u/ted_loaf

391:

The Billabong babies and Gerber babies of today have no chance against the codgercrotches and keep’rs of the old ways—for they do not know the way to Margaritaville. How would they? We’ve taken it from them for the lulz. We will sail ship n’ shit to the ends of the Earth and fall off the map straight to Hell on the Disney cruise of total swingage.

-Dave
Vietnam Vet, 9^(th) Infantry Division (Old Reliables) USMC (Ret.)
Class A life on the road!
Sent from my iPad while probably fishin!

389:

I sit back and ice-tea relax on my terrace and watch the world burn, kicking my feet up cowboy style. Play my Nerolin Rome style. I dilly and dally with darklit doomer videos—modern titans of philosophy—and watch as they explain the ills of society in their dingepartment or camry at 20something years old. Precocious. These are the Platos and Putos and Socrateezies of the modern age. The Seneca letters of today are losertube confessionals.

Let me tell you why I'm a socially maladjusted weirdo, and how I cope with it, and how my life is miserable. And how I’m so desperately alone. And how I’m really just a result of engineering. And how God holds me by a thread above a pool of death—a deadpool if you will. And these nothingvlogs only serve as a landmark of my meaningless existence—proof that I was alive, and I etched microscribbles on the giant stone of humanity. Etched tiny notches in the recesses of one corner barely found and obfuscated. I was here, I lived…sort of. Let this be my wake of words. My own notching. Maybe that’s what my posts are ultimately about. This one’s called: 389 I existed.

387

I imagined Ted Bundy getting a haircut. I imagined him late for a haircut and rushing out the door, half-finished skinning a beautybabe, yelling at how he got so caught up in the breastages and softbits of a woman—yelling at how he lost track of time in the flesh of it all. So lost in it. I imagined him sitting in the chair like a bitch, looking at himself in the mirror and saying: just a trim. Little Teddy gets a haircut. He comes out looking fresh and trim and returns home to finish his handiwork. I imagined Ted Bundy getting a haircut.

385

We rode. We rode as crotch rocketers and kings of the city streets into the midnight, revving and tooting our hollylotters that vibed between our legs like sybians. If we were gay we’d’ve been hard but we weren’t. We were focused on our rides. The highways gleamed yellow-amber and our shadows longed and shortened under the lights above in total Winding-Refn style. We picked up pace. Trez to the left of me popped wheelie and showed off real horrorshow. Jag to the right superman’d that hoe and planked the 2010s.

384:

I was sad so I put a feather in my cap.

I was a little saddy so I doth’d an old codgercap and woolen trouser combo with a tweedling sweetwear suit and took to town. The streets lit up as I elbow-jaunted along the porous-cobble bits and the concrete bits. And the scally capered on the sidewalks and into the street, dodging and dancing and near-missing betwixt the pedestrians. As I watched them mischief ‘round like little flitterfoxes I felt the world lighten. I smiled.

I took the silverwatch from my waistcoat and wound it thrice and held it to my ear. In its pleasant tickingness I found a steady-gentle center that calmed me further. I squished in my freshleather loafers. I smiled softly.

Minding the pleasant hollowness of my heel-step I kept to walk until I saw a tree. This eucalyptus had grown mirroredly, as if folded in half. Amongst the branches were some softsing warblers that twittered and chicked, and bounced as they sang their warbling little songs. As I watched them chitter from branch to branch and fly away and land again, I felt a liveliness in the world. I smiled.

eg.

True Grit → True Rape

Everything Everywhere All at Once → Rape Everywhere All at Once

Jurassic Park → Rape Park

Paul Blart Mall Cop → Paul Rape Mall Cop

Murder on the Orient Express → Murder on the Rape Express

Being John Malkovich → Being John Rape

Shawshank Redemption → Rape Redemption

Kill Bill Volume 2 → Rape Bill Volume 2

:]

379

To Shit or to Poo—that was the question I asked myself as I squatteth in the backseat of the Waymo. I hopped in after a trystical pomp playdate, and undulated greatly on the leather thinking about life. What a wonder the world is—über for cars, über for food, and über for sex. We are now all übermensch.

It was such a thrill to put my precious life in the hands of a gay computer as it drove slay-style. I imagined a responsible ghost turning that wheel, and giving the ghost road head from the backseat. As that wheel turned to and fro, I thought about my life ending, and having my mangled squat body discovered in the backseat of a jaguar at the behest of coding and camera sensors. Sacrificed like a monkey in space for the greater güüd. The übergüüd.

It is my wish to have my toned body be found and mire’d by a coroner. That is why I lift. We’re gonna need a bigger casket, this guy’s ripped. Bro’s so lean. Looks like his perfect cock was mangled in the accident though—no…that was the doctors. Some men aren’t so lucky, but me—I’ll take my chances in the Waymo. The Waymo of life.

I've worked at the Medical and Health Department of the Vatican for two decades and in that time i've seen nothing gayer than a pope. Each one without fail—roughly three months after inauguration—will confess their homosexuality to me as I was sworn to patient-pope confidentiality. They talk about how they are so gay they want a penis permanently stuffed in their mouth, and ask if i can grow one for them—if I can make one grow out of their mouth so it rolls out like a party blower. I deny this request, not because we can't do it—we have—but because it's too expensive.

a group of goopers broke into my hot home on a chilly summer sunday for warmth and i blasted them with my gloop gun. i turned them into piles of goo for my coodoo machine. doo doo machine. my goo machine will do due diligence.

in true willy wonka fashion i tittered and capered along with my candy cane reenacting singing in the rain but it was singing in the goop. i splashed 'round the thick puddlings and it brought me back to childhood science: making oobleck and saving the world as a baby genius.

and that's what i said when i blasted them: i fuckin love science. science is a gun. and i fuckin love gun :) and im all outta science :)))))) but im not outta goo :-D