robin shaking his head and smiling) Looky here parasite, I brought you into this world and I can take you out. Seriously, do you think that I didn't know you were covered in rendered fat ?
"Uh, no. I'm unique! I'm an individual! I have free will! I, I, I... Hey, what are you doing with that torch? No, get that damn thing away from me. Agggh!"
No, the parasite is not dead as they are like a Phoenix and always rise from the ashes, but for tonight the parasite gets a little taste of Hell...
***
The Hawk
Spring was a fickle notion in the area around White Bird, Idaho. The Sun shined brightly overhead while just a few miles a way, snow fell heavy from the fat clouds. A matrix of clouds giving isolated areas either snow or rain. Above it all, almost touching the Sun was a kingdom of the eagle, of the hawk, hunters who were hungry.
Green grass and plants were quick to take advantage of those moments where the light warmed the soil and showed the day their progress. Scurrying under the new growth ran the mice and voles. Busy little creatures already out and collecting the freshly grown bounty given by nature.
Shadows below the clouds showed falling rain or snow, the shadow growing larger in the sunny spot near the cliff was the last shade the vole would ever experience, his life grabbed by the skill of the hawks claws.
Winging away and ruffling his feathers, you could see the hawk heading away into the realm of cloudy turmoil, sated hunger, and Spring.
***
Today was a good day and a mellow day. Writers all have good days and bad days which can make or break the work produced. Today I watched a hawk hunt until it finally was successful, thus I'm pleased with what I wrote. As for the garbage the parasite writes, it does have its place but not here, not tonight.
No, no you're not going to write tonight. Tonight I'm going to write.
"What, you gonna tie me up and gag me again? Ha! I covered myself with Crisco. Go ahead idiot, just try and catch me."
(Robin shaking his head and smiling) Looky here parasite, I brought you into this world and I can take you out. Seriously, do you think that I didn't know you were covered in rendered fat ?
"Uh, no. I'm unique! I'm an individual! I have free will! I, I, I... Hey, what are you doing with that torch? No, get that damn thing away from me. Agggh!"
No, the parasite is not dead as they are like a Phoenix and always rise from the ashes, but for tonight the parasite gets a little taste of Hell...
***
The Hawk
Spring was a fickle notion in the area around White Bird, Idaho. The Sun shined brightly overhead while just a few miles a way, snow fell heavy from the fat clouds. A matrix of clouds giving isolated areas either snow or rain. Above it all, almost touching the Sun was a kingdom of the eagle, of the hawk, hunters who were hungry.
Green grass and plants were quick to take advantage of those moments where the light warmed the soil and showed the day their progress. Scurrying under the new growth ran the mice and voles. Busy little creatures already out and collecting the freshly grown bounty given by nature.
Shadows below the clouds showed falling rain or snow, the shadow growing larger in the sunny spot near the cliff was the last shade the vole would ever experience, his life grabbed by the skill of the hawks claws.
Winging away and ruffling his feathers, you could see the hawk heading away into the realm of cloudy turmoil, sated hunger, and Spring.
***
Today was a good day and a mellow day. Writers all have good days and bad days which can make or break the work produced. Today I watched a hawk hunt until it finally was successful, thus I'm pleased with what I wrote. As for the garbage the parasite writes, it does have its place but not here, not tonight.
Re: Writers Parasite
Mask of What Is
Every creature alive wears a mask.
Fish, fowl, beast, man; creatures unique and intertwined.
Beauty of a worm seduces the fish. Shimmer of silver scales seduces the osprey. All show and collect.
***
Killer though he was his neighbors all said, "Heck, so nice and quiet. Never imagined he/she could do that."
Mask of goodness, hiding the body of evil.
And yet?
What if living behind the mask of evil?
He was the perfect picture of evil. His habits were counter to what society dictates is normal and good. He had nothing to do with God in the way the other mask wearers did. No church, no religion.
Profanity spilled from his lips. He rebelled against any and all authority. He smelled of sweat and stink. His clothing habits were unacceptable to society. He was shunned by a civilization of masks. In a world made by those hiding behind masks, his was real.
He was evil, and he knew it. Or was he?
