Friday, May 6, 2005
Friday Haiku – DarkSock is Senile edition
Thanks for bearing wit’ me during my extended visitation with the little Socks in California. The Dude won the easter egg pear this go-round. sons.
She’s disappointed
Biff Precious tells her “Real Men…
They don’t eat Kei$ha”
The Dude said…
The Golden Girl look
First stage of transgender trip
Bottle blonde likes it
Dr. Bunsen HoneyDouche said…
Poison, Ratt, or
Winger? She don’t know because
roofies and E rock!
Vin Douchal said…
Razzle Douche looks like
Chris Squire f*cked a Swiffer
Rolls over in grave
hermit said…
Once, while drunk I
Fingered my sister-in-law
She looked like this dude
DoucheyWallnuts said…
This example of
Our species is closer to
Feces on two feet
Its fuckin Denis
Leary from his shitty new
show. That’s all I got.
http://www.laughspin.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/sex-drugs.jpg.jpg
I win by default.
Otherwise this game is rigged.
Pay up bitches! Yo
The Golden Girl look
First stage of transgender trip
Bottle blonde likes it
Beau Arthur plays the
Kaitlyn Jenner card with blonde
Says he’ll keep his nub
Sock’s got the Heimers
Rev Chad is lost in the grove
2005 sucks
Poison, Ratt, or
Winger? She don’t know because
roofies and E rock!
Aquanet stock goes
through the roof after seeing
this. Calling broker.
“Real men don’t eat Keisha.” FTW
Razzle Douche selfie
Tries to snort pancake makeup
Off shocked and stunned Bleeth
Razzle Douche looks like
Chris Squire fucked a Swiffer
Rolls over in grave
Hmmm, is this Bleeth hot?
Razzle Douche’s dick’s been there
Kill! Kill it with fire !
Trying for long time
But Razzle Douche’s sister
Will still not fuck him
Rev Chad will post a
Snippet of video as he trims
His weed in two weeks.
.
And Yes.
.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n24-5tD8zwc
.
Why isn’t Yes in the Hall with RUSH.
The nervous system
Is the first to falter, Sons.
Followed by the brain?
I know my weed is
About 9 feet tall in flower.
But where is it, fuck!
The season was hot
With enough wet. Breezes cool
The sticky frost bud.
Blood Moon eclipse will
Bless the Grove with frequencies
Doomed to get stoooooooooooooooooooned, shit.
Iggy Fop has bad
Penis envy. Fungus ate
His saggy ball sack.
http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x2wlq9z_phoebe-cates-shows-us-the-goods-celebrity-clips_people
Once, while drunk I
Fingered my sister-in-law
She looked like this dude
True Story
Sad Frog on Weathered Plywood
Eye make-up, hair mousse
And lipstick is over the
top. On any guy
This example of
Our species is closer to
Feces on two feet
Edit
Anonymous said…
My crop is substantial and hanging in the barn. I figure I have about 5 pounds. One pound is kept reserved in dollar store linguini jars for my visual enjoyment, as I only smoke oils in my vape pen to keep the smell from little ones and nosy neighbours. Speaking of nosy neighbours, my neighbours wife smelled the clippings from the next county road. She sees mafiosi coming to rape her kids when illicit crops abound. Mr. Neighbour pimp handed her and told her to shut her fucking mouth.
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The rest is used to make butter which is then kept frozen until I turn a new cancer patient on to my generous supply free of charge. I’m a fucking people person that’s all. And Hermit, sage in his years speaks the truth. When we have Obama, the black pope, and the Commie real Pope we worry. The Nations turning towards Israel in hatred and the Illuminati inching closer the a One World Islamic order does keep my rifle clean and loaded.
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An eye for an eye said the Lord. But this Pope is a fart-smoking, lefty leaning, anti-business goof. I would shit in his Habit and poison his food, before the Horseman road into my cionciousness with the blood Moon.
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Lenny and I have developed carpal tunnel from trimming this crop. The weed, scotch, and bullets prepared and prepped with food in my bug out camp.
