The Gator Snorts
Somewhere, just a skosh on the outskirts of a small Bulgarian shtetl, within a semi-crumbled wasteland of a half-constructed tanning salon, a deep guttural cry pierces the pre-dawn greyness. It is a pure, atonal inchoate note of dissatisfaction. A foghorn clarion call that rises like a smokestack into the turgid, Eastern European air.
“Grrrmmmmmphhhhhh!!”
A large, lumpy swatch of leathery orange is visible amidst the ruins.
It is The Gator.
The former king of scrote-choadal greasewankery tilts his leathery visage. Surveys the ruins of his once exalted kingdom.
His face-lumps pulse in contemplation. Rough hewn veins bulge from decades of chemical abuse locked in perpetual battle with Botoxian preservation.
The Woo Hotts, long gone.
The Axe Bodyspray long ago exhausted its pyrrhic scent like a lingering, somnambulant roadkill exhaling one last misty gasp before ending its mortal coil.
The once pulsing techno soundtrack to a life of perpetual motion has been replaced only by the faint howls of wind and failed purchasing power. The echoing, phantasmic boom-siss-boom-siss lurks within the Gater’s mind like the tinny drums of a Ramada Inn 80s cover band doing injustice to early Thomas Dolby. The outdated iPod headphones that once struggled to contain the Gator’s greasy veiny head-visage now hang only limply. Sadly. Discarded. For sale on Ebay.
A moment of silence.
A grackle lands on a wooden stump. Regards the sagging, semi-hulken slugworth slumped in front of it like a discarded baggage of unrecycled cookie dough.
The Gator looks up. His ruddy eyes fixate on the small bird through wrinkled, heavy, tangelo-colored eyelids.
The Gator sniffs. Snuffs. Huffs. Then scratches his leathery orange pec-hide with a coarse, ripping sound. The ragged skin undulates like a vomiting coelacanth.
The grackle knows.
Oh yes, the grackle knows.
Orange is the head that once wore the crown.
Like a rumbling subway station that smells vaguely of yesteryear’s bottle service, the noise begins to rise from within his energy-drink stained sternum. And then, as if a rusty windpipe in a post-Lynch landscape, the Gator’s weary lungs exhale, emitting yet another inhuman, atonal note of dispair.
“Grrrrrrmmmmppphhhhh….”
The grackle flies off.
Too much time has passed for the Gator to still be here.
All that’s left is his thought.
Which means nothing. Nothing is left.
The Gator is exhausted. Physically. Mentally. Roidally. Scrotally.
Long live The Gator.
What? A post only a month and a half after the last one?
Slow down, DB1. You’ll exhaust yourself.
Like Mr. Moustafa in The Grand Budapest hotel, Gator has stories to tell. But instead of lounging in the spa in a once-lavish resort regaling Millenials with his tales of hedonism, he’s driving for über and selling autographed bootleg copies of HCwDB on the side.
(Nice to hear from you, Chief!)
MAGA GEOTUS!
Orange Champion slays commies
makes them puke and cry
PRAISE TO MIGHTY TRUMP!
Dhimmicrats screech, cry and puke
Orange Schlong drives deeeep
Settle down Nancy.
Great to see this place is still up and operating, still doing the Lord’s work. Ahoy Gentlemen, I salute you.
Oh yes,…and Fuck Fishslap.
I hope you are all doing well.
Kushner will build the 3rd temple and bring in the antichrist.
We will all die.
The mark of the beast is the international banking cabal de-platforming all conservative thought. The ADL, SPLC, AIPAC and all that shit are the enema.
Buy chickens. Make barrels of kimchi. Buy metals. Get more guns and ammo cause when the hyperinflation shit hits, Weimar Germany may look like paradise for whitey.
I now keep my Jewesses in a chicken coop.
Dang, this place is like a bad case of the herp. Both occasionally flair up and and result in a rant from RevChad. Badoom tish! Fuck Fishslap, Marry Groo and kill Four Prong.
Decline of Douchal Civilization can only be applauded w a rousing Fwap Fwap
T’was a giant skank ho’ from Antioch
Could perform magic on yer cock
Go down ‘tween her legs
She would squeeze on yer head
’til your ears looked like Mr Spock
A gal who digs old Gator’s balls
Hears her ovaries’ siren calls
If he can still goo
Then she guesses he’ll do
Or she’ll go crawlin’ back to Sioux Falls
A hard stare down on the Gator
Means she’s gonna punish him later
Ball gag and mask
Strap-on up his ass
And an unseemly thing with a ‘tater
Getting my limericks ready for St Paddy’s day ^
Ole Gator he still works the pecs
Always finds a way to flex
He looks at you so:
“Do you even lift , bro?”
A decade since he’s had sex
Sad Gator has outlived his crew
From a diet of nothing but Spoo
Yeah, he’s a cretin
But that heart’s still beaten
And his nose hairs sound like a kazoo
See what I did there, ya Centauri bastids!?
Gator’s as orange as Trump
But still only half the chump
No Playmate or porn star
Have gobbled his brown star
Or been used as a cum dump
Gator wears the ‘mark o the Bag’
As he clutches onto a fag hag
To get an erection
He needs male crotch inspection
With hopes of oxen scrotus like sag
…all I got Vin, now back to the Shack PDR
MUELLER PROCLAIMS
“NO ROOSHA-TRUMP COLLUSION!”
Libcunts cry and rage
2leniency