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Messages - Eater of Clowns

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You may have heard that the psychotropic element of mushrooms is not digestible, and can thus be harvested from the urine of the previous user. There are tales of early peoples drinking animal urine to experience the effects of mushrooms that would be otherwise poisonous to humans. Alty personally believes this also to be true of sexual ability, and has spent the last ten years of his life harvesting, and imbibing, walrus piss.

We've all received those ads for male enhancement. Alty has too, and he knows it's for suckers. "They're just walrus piss pills," he'd say, drinking a rancid glass of aquatic mammal urine.

Hear tell, it works too. The man's an absolute demon. Tales of dreamy eyed men and women walking around bow legged and smiling, frequenting the saw dust covered floors of whatever shit dive bar they think Alty may patron that evening.

It should be said that as interest rose in Alty's particular method, studies were undertaken and, no, one gains neither walrus virility nor penile girth from drinking their urine. Yet still he does it, and still it works for him.

Demolition was a natural choice for Junkenstein for the simple fact that his ejaculate is pure nitroglycerin. This would be harmful, fatal in fact, to his partners, if his partners were human or, indeed, alive at all. None know for sure what gets him going, only that rubble and dust mark the spots of his lovemaking.

Exactly what the title says.

Describe the sex life of the person above you.


Nigel, thanks for the add, but I was able to tolerate The Discordian Society on my feed for about 30 seconds before quitting.   :lulz:

PD, let me ask you something.

What the bloody fuck has happened to you? You're being trolled, SUCCESSFULLY, by a guy who accidentally outed his own alt in 30 minutes. I HAVE HAD PIZZA DELIVERIES TAKE LONGER THAN THAT.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: My Girl Friday
« on: July 11, 2014, 04:51:07 pm »
Burn Down the Mission   :lulz:

I appreciate Friday's darkly comedic role in the story.

Well, now have 2 people reading the story here, and maybe 4 at the other place.

I suck at this.

I'm gonna tie up year end financials instead.

I am keeping up, sorry for not chiming in more. And hey even if nobody is reading, fuck it, write anyway. That's how Necronomicoin is still alive.  :lulz:

This is so inept it's poetic.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: A new currency.
« on: July 10, 2014, 03:28:41 am »
Street vendors were packing up and I had enough presence of mind to know this was a bad thing. Pedestrians were sparse. It was all the clearer for me to run.

A modern white building, short and rectangular, appeared after a couple blocks. Its glass entrance was recessed beneath flat blank walls but for a single row of windows with Museo del Oro written across them. I sighed with relief and nearly choked on it for how short of breath I was. All the running I’d done back home only barely left me able to manage at high altitude. The Zipaquira shoes pinched my toes.

The entrance was still too far to see clearly. Guards stood by, outside and in. I slowed my gait and walked the rest of the way, gasping thin air and forcing myself to walk casually. The lights were still on inside the entryway. Behind the glass I could make out a woman standing at the ticket counter. I’d made it. Lara would be inside.

I grabbed the polished steel door handle. I leaned back to account for the heavy glass, and I tugged. Thud. The door pulled back a quarter of an inch before hitting against a lock. Thud thud. I pulled back a couple more times. It was ritual; everyone has to.

The woman standing at the ticket counter looked up at me and mouthed something in Spanish. I did not need any translation. A guard was keeping an eye on me and I walked away from the building to a stone bench wrapped around a nearby tree in the plaza and sat. I could not break into a museum. I could barely break into the Cathedral of Salt when I was, for all purposes, invisible.

I rested my elbows on my knees and buried my face into my palms, rotating my palms slowly. My hands were filthy from the ride and my eyes burned when I closed them from all that wind and all that panic. There would be deep red bloody rings around my contacts by now with veiny tendrils snaking out from them backward into my skull and they burned.

“You look awful.”

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: A new currency.
« on: July 10, 2014, 03:28:00 am »
In that horrid path of thought the images of GREs never taken and women never courted, jobs never applied for and the more that joined the list the heavier my hand grew, the more I cranked the gas on the little Honda, the faster I sped to Bogota. Kilometers died faster than the sun. I could not save the latter and so I killed the former.

In the outer barrios of the great city huge congregations of commuters waited for buses to bring them home. Behind them people cooked outside tiny spaces once as brightly colored as any Colombian building and now stained and, here or there, collapsed, hills of broken clay tile and cracked poured concrete forgotten backgrounds to families living their lives together in the mountains. And like the mountains themselves they blurred at the corners of my eyes and were gone and were remade ahead, copies of the same image to me, like the old Scooby Doo cartoons, cheap animated hallways looping past as the gang scrambled down. Maybe I would be able to pull off the Debt Collector’s mask and find some petty real estate scammer underneath.

Roads signs started popping up for the museums and I stopped. The traffic still did not move and in the cramped space I dragged my ride to a ninety degree angle and swerved into the little gaps between bumpers to the far side of the highway, and the exit.

I hoped the signs would still lead me to the Museo del Oro and I nearly prayed they would do so but after the Cathedral I could not know what to pray to for that short nightmarish moment where I was a god. I shuddered remembering the guardians again and I shuddered twice for the thought seed and then I banished the idea. I had the very real fear of the ride in me and could afford no room for the Veil.

The ramp was easier to maneuver on than the highway and I skirted to the left of traffic. I remembered Rodri again, back in Cali, our host cheerfully swerving around the mountain on the way up to the Cristo Rey, singing all the way and the motorcyclists fearfully edging around him. I put myself to spotting more Rodris and got ready to steer hard. There were none, and I threw myself in with the throngs of city bikers toward the museum.

My road ended with the sun still in the sky. I didn’t stop to check the time and barely managed to turn off the engine and put up the kickstand. I ran.

Put a few hundred more words down for Necronomicoin, to get the flow back going again after close to a month lapse. It feels good. When I have something substantial I will post it.  :)

Fuck, man, that's a scary one.

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