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Erin Go Bra Fucker
Did someone mention the Collectivist Pope?
@ Rev,
Speaking of bug out camp how much money should one have on hand if they had to cheese it from the law at a moments notice?
@ Et Tu,
If you’re cheesin’ it to Canada, remember: Monopoly Money is now stronger than the CAD.
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Relatedly, the B.C. for British Columbia now means: “Bought by China”.
Weed scotch and bullets
are the currency of the
future, thanks Barry
@Et Tu
.
I currently hold 5 ounces of gold and 10 of silver in smaller pieces. These are in various and sundry places with a small portion in my armoured briefcase. I also carry about $5,000 in both of our glorious currencies on my person at all time. The carry money is to ensure safe passage to my family.
Once the Jewesses are packed up we go get the travelling stash at said various and sundry locales close by before the bug.
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I also carry a small sidearm, Swiss Army knife, a skateboard tool, drugs, weed, an emergency bottle of Fireball, rolling papers, charger for my vape pen, electronics, a pack of Exports,and a memory stick of videos and all pictures at all times.
.
Weed Is Good
Bindi Irwin, The
Cockadoodie Hunter is
A dirty bird, Mister man.
I find Fireball to be of great comfort during inclement weather and keep a half-pint duct-taped to my left anklethroughout the winter months.
I need less gun-free zones in my world.
I’ve started to crapitate my pants.
Rev @ 8:24pm
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Sing it brother Rev. What I need most now is a fuccen pontoon boat.
Are we officially dead yet or is someone going to come ’round next Thursday?
We can’t be dead. There’s ironic early 1900s looking hipsters to mock.
@ Dr. B 4:01 05/06/2005.
This site has been officially dead since February 2014.
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What is left is a lurching, drooling zombie of a site. Held together tenuously with duct tape and nostalgic romanticism, it stumbles blindly through the internet netherworld seeking sentimental reminiscence and the warm innards of negroes and innocent schoolgirls.
Moonage Gaydream holds
camera and takes final
shot of Seventies.
Is Dr. Bunsen in the floods? A victim of G-D’s wrath for the lowering of the REBEL FLAG?
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Politics is going lefty up here too I fear. I bought a safe today to get the bug out loot in one place for the time being. I’m kinda stones on the new crop. I may have a tale
The Rev. announcing that he “may have a tale” is like a squirrel announcing that he will climb a tree. All is certain, all is predicted, all is foreshadowed, all is known. Let not this dead site prevent the spillage of tales from those holy men doing the lorde’s work up thar in Canuckland.
I think he meant he may have a tail.
I may bug out sooner then expected as I have lost all faith in humanity. The concepts of Common Sense, Paying Attention & Personal Responsibility for ones actions are a thing of the past. I would weep for society but I’ve long since given up on caring.
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My plan is to head north and seek consul & slight refuge from the Rev at which point I’ll ask him for the most direct route to the Selkirk mountain range where I will spend my days fishing, skiing the fluffy pow and ogling hot B.C. chicks. Who knows I might even take up smoking cheeb again.
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Suburban entitlement sucks!!!
Like the Noab of olde. I have lost all hope. The world of Hillary’s face and the liberal lies have wasted my former spirit. Whores no longer attractive, weed’s lusters lost. I wane for the days of my youth. The splendid young dandy with so much too offer. Joel Osteen stole my future.
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The papers were signed today for my 13 year old daughter to get her Guardasil shot. I signed it as her father and my dear sweet Mrs. Kroeger, all 125 pounds of her, signed as her mother. (Mrs. Kroeger done got thin again). Fascist/socialist Ontario government. Our premier (no respect) is a paedophilic dyke-wore-man-skeletor monster. Gubmint all up in my bithniss.
