Hey you stupid fuckers, you know what? I’d rather shit a rag-doll sideways that spend one fraction of a nano-second in the same room with any of you shit wankers. You’re all just so incredibly fucked up and I rue the day each and every one of you fart-snarfers was fucking born, you ignorant fucking feces possums. Goddam, I hate you all so fucking much that I’d relish the thought of nailing your dicks to a creosote-soaked 2 x 4 that’s on fire and attached to the rotting poop deck of a rapidly sinking Bolivian Navy troop transport whose maiden voyage across Lake Titicaca was foredoomed because the universal luck plane became cognizant of the fact that you stupid cocksuckers were on board and that the universe would be a much, much better place if you all fucking drowned with nails in your dicks and your asses on fire. Indeed, each and every one of you lame-assed motherfuckers thoroughly enjoy slipping a few dead salamanders into your urethras and then enticing diseased, 90-year-old gas huffers to blow you, and then the dead salamander parts inside your dick shoot out into the gaping craws of the decrepit motherfuckers, causing them to puke blood, which you then fuck before it cools very much and it makes you crave a funnel cake but the only funnel cake stand was just blown up by eighteen unenlightened Nepalese drag queens whose special perversion is jacking off onto photographs of Jerry Van Dyke and collecting vintage dynamite sticks. And you jive-ass bastards purchase the jizz-soaked photos of Mr. Van Dyke on eBay and make a soup stock out of them which you then inject into your fucking dicks. That’s how fucking stupid you assholes are and it’s also pretty much why I hate you fucking jit-bags! FUCK OFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF!
OK, you stupid fucking shitheads! I’ve had about enough of your bullshit regarding the completion of the plots threads to Gothik (a contradiction in terms, I might add, for you ignorant sons-a-bitches who can’t figure this shit out) so I’m just going to go ahead with my OTHER plan! And that’s to endlessly discuss the imaginary plot threads I’ve imagined for many, many years about … GREEN ACRES! How about THAT you fucking yak-felching, piranha-blowing, moose-fucking dumb fucking assholes?! Huh?! How do you like that shit? Well, first of all, when Lisa is making pancakes and the names of the producer, director, and writer appear burned into their surfaces (well, actually the director’s name was burned into a piece of toast) I imagined Oliver walking in wearing a lime green leisure suit and actually eating the pancakes and toast and ENJOYING THEM! What do you think about THAT shit you stupid fucking motherfucking cocksucking fucking assholes? Huh? I’m waiting you motherfuckers. Then Sam Drucker and Mr. Haney form a transvestite polka band with Doris Ziffle as lead accordionist and they do a free concert during which Eb Dawson distributes this super-strong STP that Owsley mailed to him via FedEx the day before and everybody eats eighteen hits and gets fucked up as fourteen motherfuckers and there’s this MASSIVE ORGY in which Arnold Ziffle videotapes the proceedings and blackmails the entire population of Hooterville and retires to a condo in Uzbekistan. That’s what you fucking assholes get for pestering the living shit out of me about continuing the plot-line of Gothik. And you ain’t heard NUTHIN’ yet you stupid fucking shitheads who put burning tar on each other assholes and smoke Vienna sausage on the flames and feed them to each other while buttfucking a bucket of slugs in front of the ENTIRE FUCKING SUNDAY SCHOOL!