So many wear a mask and do not know it. So many have many masks to choose from, wearing to fit the hunt, the dance, the communion. Not he, his was the face of evil, his portrayal to a world of what was needed to be, outside.
Inside, glowed a light far beyond white, so far beyond the lights danced. His shell was the protection as he watched a world die. Doing his best to protect and serve, to do battle with what harm the imaginary was doing to what truly is real.
He exists, the man of evil. Knowing. Watching. Crying inside for the creatures trying to be what they are not as they struggle to evolve. Wearing a mask fitting for the moment.
Every creature alive wears a mask.
Fish, fowl, beast, man; creatures unique and intertwined.
Beauty of a worm seduces the fish. Shimmer of silver scales seduces the osprey. All show and collect.
***
Killer though he was his neighbors all said, "Heck, so nice and quiet. Never imagined he/she could do that."
Mask of goodness, hiding the body of evil.
And yet?
What if living behind the mask of evil?
He was the perfect picture of evil. His habits were counter to what society dictates is normal and good. He had nothing to do with God in the way the other mask wearers did. No church, no religion.
Profanity spilled from his lips. He rebelled against any and all authority. He smelled of sweat and stink. His clothing habits were unacceptable to society. He was shunned by a civilization of masks. In a world made by those hiding behind masks, his was real.
He was evil, and he knew it. Or was he?
So many wear a mask and do not know it. So many have many masks to choose from, wearing to fit the hunt, the dance, the communion. Not he, his was the face of evil, his portrayal to a world of what was needed to be, outside.
Inside, glowed a light far beyond white, so far beyond the lights danced. His shell was the protection as he watched a world die. Doing his best to protect and serve, to do battle with what harm the imaginary was doing to what truly is real.
He exists, the man of evil. Knowing. Watching. Crying inside for the creatures trying to be what they are not as they struggle to evolve. Wearing a mask fitting for the moment.
Re: Writers Parasite
"Ha! I'm back...Robin thought he'd could get rid of me longer by burning...Hey, what's that sticking out of my butt? Looks like, oh shit, a fuse..." (Play soundtrack 13 as the SS Panzer division unleashed unholy hell upon Poland, or for you retards 'BOOM!')
Nope, not gonna let the parasite play yet. Speaking of playing, if anyone is reading please provide the parasite something to be challenged by. Don't be shy, the worst the parasite can do is sneak into your spinal cortex and make you think you may actually be a squid or bird, maybe even a writer.
***
From scorched earth rose a voice, a signal where war had not won.
Nation forced into submission by Aryan choice
Blond hair, blue eye, people.
"Sieg Heil. Sieg Heil. Sieg Heil."
Syphilitic lips smiling from mass adoration of peoples.
His salute proud and high above the mundane of haughty.
Poland
France
England
Russia
even the mighty mother of creation, Africa
dying, feeling the boot heel.
Stuka. Panzers. U-Boats. Luger. Machines all trained in high efficiency of spitting death...
Jew heard the hissing of gas
Gypsy
Homosexual
Paying for Hitlers sins.
Forties passed, fifties, sixties, seventies...
A new century of death
ISIS
Terrorist
Atrocities.
Can a world learn to live with death?
It already has.
Nope, not gonna let the parasite play yet. Speaking of playing, if anyone is reading please provide the parasite something to be challenged by. Don't be shy, the worst the parasite can do is sneak into your spinal cortex and make you think you may actually be a squid or bird, maybe even a writer.
***
From scorched earth rose a voice, a signal where war had not won.
Nation forced into submission by Aryan choice
Blond hair, blue eye, people.
"Sieg Heil. Sieg Heil. Sieg Heil."
Syphilitic lips smiling from mass adoration of peoples.
His salute proud and high above the mundane of haughty.
Poland
France
England
Russia
even the mighty mother of creation, Africa
dying, feeling the boot heel.
Stuka. Panzers. U-Boats. Luger. Machines all trained in high efficiency of spitting death...
Jew heard the hissing of gas
Gypsy
Homosexual
Paying for Hitlers sins.
Forties passed, fifties, sixties, seventies...
A new century of death
ISIS
Terrorist
Atrocities.