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The government forms however, even at the Catholic School (respect), had us sign as Guardian 1 and Guardian 2. I guess it is just too dang disrespectful to call people what they are. What the fuck happened to the fucking world? I remember the good old days with W. But then there was that fucking financial cockshow breakdown, Oy Vey! We are not all equal. The homos and the trans can all suck my cock with the fucking mooslems. People have gone berserk and I must end the pain for my beloved Jewesses.
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So the daughter was all gung ho to get the shot, FUCK! I was blessed with bountiful and G-D blessed weed this year to be left amuck with the new world order and the bad pope. Paternal damnation awaits as the child ages and the other comes into bloom. I miss my dog.
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I never wanted any fucking kids.
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Doomed for another fortnight of years with youthful parasites to support, I will be spent. Can’t do it and can’t leave them alone in this miserable world. God has damned me to live my hell on Earth (respect). I bought a safe today, ready for the accumulation of bug out loot, but I just can’t keep going. The old stoned man reflects upon the wretchedness of his days on this most brutish and waning of Earthlike planets. I lie askance, bewildered and bemused. Amused and confused. The flames of Hates lap at the old Cadillac in the grove.
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Two months till skiing. Is it not time yet? I can’t make it that long. The buzzing from the thing they put in my head has driven me to the brink. What? The children sleep in usual peace on this saddest of days. I’m going to light another match after I throw this one. The dust of the old dog is all that I have left as the smoke fills my lungs. Sweet dreams my friends. The last cigarette smells fresh and musky in the cool air of the autumnal death throes.
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The artifice over, I fall into a deep pit of shit and the hipster beer I have been drinking lately with my high school buddy visiting his hometown to watch as his step-father (respect) rots from within; as his still lovely contemporary withers to old age as the last of their flock flies the roost. He goes back a single man as the restless swan flew the coop. The pain grows and the heat rises. I remember the times with my cousins, and the Mulattoes…. Fuck you Tami you whore!
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A time spent luxurious and Spartan, times wasted and times wise. The calculus of 50 years of hurt and victory, pain and pleasure, weary and fucked. Later spent as a old soldier counting the king’s coins having lost all self-respect. Bespoiling his yearning for adventure and gain, Father Time creeps grimly. The old man gets another drink,….scotch this time. It goes well with the phenolbarbital the wife and kids has earlier.
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About a fifth (that’s AMERKAN… TRUMPS) of whiskey is supposed to be enough if it goes down like that old cancer lady on the west coast last year. Chinkyland, I says. Faint squeals in the distance. The smell of plastic fills the air as the sirens near. Too late late to help I know, I will join them in the once happy home and leave sweet Bunny outside in the cool night air in her box.
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Several years of wasted productivity were spent right here when this was a thing. The millennials might vote in the next round of elections. Our guns will be drawn to fight them. At least if the fire wasn’t burning so bright, I might have stayed around for the tribulations. Or the tribbing, Sons.
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Aristotle once told me that tolerance would be the end of civilization, and apathy would kill it. I believe he was right. I took a path less travelled and am too tired to bear any more. This year’s cow will be wasted in the blaze, but the fire shouldn’t reach the drying shed. Lenny will know where to go. A safe to never be used as I go into that good night willingly with nary a rage.
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The smell of burning flesh is getting sickening. I grow sleepy and dispondent. Must go in so it looks like I tried to save them. Sweet memories my friends. Carry on, Sons. Bless the children.
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I remain your The Reverend Chad Kroeger. Stooooned.
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Too sleep, perchance to Mons.
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I leave you my holy christian comrades to take up my quarrel with the foe. Raise your mighty tiorches of intolerance for all to see and succeed where I have lost. I’m going sailing to the nether world. Go Trump!
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I leave you with one late tune.
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DAMMIT REV if I give you my address will you send medicants in a full coffee can?
Aw fucck Rev, I don’t wanna be the last one here declared legally crazy. Come down to ‘merica where we can change your identity and you can become the head driver for the Dark Sock Water Follies Group. You can live in a shack on the bayou with a pet crocagator named Pierre and plant all the weed you can harvest. And the best part is that it don’t get too cold in the wintertime.
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