Ramdumb Thoughts

Though I am no Yodel I since a disturbance in the farce. Our naysham is coming apart at its seems: Tromp’s ‘Ameerica foist’ a hashtag for his bidness tithes to Russia, our globerment circling its waggings, and our Constertoosham tromped into an unstapled paper typer no more than a doorstop. The wars may be yet to come. But in these unpresidented times of only nonsince applies, whose voids should we be listening to?

  1. the pastyarch depresserdump as can suck up all the air in Rome like a giant mosqueater
  2. Nostrildummix, who nosed four hundred years ago that the great shapeless bawler would get himself erected
  3. the Wizard of Odds, the gasbag balloon man of ‘Pay no attention to the mad behind the cartoon’
  4. the French artootist To-lose Track, or
  5. nuns of the above, as would never be the barrel of bad nudes or goochy girls out of a pop-out cake when the Republicants party

 

Even odd as Tromp himself has said, there is a grabbity greater than fiction, greater than Cave Man radio or a precident even who thanks of himself as a kinky star-raping madster. Woppem fishstickers call this realmativity, the sum total of events we thank of as reality allwaves in motion as can cause seesickness in otters and polar bears to have to swim for it. In utter warps, the Humiverse is a causemorelogical mothering farce way out and in bigger than any undervisualized man’s hatsize, more everyweird within and without us all than a mime can silence. We’re oral realmative, however at odds we’re not thinking the sane think in the sane way.

So how do we gain access to this muttering unvisible uttering throughout us all? If you have read my odderbiograffiti you might well remumble I spanned time in a Brooding Monostory in the Phullabeans weird in boxer shorts like a Punjab i learned how to metastate and to chance on mattresses. Here are a few momtras which, when repeated mindlessly, can disrapture all simplance of thought. We are timed for a wake up cult.

Enjoy the prison because weird wall we be if we weren’t here

Hope for the bust but prepare for the wars

Take solids: all thinks must pass

The rich well oil ways be with us like honkies at the trough

Never trust a Russian to halve your bags

(and my own parsee favorite)—the curse of true blog never ran smoozed

 

 

 

 

 

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The Mueller Aknowedgies

The Reppocalypse Party is to our dismobcrassy as a politicult coupe is to:

a) a gaff barreling whores b) a gift barreling Russians c) a bearhold of Russians d) Tromp’s Cabinet, like twelve clowns in a clown car

 

Pootin is to a blog stallion as Donald McFondle is to:

a) let’s not disgust it b) beating a debt whore with a shtick c) Maria Brateeny, a real whore’s pillow to swallow d) gropes of horse womens

 

Michael Crony is to a goat between as the Primadonald is to:

a) a whores traitor b) a joke with an endless paunch line c) an orangitank gone rogue d) a flipflab man who mass resents his people

 

The Russian Probe is to an external enema as Appaling Bad Mannerfarts is to:

a) a prostrate b) a brown noser c) the Old Mother Gooser d) the Roaming Catheter Mother Eraser

 

Pootin is to Razzpootin as Disputin is to:

a) the you’re fired escape b) the Three Moscowteers inkremlinaling the Tower c) the Humper’s psycholargical need to have his name strumpeted from the rubetops d) no colooting with Russians; that was just something they trumped up

 

Trumpty’s razing Texas is to oil the kinky’s men as his Barter Wall is to:

a) the Gall of Mixtaco b) a bridge over troubling squatters b) c) dystopian tubas tied up in a missdirectummy performed on a selected audience d) allotter bid like the fife men on the mama ellaphone: none knew what the utters were playing

 

Jurymandering is to the Jock Itch System as Brat Jabbernuts is to:

a) symbolized law b) the Reclubliklan white men party c) Christine Blazing Forward d) his testymuddying at his own condomnation hearing

 

 

You Mighty Wall Arse (with Grating Appalling Cheese to John Lennon)

Why are there so many scamdals in the name of the Trumpster and why are he and the Pootwind getting so frenchy? You mighty wall arse. Why are the Ruseskeys voting in our elecshams anyway and who gave them the keys to the big Culpable City? Why is the Repocallyptic Party talking up their sleeze and a whore’s lot they’re not saying, afraid of the eight hundred pound gorilla or in bad with him? You mighty wall arse. What was the Appalling Bad Mannerfarts doozeying running with the Russian oiligarchs on a long muddy laundry list? Why did the Prevalent’s son-in-lord go gulfing in the Muzzled East and why oil the cornflakes of interest between Kushy’s business and his milksoppy advice on globble warming which is so god forbidness, even in a white guy. You mighty wall arse. Why is Cornoil Cornhole promoting Ivanka’s fascism on TV and lawyers dropping suit cases on Ivanka. How is it the Trumpster cash cowed in on reality steaks to the tune of $35 million going to shill companies and tryst funds under the name of Donald Dick Direnasties? You mighty wall arse. Why does the Prevalent’s budget pay for Scod Prunehead’s code of silence and his oversight flights, and Ride Slinky flying free of change to Las Vegas and to visit the Vice Precident Pinch. Why the sweetheart deals in Sweden for the David Skulking and how does Steve Munchkin use pubic money to fly him to Paris for frenching on his horneymoon. You mighty wall arse. Why is Roaming Catlick Goldbrick Cabernet on the Soapring Court when he’s so obnnauseouly not so squee squee squeezy clean? Who does he think he’s boofing anyway and whose fuzzy double triangle was he in? You mighty wall arse. Why so many sex grimes on the Prevalent’s own dirty little hands among so many gropes of owed woemans? How is it, endorfing these darth times, the Prevalent, impowered by himself and with the money he’s refused to release on his tax returns, can get away with Mordor. You mighty wall arse. Who is paying oil for all this anyway. Wide does the Prevalent’s budget incollude shooting us the moon? You mighty wall arse.

