Descent into Madness: Drunknard vs Everything (With Assists to Grand Marnier, Nicorette and Absinthe)

Drunknard: how come no one is ever online when i’m drunk and rambling here at night. i pine for the glory days, when upstate ether was a tussin-fueled 24-hour extravaganza of bile, hate and trailer park rocking trash. now this board is all bourgeois and boring… bunches of office monkeys arguing with themselves from nine to five daily. what about the night owls? what about the tussin drinkers, the lotus eaters, the winos and the wild children, the vapours, the fakers, the late night shakers and bakers, the makers of madness and mindfuck, the bad luck yuckapucks and the hucksters of sterling commentary and dromedaries heavy with crystal clear desert gold and the old tribes lies and wives who survive on highs? what about them, yo? why you office bitches control the gain now, huh? tonights meltdown brough to you by nicorette, grand marnier, and pure, real absinthe. accept no substitutes, motherfuckers. its worth the investment and the illegality and the heart palpitations and ministrations, the stations of the cross, the boss, the floss in the brain despite the pain, the limnal hymnal, the baptist bad trick, the equipoise and the altar boys, the trial balloons and cocaine spoons, the peridot and astronaut, its all there, prego, blended with a smooth italian sauce, of course, your loss if you don’t play the game at 11 P aMe, tired and sleepy like mister creepy cubicle monkey, whats a junkie to do, foo, you honkey motherfunky clerical donkeys?

{BIG INHALE!}

Drunknard: whassup, give it up for the brother who thought about the mother of that poster girl, her world cut short for the sport of hipsters and their sisters, all them dead sluts with cuts round their necks, ‘cept their sex is all wrong, they’s boys singing songs ’bout the mouths of willing slaves who save their souls and lend their holes to violation, thats their station, see, the mystery is why the guys let other eyes capture the fantasy for free and reap the benefit of that foul shit on concert walls and downtown halls, for some sick band did some poor whore give up her life, not once, not twice, but countless times as fools with rhymes reload the screen the view the scene of cables wrapped around the necks of little girls who sold their sex for crack and lies and alibis, the girlie dies, the girlie dies, and hipster guys and their hip maids debate the posters that they made, i say, i sayed, or said, i said, that little jezebel is dead, and in her breathless death emotes, a concert she herself promotes, by dudes with issues of their own, she cant pick up the telephone while i sit here, i’m all alone, in some electric message zone, but fuck it, fuck it, thats the key, fuck her, fuck them, fuck you, fuck me, fuck all this shit, fuck italy, and africa, fuck zuider zee, fuck abraham, and sam i am, fuck truth, fuck lies, fuck candied yams, fuck all of this and all that too, i need a drink, fuck me, fuck you.

{BIG INHALE!}

Drunknard: maybe champagne would ease the pain of a rainy day that in no way made the way that we pass the day escape in quick time like escapes, get laid, some splayed broad satisfying the faded impulses betrayed by age and rage, this stage in the night is alright, why fight the plight of the poor fools using tools of inebriation and levitation, flying high, like my own wry guy, i dont know why, while flying high i try to be an upstate ether guy, no reply from the office wise, replies and sighs, let the signal fall and rise, as pictures of thighs and brides scroll by, by and by, my and my, why try i, buy me my, my my and i, i get by in the sty that i make as i bake like a blind eye letting in the light, but the sight that i fight in the night is alright, yet the plight of the right guys and wrong eyes and lost guys and found prizes blight all i see when i pee in the sea that i sail chasing tail and i turn and i stand on my own like some bone-addled coot in a suit at a desk while my chest it is filled with despair where my hair in the air should be waving like flags like the freaks fly from peaks as the weeks scroll along and the song the impales my old scales in the vales like a spear, like a year in the valley of fear, where the lord in his ford, in accord with the tales that we tell, we’re in hell, just as well, just as well, since the smell of the land of the lord, get onboard is as bad as the lad that had had himself gored by the facts and the acts that come free, with a tax, that the state sets and rates on the plates of the poor, in the war of the rich and the sons of that bitch that we call liberty, but we pine to be free, get in line, pass the time with the liberal crew, who support and report all the things that you do, i am drunk, but no punk, got no green day on tap, as i rap and attack all the spurious crap that we eat just like meat in the most holy seat where our god says we’re odd and then give up its seat to the clown dressed in brown, that’s the devil we know, it’s his show, let it go, feast on raven and crow, since the veal makes us squeal that its suffering is real, while the foul and the owl feel like nothing we feel, since they fly, since we’re wry, like the carnival crowd that’s allowed, and is proud, to be ugly and loud, in the suits that they choose as the festival comes, and we turn and we burn and we’re nothing but dumb animals in the thralls of the festival vibe, where we try and decide that the lives that we’ve tried are remiss, if we piss out the bourbon and gin, then again, we can’t win, we’re here lonely and then, we submit and we quit like the monkeys that work, in a box, with a fax, in a cubicle world, where we hurled out the bile in a style that is grand, let it come, let it come, let it fall on the land that we make, no mistake, take the rake, how it down, to the town where we found that our kids are all fucked, theres no luck for the suckiest schools that our kids sit in all day, we pray that the anomie rids them of goals for their souls and the holes that they fill, put the pegs on your legs, stomp on circles that beg squares to come, like the sum of the total eclipse, as he slips, and he trips on the carnival ships, filled with germs and with worms that the stewards have brought, god, i’m hot, quote a lot, that’s the answer to what’s on your mind as you find that your energy fails and you stare at the sun and you (blind) trim the sails.

{BIG INHALE!}

Drunknard: upstate ethernards? you fucking bastard desk jockeys, you piss poor excuses for free thinkers, locked in your jobs, using this site for daytime amusing, rather than nigh-time abusement? wake up! cast off your yokes! talk to me, wasted wonders of yore! take me from lonely shore! fight the good fight in the war! that’s what this board, yo, is fucking here for! and now, i’m going to bed. i hope i dont throw up and drown in my own puke. that just old, yo. although it would still make headlines, i know.

James Joyce: Oh, come on now, you blithering idiot. That doesn’t make any sense at all. Stop that, right now! Bad, bad Drunknard! Bad!

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