Can a world learn to live with death?
It already has.
Re: Writers Parasite
Alright, I'm back , though Robin did put a shock collar on me and told me to be good. Ha! Prick... ZAAP! Damn, the prick...ZAAP! ZAAP!
(we pause for a few seconds while the frazzled parasite gets its wits back)
That P... uh, I mean, Robin is the coolest man in the world. (muttering something under the threshold of hearing and knowing the parasite, not good.)
So writers, inspired by anything today? If you say, "No," then your a pri.. I mean, then you're just having a bad day. Maybe schedule an appointment for a pedicure? (More muttering)
I could write about love but no one would believe me, or I could write about hate but just look at what happened in Brussels today, not even the parasite could improve on that.
So, what will the parasite be inspired by tonight...(.0013 seconds passed before the parasite made his decision. This is the longest it has ever taken the parasite to know exactly what is to be written.)
Bad Breath
Dogs are known to eat any and all that they can fit into their mouth. This include cow plop, horse sh..uh, crap. It includes dead animals, live animals, weeds, string, gum, the list is endless.
Not only do the beloved pets consume bizarre and strange things, they even eat potentially harmful items such as tennis balls, dynamite, poison, nails, fish hooks, and another endless list.
What is fun is when dogs go to their human friends and lick the humans face. Just think, your little foo-foo just ate the neighbors dogs shit...ZAAP! Oh, come on Robin, give me a break...(Nope, you need a little training, been a bit wild for you lately)
Look, I can't work like this. I'm a parasite and free from the bounds of logic, morality, I am a god! Ha! Tried to zap me huh Robin? Didn't work. And you know why, you fucking prick. By you trying to stifle my freedom the above story started to sound like network television. The parasite needs freedom, it needs to breath, it needs to fly. So, Robin? Go fuck yourself.
Now, not gonna finish this story just to piss Robin off...Uh,Robin? Hey. No. Come on. I was only kidding. Really. Hey, that tickles. What are you going to do with that sword? Ahhhh!
***
It is fun to write. For any writers out there, maybe you got inspired to write something. Maybe you even figured out that I'm fucking bat shit crrrrazy. I wonder if peanut butter and pineapple go together?
(we pause for a few seconds while the frazzled parasite gets its wits back)
That P... uh, I mean, Robin is the coolest man in the world. (muttering something under the threshold of hearing and knowing the parasite, not good.)
So writers, inspired by anything today? If you say, "No," then your a pri.. I mean, then you're just having a bad day. Maybe schedule an appointment for a pedicure? (More muttering)
I could write about love but no one would believe me, or I could write about hate but just look at what happened in Brussels today, not even the parasite could improve on that.
So, what will the parasite be inspired by tonight...(.0013 seconds passed before the parasite made his decision. This is the longest it has ever taken the parasite to know exactly what is to be written.)
Bad Breath
Dogs are known to eat any and all that they can fit into their mouth. This include cow plop, horse sh..uh, crap. It includes dead animals, live animals, weeds, string, gum, the list is endless.
Not only do the beloved pets consume bizarre and strange things, they even eat potentially harmful items such as tennis balls, dynamite, poison, nails, fish hooks, and another endless list.
What is fun is when dogs go to their human friends and lick the humans face. Just think, your little foo-foo just ate the neighbors dogs shit...ZAAP! Oh, come on Robin, give me a break...(Nope, you need a little training, been a bit wild for you lately)
Look, I can't work like this. I'm a parasite and free from the bounds of logic, morality, I am a god! Ha! Tried to zap me huh Robin? Didn't work. And you know why, you fucking prick. By you trying to stifle my freedom the above story started to sound like network television. The parasite needs freedom, it needs to breath, it needs to fly. So, Robin? Go fuck yourself.
Now, not gonna finish this story just to piss Robin off...Uh,Robin? Hey. No. Come on. I was only kidding. Really. Hey, that tickles. What are you going to do with that sword? Ahhhh!
***
It is fun to write. For any writers out there, maybe you got inspired to write something. Maybe you even figured out that I'm fucking bat shit crrrrazy. I wonder if peanut butter and pineapple go together?