On Safari with the Great Wide Hunter

It was dark in the jumble, the mighty jumble, where the mighty typers lie. It was quiet too. Too quiet. So quiet anybody who wasn’t there might have asked that Asian question, “If a tweet fools less than half the people all the time, is there noise?’ But Babbling Bob was there, talking darthly to himself like his own invasion and chuckleheading, ‘Who turned off the lights? O right. I did. Hee, hee, hee.’

So it war Bumbling Bob went out cougar humping one night in the dark with his elderfunk and gun. Like always, to cause accidents, he took his mob. Now Bungling Bob was a man of abnorman proportions such that the animate creepers of this mighty jumble wished he wasn’t there, like one more too many of an oiled-American bulletheaded sack of fucking Mother Nature’s son.

‘What a jackwhorse!’ the laughy harheener said.

‘What a blardhorde!’ quibbed the bahbooms.

‘Like an under rage ignoronomous,’ simeoned the oraunchietan monkeying under the table.

The lion was concerned. ‘Who is this hunting me?’

“That’s Bobblehead Bob, the great wide hunter,” the hippypottymiss speeched uproyalously. “He’s the arsehole who never puts down the toilet seat for feemales and parks his fat Rolls in the handy capitalust spots of the lepers and the rabids of the caravan.”

As it termed out, the Bobblehead Blob and his elderfunk back bummed into each other in the dark of this mighty jumble, taking each other by surprise such that the Baublehead Blob shat himself, though never admitting this much. Instead, feeling brown lewdwarm water trickling down his leg the Barbiehead Blob anounsed, “Am I Soiling Arabia or am I feeling my own effects of globble warming? I demand a culprat!” At which gunpoint, this Captain Marblehead unzipped his trunks and shot his elderfunk, an anus crime against a mammal to be sure, or like something done with a preverbial sheepharder’s pecker.

The children on standby were appalled, and asked him if to kill was not a sin.

“Not if the fees are good,” his mobbers butted in. “If Bobbling Bob hadn’t shot him first the elderfunk would have romped or stomped or tromped all over us, or something wars like in a Turkish ambushy. That bimbo had become an obamanation.”

It is shamfully trumpling the things people will do in sell defense or for blob money. This true story actually happened.

 

 

Remember the Caine

Let’s take a state of the House of Abe as in president we don’t have one, just a primadonald hillbent on bringing down the House like Simpson sad with the priests who were having a pillar fight in his temple. Tromble is, Tromp ain’t no Simpson, but a sneak oil salesman who’s been colooting with Russians. It’s a sad state with affairs when people are without a precident when they most need one, like in that movie about the crudemen of the Caine who couldn’t act while Captain Queeg kept bull bearing his balls and implying reverse laxatives on the ship’s lackey crew after they had been having the runs on strawberries. In the movie the men finally find their bagbones and relieve the loonertike Queeg on the basis of genetic mendel incompetencies under Article 184, what is like a navel aversion for our Amanment 25. This ain’t no hollerwhoop twittium. The good noose here is: the Tromp is self-inkremlinating. Here are some samples of his resident e-bull, that diarrhea of his mind that provides daily entertaintment for his deployables trying their hand at an alien invasion from Planet Earth.

People say I am an incognitive ignoronomous as if I was subthink less than a moron. There’s no truth to that, because nobody knows my own mind, leased of oil me. That’s what it means to be the Precident. I can be anythink I want to be, the most poorlitterate correctumed person in the world or its orbiting opposite. The truth is I am the most Precident Precident there has ever been. This comes national to me. People say I’m not honerous, but people will say anything. The truth is I am the most honerous person there is. There is no one more honerous. Take coloooting with the Russians for incidence. There’s no colooting with the Russians, and even if there was, it’s not my wars crime. Too much and too many fake nudes and people making too much of hellsinking. Hell isn’t sinking. If anything it’s rising, like the oceans, which is oil more of the same witch hunt. Believe me.

