happy new year. not going to belabor the point, just excited for whatever 2026 may hold for all of us. could pen a lengthy diatribe against unsmoked ham, could paint a verbal picture of an ocean scene broken only by two puppets kissing; i won't. not today. this is a hopeful moment. namaste, fuckers

people in my dreams are formless, hollow. every smile, every frown, every expression micro or macro is pareidolic theatre on a stage sightless; apophenic marionettes of smoke and jade. every meaning is my own; to find yours, join mcdonalds as we celebrate The Calming End! hurry, while stocks last!

iron ore has no concept of time; no emotional connection to the passing of an earth year, no skin to bask in the warmth of the fireworks. it has no heart to grow cold when mortality comes hooning, blasting through yet another toll booth along the finite highway of a human lifetime. can't hoop either

long milk. are the protein chains girthier? is it a milk that can only be synthesized through an arduous and lengthy process? no. long milk comes from a long elk and brother, you don't want to know why that elk is long. yellow yoda you must hit, the good shit it is

my beautiful dark twisted fantasy

there's a colour they don't want you to see. they hoard it like dragons to a chromatic treasure pile, deep below the mountains of bhutan. it is said that those who witness it are changed forever, transcending flesh and blood. it makes you go bald and talk like yoda. it's the yoda colour, playboy

hell, i'll eat a bratwurst lunch. mother likes them boiled but father knows the secret to the perfect bratwurst - basting it in shadow oil. we milk it from the obsidian monolith; it reeks because of all the dead birds at its base, but the oil it secretes is divine. it made me strangle the stable boy

we are an isthmus; tide and time abrade our core, erosion into mitosis. we yearn across that channel, love-bearing sands once now cold and drowned. if you microwave a hand puppet it gets real hot inside, you can pretend you're using a small warm man as a glove. if you want. i won't tell anyone

every student in this dojo is envious of my Ten Palm Hurricane Kiss. bearing the weight of their jealous whispering is like donning a coat of snakes. however, once i figure out the 11th Palm... i will kiss the moon into dust. tides will swallow this dojo and i will find love with the valley salmon

my large adult son fizzes in his beaker, insolent bubbles crackling at me from across the kitchen. "soda arc" he tells me, "soda mode". i caught him in the fridge mingling with a dr pepper. none of this is in god's plan

sneaking a toad into the maternity ward and using it to imprint on all the babies. the next generation of Bog Boys is born.

admiral worm writhes atop the promontory, despair writ in every movement. war drums pound ever closer, yet without eyes he cannot guide the fleet. worms wriggle across decks of ships they are physically incapable of operating, slapping uselessly against the hardwood. they are not long for this world

doing the tom cruise run straight towards you. i am clearly terrified. every time you blink i get farther away. somewhere in the world a goose honks, but no one is around to hear it

spooky season has been suspended. frivolity has no place in this dojo

do i fear rice? yes. fear marks a healthy respect; with respect comes understanding. in order to temper and tame the grain, you must subject it to Various Flavours. saffron... coconut... coriander and lemon... these are the songs that soothe the beast. understand this, and you may kiss my rude son

the moon blinked. instant, easy to miss, but i saw it. now she sees me. the veil has been lifted, that forbidden covenant between man and moon broken; never peek behind the curtain, never know her for what she truly is. now she stares death. oblivion approaches, rising with her hateful tides. lmao

going spooky mode for the first time ever, pfp choice courtesy of bsky's premiere monster wrangler @weedlejuice.bsky.social

watching an episode of god's own corn-fed, high budget, prestige television. a scene plays out and the main chsracter is drunk; the cinematography, warped sound, the actor's performance? perfect sell, it's like i was there. then peppa pig ended and i realized it was in fact i who am drunk. namaste

this nonna inspires fear in her sapient meatballs! click here to discover her secrets! hit subscribe to learn how she keeps a nation of pork and apple meatballs oppressed under her iron fist! executions! youth indoctrination! her authoritarian kitchen methods will change how you see dinner forever!

feeling grandfather time gnawing at my bones, like rats swarming an overly verbose slice of new york style pizza. every hangover is being born again into slightly sourer meat, every missed hour of sleep magnified through a curved pane of that cruelest of hourglasses; we wither like ants in the glare

today marks my 32nd orbit around our benevolent god-sun, basking in it's warm gaze like a lizard on a hot rock. my only wish is that we all find kindness in each other but also maybe instead of feet we just have another set of hands so i can flip the cops off with twice as much power. quad bird, pig

central maintenance has me in the pacific office this week, gotta change the ink cartridges in all the squids. it's a huge job but the benefits are alright; free room and board, plus they let me touch the Prophet Octopus who keeps correctly predicting the precise time and date of celebrity deaths

my large adult son wields the stout lips of a concert trombonist. our city, upon condemning a building, employs him to kiss it into dust. every earthly smooch digs a quarry, every peck on the cheek a gouge in the fabric of our reality. once saw the boy kiss a ostrich into a meatball. it haunts me

they're rehydrating me tomorrow, raisin-into-a-grape kinda situation. apparently we're pretty much dessicated compared to our naturally intended wet/meat ratio - every single person on earth, yeah. no one even knows what a fully hydrated man would be capable of, but... shit. it's a new day, brother.

