SOTTOGOVERNO

Brace thyselve for more pus-filled drivel from yer pal theorez!! Hate it or love it, it's not going anywhere! why do i bother! too much burroughs for breakfast? wanna wannabe? it's him! theorez'll see you right, cocky!
Wax unshealthed the card from the ATM machine and pondered his immediate options. " Is it this ink on my back, that little seal lanced into my skin at the turn of the millenium? Is it a permanent monkey on my back...people...listen and lose! For the prize is a vaccuum! There is no reward! To be 'full of shit' is to be made of the good stuff! Ye dreamers - let us get jobs! And let's get fired! Let thy credit becometh as purulence. Draw a loan! Arouse suspicion in the earner world. Insence an elderly man to commit violence upon ye! 'You stupid lttle cunt, I fought for you,you arrogant piece of shit'... Give him your pin number and let his cancerous breath be thy guide! All assertions are to be unequivocably full of shit....father...is that you..?" Wax, a sturdy fellow around 37, was having trouble. His orders were simple, but he could not carry them out. He did not believe in what they implied, he could not take lives. This army was not his army, and his hallucinations were becoming more severe. It was only a matter of time before his superiors would notice his degeneration. walker. meet the stalker, balk and lip sap clod of earth in bermuda triangle simple-set street fest, happy buckle faced children and angry bogan boyfriends no-time supermarket-set - you little cunt - who do you work for what you up to now you little cunt give me a reason not to fuck you over you narc, fuck sap balk hack sorty worst narc federal feltch and seagull meats assorted for your satisfaction and fibrillation. Thanks to the streetcleaners and street walkers colourful pockets of culture and luke-warm yoghurt negotiating through bermudas trianle atm routes. Meet the stalker who works for no-one and thank those who manage to wrench a smile from ther faces. Yep, he's done his homework! Fish bowls and gratitudes- landlords, dog-turds, the crackle and chaff of last decades bohemian glory, card in. card out, shake it all about , snob if y' keep to yerself, cunts and cunts and fuck offs, what a dick, diddle me this. Frottage and spongeiform starch strokes in south-east west dunno fish shop knock out boobs and the boys: warren, trevor, nick, craig, bruce, jason and last but not least the legend himself dereck who swallowed 10 dag-meat-pies in one sitting and still had room for haggis. Lay-low humble-pie shoe gaze. Reclusive visions in parochial paradise. Contention, ego erection. Remembering never to compete. Upstarts and brats. Precosity and early 80's synthesiser unite. Slathering tounge lick clarinet in mid ninetees post-grunge Southland farm. Picking the lint off me argyle I chug up the isle and lose alot of blood. Industrial slag and post-rock gag. Born again in rags. And onto Dunedin, seagulls as aesthetic spiritual staff. Seagulls revolt. Tackle and tart, bristles and a sheeps heart. Twang, pop, sliver and hiss! Windows shatter, resists arrest, saxophone shrill, illegal noises, gets off lightly. Flying Nun support group obsess-convulse. Stays well within fore-shore, can email Svalbard, but won't adress the townsfolk in fleshy. Voluntary home detention, water retention, right ascension, begs the question. Honk on, my son. Perhaps their sentiments are fodder to stay enthused. Honk on and be strong. Kiwi folk are hard bunch to please. Got to point where he actually stopped botherin'. Better to jus' holler into the web. Better to play rugger, you self-satisfied bugger. Still, titles run off press like insectoid breeding machine. Just for that, go out again. Don't really know what he is. With our work ethic strung 'round our pasty necks we strum till kingdoms' kingdom come.Howard Becker labelling theory: call a spade a spade, call a deviant a dead-man 'cos that what he is man, he's dead-meat. Dead time, dead-to-the-world death threat you little cunt.You little cunt, in ganglia - gungy female nipple fleck heave-ho spatula gag huckery duckery dick, what a mongrel, what a blackie shackie fuck fodder gangrenous main-line bog-thug nitty needle juxtoposed gunk of hideous sloppy soapy thick turd-like liquid, with chunks of cubed carrot and meat and lots of 14 year old rugger girls rapping in a big hep hope hope street bag-lady acapella, just pick up that noodle bag and try it in the ATM. Try again try-hard AND HARDER STILL OLD FOPPISH SLACK JAWED LIMP WRITID BUCUIT! wot!! wot? problem cunt? SUM PROBLEMS DON'T NEED KNUCKLE DUSTER THEY need nuclear period grunt! you just try garrulous from kill quaint and tacky and over-happy creases-as-smiling bulk worker goodness and emotive floor linings. Soap!!! Floor and carpets, my mate john is quite ready to receive that fat brat-worst implement and my other maTE WILL GLADLY LOOK ON AS YOU hack away at those fleshy flushy rouge vermillion shards of huma fat. Gag, cream explosions and muscles implode - posit and tax tax tax this you sick control freak. Other countries man, that's what is nothing to me, it's a big ugly illusion, there is no other, you know it, i know it, only derelict honk and clunk and pissy piercings and filial mountains of ego eggy lardy gunk pulse felch velvet coughing smega over my livid lentil inland revenue inland smegma research association science. smell that! drink it down, buffy!! what will they do next, justin? Concrete ideas are so frivolous these days aren't they Larry?