"war is won in the deli, long before it is fought in the mud. a nation built upon robust selections of cured meats, cheese varieties and antipasto enters conflict with both the moral and spiritual high ground. one fetta-stuffed kalamata olive can divert the trajectory of man and god alike" - sun tzu

my cult of personality toils in the desert, building a gleaming machine that will let me rip like a beyblade. maybe spinning real fast will fill whatever nameless wanting is missing; maybe if i spin fast enough, my brain will outrun its own noise. the horse we tested it on exploded. very promising.

being in your 30's is about getting your teeth kicked off by a 6'8 bouncer named Dane because you rolled too hard off that Mike's Hard Whole Milk and tried to wear the dj

"hold my beer" i say, apropos of nothing, to no-one. there is no beer. "hold my beer", coarser. my voice has the telltale rasp of fatigue, run into the ground and dragged across an overused larynx. "hold my beer". why is everything else so quiet. why is time too slow and too fast. "hold my beer"

my large adult son's affable yet oafish nature attracts nobility from across the realm. arriving in carriages laden with gifts, they leave beaming with joy; touched by his gentle nature and fun stoat facts. while they dither i abscond with their stable boys. i am koney 2012 of the yorkshire hills,

it's the men, general. their faith erodes as if abraded by a thousand poison tides, each bearing a more seditious whisper than the last; it's.. it's the apple, sir. you've been in your tent for days, boiling that same apple over and over. we hear you singing to it, calling it your 'Steaming Samuel',

Croag the Vehicular Menace: classical economic systems are insufficient, failing to meet modern requirements. we need something new, something revolutionary yoda ant: recurring character i am now. find sugar i must

if you enter the club without Clarity of Purpose, your bones should turn to sand

homunculus assistant has been experimenting with runes again. he's tattooed one of them on a toad, now every time it croaks one of the lab mice goes bald. the hair then grows out of its brow, this toad's eyebrows are making my boyfriend's wife jealous i tell you h'what. lost my train of thought. mmm

literacy is a degenerative disease. every idea you absorb through your eyes damages your crown chakra, quieting the Voice of God and its constant stream of simple life hacks

john wicko mode at the real estate agency except instead of a 9 mil it's a squirt gun of hog piss. judo slam my rent agent through his desk, two squirts at the next agent's eyes. third agent, unload a full clip of piss. fourth agent enters, throw the empty squirt gun at his head. take out a hammer,

in a groundbreaking, world-first surgery, the two wolves inside my large adult son have been successfully euthanized. he now exists within a never-before imagined frame of morality; operating under ethics free of our lupine duality. what will he do now? i hope he convinces his mother to take me back

the bird soundlessly alights, silhouetted against the pale morning sun, yet, casting no shadow. it wears the head of a snake, forked tongue flicking hypnotically as it proselytizes; 'love is the new flesh,' it crows, 'abando- i squeal and hit it with a shovel. freak ass bird snake shut the hell up

twelve eggs left in the Hardware Nest! what will hatch next? will it be a Makita DHP484Z 18V Mobile Brushless Heavy Duty Compact Hammer Driver Drill? maybe a can of solvent, or a bag of assorted screws? it's exciting not knowing. i only feel alive monitoring the eggs. the mystery keeps us all sane

nothing prepares you for the sound of your own bones snapping. i hear it when i close my ears at night; the mellifluous flute trill of a tibia, or the meaty french horn honk of a knuckle bone. if i were to fall from a great height my bones would shatter, birthing a harmonic symphony of splinters

sand is just glass yet to realize it's potential. you look at a pristine stretch of beach and see summers with Father, a tipple of granita in the moonlight, listing your first sandcastle on zillow; i see a technicolour cathedral of stained glass effigies, a million Fathers rendered kaleidoscopic

ant: do you ever wonder what lies beyond the colony? we serve a thankless queen, beholden to her whims and yet in return receive nothing but more toil. yoda ant: know i do not. little guy i found, under a leaf i did hmmmmm bovino: ᵤₚₚᵢₑₛ!

at least the samurai in my backyard is quiet. he respects the peace, even as he drives his sacred blade through my tomatoes. i watch helplessly as he perfectly bisects every lemon on my tree, slashing green beans and carrots with calm determination. i sit, watching, quietly hoping that i'm next,

look at us, brother; suckling from the teat of Big Tech. which industry is ready for plunder, can we be disruptors in the bog space? listen to yourself. we need to sit in the brackish waters and lay amongst the moss. the swamp will provide its own milk and nectar and hot goth gfs/bfs #creamernation

watching a lot of forged in fire recently. started seeing every chunk of metal as a potential blade, every chip and crack as flaws in the heating process, every passing human as a decorated ballistics dummy coyly waiting to be disemboweled with erotic precision by doug marcaida. i am Doug Marcaida

cop: have you been drinking tonight sir? yoda: [waving hand] mmmmsh give me t-*hic* ticket, you will not cop: i will not give you a ticket yoda: [waving hand] take me to burrrger king you will cop: i will take you to burger king yoda: love mme like a mother cop: what yoda: what

The Obelisk towers over the desert, voraciously devouring light and heat reflected off the shimmersands. relentless easterlies whips dune peaks, growing cold and moist in passing; all manner of strange and frosted flora grow in the lee. a lone beetle stands before it; "this is my kingdom. my empire"

my large adult son has heard tell of the medium adult son movement and become incandescent with jealousy. while i might fear for his sanity, the white-hot glow emitting from his core is the perfect beacon to guide my trade fleet home! they return with a bounty of exotic fruits and spices! hooray!

my large adult son's plush interior is rated all the way from raw vacuum to 12,000,000 kPa. kept at vacuum that sumbitch could suck a lightly pickled bulb of limp burrata right outta the caboose of a low-flying dad at 200 paces. full pressure, he could spit it back into the right eye of god almighty

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,