can't open this jar with my sickly little arms. if they could, they would gasp in the tones of a mourning dove. i need thunderous arms; limbs that would roar with the inevitability of waterfalls, the primal scream of a dying star. jorking it with these arms must rip my whole entire shit clean off,

i've managed to capture the moment. i hope my portrayal of allisson and their sneezed up guy is satisfactory

twelve donkeys sputter and clank, belching greasy steam as hoove-wheels grind the cobblestones. such beasts are well sought-after, entire convoys could run kegheads of milker dew across the saltplains and back without spilling a drop. 'milker dew' comes from dads; it's important you understand this,

seamlessly re-integrating into the bsky ecosystem after spending 3 weeks faking infancy and a terminal diagnosis of waterslide ass. the Make A Wish foundation granted me a most intimate wish; to boil dr phil alive in molten caramel, to graze upon his sweetened fibres. cash me outside, howbout dat

our interview continued; "a salad can be a man," she mutters, barely above a whisper. "a salad can be two men. two lithe twinks kissing in a bathtub, maybe with a light lemon vinaigrette..." she trailed off, lapsing into a contemplative silence

selective husbandry has allowed us to finally breed the ideal worm; perfectly spherical and plump as a plum. instead of dirt it burrows through the medium of your consciousness, consuming the omnipresent darkness within and expelling only pure, euphoric thought. it makes a honk noise when squeezed,

oouuggh wish i ain't never ate that lay bee bo or whatsit, feelin real strange. y'all see fingers in the ice? tendrils that ain't quite flesh, clawing through the glacial plane of space that keeps our reality from the next? i hear em scratching at the walls, only i'm outside and there ain't no walls

at the supermarket acknowledging prime cuts. hello rib eye, you are seen. tenderloin? namaste, i feel you. really. hey rib rack, looking good brother! ohhh, new york strip? better than old york strip, y'know what i'm saying haha up top big fella. i will piece you together and build a new husband,

caught me one of them lay boo boos y'all been talkin bout by the grain silo, fella was gnawin his way inside like a tick. did the critter up with some butter and old bay, tell you what you cityfolk are on to something. only thing is i can hear the eternal chorus of night now, never dims. never slows

they're building spires now. millions of twisted, concrete spearheads, thrusting into the sky like an assault on god itself. maybe some hubristic manifestation of strength? we pose our questions but receive only silence, an amphibian blink if we're lucky. the toads' spires eclipse our largest cities

mutual msaturday; my large adult son is looking for love! if you have large adult offspring or are yourself a large adult offspring, please list their/your qualities and stats below, along with a proposed dowry. gender is irrelevant! may your proposed union strengthen both of our houses!

my large adult son doesn't have a collapse depth. pressures at 1,000 times sea level are nothing to him, he just smiles and clicks his teeth. the navy are filling him with their smallest divers to go map a trench or something, he's a grown boy now so it's none of my business. i miss his mother

we have taught lizards' blood to defy newton's law of viscosity; any impact is met with turgid vascular ichor and iron resolve. a humble skink becomes a bulletproof god. why do this? foolish to ask. why does the wind blow fluted melodies across dead tree hollows, why does a rainbow capture the heart

stinky little goblin, where do you go when the seasons change? we could dance in the rain or twirl through rust-coloured piles of autumn leaves together, but you only tickle my sleeping feet in spring. every morning i awaken to the electric sensation, every morning my giggles send you scuttling away

ranch troubles, hoss. runnin outta helium for the sheepdogs, can't rustle up clouds without floatgas. grounded dog won't hunt, y'know how it is. shipment from luna's been delayed, alls i know is them AgriTech sunsabitches are chokin us out on purpose. we gotta get these doggies in the air hoss, asap

9/10 dentists can't be wrong. do you understand? those who lived in disbelief, spurning the wisdom of the 9/10 dentists, where are they now? long-pig iron for the flesh forges, repurposed for the 9/10 dentists' vision. speak not of the 10th; there is only understanding. 9/10 dentists can't be wrong

sire, the goblin king has succumbed to a most rancid madness! every diplomatic envoy we send is boiled in molten salt, every gift returned drenched in sun-soured blood. the sands below his kingdom are rich in powdered sugar, the very sugar we need for our Festival Of Creams! how should we proceed?

there are a thousand things that go through your mind at the moment of impact; last of which is the steering wheel. first? the gentlest thoughts. home, family, love. then come the visions, flashes of a well-lived past. then come the machine elves. they've weighed your heart and found you wanting

a cacophony of clinking and clanking echoes across the city, accompanied by the fortifying scent of fresh-brewed coffee. the skeletons have discovered cafe culture, they can't get enough! they lounge in latte vats, soaking to the marrow; emerging faster and wetter than before. what are they planning

my large adult son isn't legally allowed within 100 meters of a zoo. not for freaky reasons, the poor boy simply emits a heady pheromonal cocktail that causes lizards to lactate. birds too, also snakes and fish of the genus anomalops. it makes the chimps' lips plump and fattens the eels. marvelous

oh god oh fuck i'm in so much trouble

day, night, both alien concepts to those who dwell abyssopelagic. mcdonalds 'breakfast' holds no meaning to a pelican eel, a snailfish will never know there are separate menus that change over with the sun's passage! bring them all to the Surface. let them understand the hash brown, the big Mac

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my large adult son keeps drinking moss scented cream from tubes labeled simply 'boose thickener'. it has no effect on him, however every night following his quaffing of a tube brings heavier and heavier dreams. sometimes i wake completely flat, crushed thin as paper under the sheer weight of them

do you see the wires beneath your skin? they twist and pulse and pulse and twist, obscured by your corporeal rind and yet, you see them, don't you? they can't see You. in the business we call this The Advantage. you hold it over the wires; they cower, afraid of the drying light. will you show mercy?

umami flakes mound at her feet, a hill growing with every fevered mandolin swipe. curled wisps of fish fall like salted snow, the fragrant drift now up to her knees, then waist, then shoulders. the grating continues with fresh zeal as her figure is consumed by the mountain, entombed in katsuobushi