Saturday, May 16, 2009

Thou Shall Not Worship Those That Wear Bib Overalls

Paul Gilbert & Freddie Nelson---United States


MoTW---This Is Not A Test

It's a good thing Bob posts his shit on Sundays since it gives me 5-6
days to let the anger die down so I can respond with a clear and mellow
conscience.

Yes, I'm still locked in the basement since someone has not accepted
BiViD (not TiVO you rancid prick) as a new god. I don't expect her to
follow BiViDs teachings, just acceptance that there's something possibly
better out there.

Now as for the rancid prick and HIS god, yes, it's true. Nebraskans do
worship at the altar of harry husker, that bullum-headed freak in bib
overalls with that giant "N" on its chest. And it's also true that the
"N" stands for "Nowledge", cause that's the Nebraskan way. Don't ask,
just go with the flow.

What Bob conveniently left out is how he doesn't just worship harry,
he's also had a "close encounter" with it, if you know what I mean. That
night on that dark road wasn't just a meet and greet with those albinos.
Nope, harry was there as well. And its overalls weren't completely on,
if you know what I mean. The full moon wasn't in the sky, if you know
what I mean. If not, "nowledge" is a-ok to you.

Unlike harry, BiViD is no bib-overall wearing pussy. If I were to offer
B (I'm allowed to call him that. And yes, it's a he for all you
feminists out there) corn, he would rip my spleen out through my
nostrils, slap me upside the head with it, chew it up, spit it out and
mold it into something that resembles Sam I Am, lop off its head, sautee
it in a creamy flea urine sauce, chew on it for awhile, ask me what I
did wrong, wait for my answer and, when not satisfied, tear my head off
and suck the rest of my innards out of my twitching body.

A few months ago we installed a cat door on the basement door so they
could come and go as they please. Sadly, our pet goat happened to wander
into the house a couple days ago and got caught in the cat door.

I asked the woman to let me out of the basement so I could take care of
the problem, but she naturally refused. I tried to push the goats head
through the door as the woman pulled it from the other side, but it
didn't work. I then had no choice but to cut off its head.

After listening to her bitch and moan for an hour about blood spurting
all over the kitchen, I took the still bleating head downstairs and
began dancing and chanting as I held the trophy above my head.

Soon the bleating stopped and the lights went out and something hit me
on the back of my head. I guess I was supposed to pass out or something
since this thing continued hitting the back of my head until I gave up
and fell to the floor. Then I curled into the fetal position and took
some nappy time.

When I woke up the goat head was gone. I heard a contented belch and
knew that B was pleased. He then showed me how I could make my own
cigarettes using only a dryer sheet and yarn, which proves he is a
giving god.

And what would harry have done if offered a goat head? Probably vomited,
soiled itself and then fainted, just like a pussy would. Or Bob, when I
told him what happened that night on that road (interestingly enough,
when he soiled himself there were a lot of corn particles in his mess).


COMING NEXT: The future adventures of Sally the Vomit Girl

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