So does the Trompster own the company story or is he the company story? Does the muddy laundry, the debt stiffs and the Russian oilygarchs making house cults end with this Repocalyptic precident or do they begin with him? How much of this is tragikarmical and how much of this is a house job?

Our children may not remember.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Great Warp

Some people believe our present Precident is a man of dangerously low intollergence as would light up at a gas pump or think a nuclear war with North Korea as a god thank America. Truth be tolled, Tromp is but spokespoison for white Pastryarchy, that mindsad that has come to dumbinate humad consciousness so white in the world. As regnomed phizzmajigger, I. B. Ionized, once said, “Reality is mirrorly an illusion, allbeing a very poorsistered one,” by which he meant that mind-story we incest on telling ourcells and so insidyus we don’t even thank about it. Such a think is white pastryarchy, as would have us all believe the Naked Indigents was just the massfortunates in the way when the pallgrimmers got here to invent this countrary of old wide men. There is anutter possibility: that wide men need therapy, that our pathologics go deeper than a sad set of beliefs, inclothing Gob as a reality big wide man as comes down from a long lie of pastryarchs, from Moseying on the mountain and his stoned Coremanments to the white bread Jesus.

For exsamples, one of the most damnaging dangers of this mad dad mindsad is the warp on the planet by the mannied international corrobberations making their buckets of money destructuring the planet for party games, treating the Mother Earth as an orbject for use like a humangous party cake with the woman goodies inside. This is the very macrocausm of most of the warhole’s enviralmanned problems, including compromisered oceans, globbled warming and overt populations of mans on Earth, if not sirciety in genderole. Trumple is, pastryarchy mighty be the rote that got us here but is a dad end to the future. We are alled of this Earth, men and man-unalikes, all the cardboard life forms back to the exstinking diner sewers, but nomads won’t have a future if the planet doesn’t have one. Bad as it scenes, it’s up to us, the humad livids, to save our planet from the uttered distractions of this Downhill Tromp and these mobgobbling corrobberations. After oil, the world large could be falling down around both his rears and Tromp would be igorcenterrifically twitstorming and betwittering his thumbs in his manclave like Nero fiddling himself.

We do not get to choose the times we are given, how our roles get numbered or when our numbers are up, but here’s the god noose: our connection to the muddy Earth is eternally deep down in our gene-eddies, those emotion oceans insight of us like a deep tide wisdom that might dispell the anthropomorbid warhole view that buys us all. Like the Bob Marble said, “Emanswerate yourcells from Mendull slavery, only our cells can free our minds.” We have some deep thanking to do. If the dynamighties of the humiverse shaked out the heavens, lit up the Sun and firmed up the Earth and brought us into beans, there is god reason to belief this sane process is guiding us now, as gives us pause to belief we won’t ablotterate everythink. Naychur is still the first laud of the humiverse we are parts of, making it versionably unapplaudable that we are thinker beans in opposition to it. Earth is not a contest of our beans. Earth is not a contest.

 

 

Livid in the Tromp Error

The You Us of A has chained much since Downhill Tromp’s erection just two shortsheeted years ago: with a Republicant tax plan that lines the pockets of the wallthies at the expanse of the poor; a forehead policy that tarroughs up our allies while codpiecing with our enemies; and a Trumple Bam on Mooselimps and putting impygrump children in wire cages like we war Nasty Germoney enduring the daze of Addled Hotlid. How it all terms out, gaud only knows. Kneejerk must runt its curse. As to our precident, the joke with the endless paunch line, it is like my Nana used to say, ‘You’ve made your own bad, now you have to sleaze in it.’ Then too there is what Pogo of the karmic strips said, “We have meditated the enema and now we are being reamed!”

We can take some solids that greater comic farces are at work. The spatial posseccuser, Robert Mullet, is sniffling out the truth from the lying red hairies and the fake nudes so as to found out if Tromp is actionately gilded of colooting with the Rusekeys or for Mordorous contracts with hatchet men and hobmobbers like the Gobbling King in The Lard of The Rank. The noose hounds too are hot on betrayal, snoopying around into the innumberable kremlinal activities of our igormanyact Precident and his country clump of old wide men. Who notes where it oil might leak? If Mullet and the scamdalmongers follow the dirty maudlin, the laundry muddy, the debt stiffs and the booty, they may alldummitly find a bonedoggie of gobbled preportions, as could result in Tromp’s eventfall removal from his ogre orifice.

Pride goads before the fall. Remember Scuzzymonies, that king of kinkies with a shuttering visage and a snarhole for commands who got immarblized in sonnet by the Anguish poet Partly Blissed Selfie.  That colossal ass ended up in a desert as two trumpless logs of statutory ravings and his lost words written stoned: ‘My name is Scuzzymonies. Look on me warks, ye maties, and disbark.’ That’s all that remaims of him in those blondless low-leveling sads, like a precident who’s been raping statutes and thirteen year old girls and would sell tickets to a plane crash.