Sunday, January 6, 2013

Jimmy Carter was a Good Pirate

This is the folks tale of whom is known to the people as Reginald Jimmy Carter.

There was that documentary about how Jimmy Carter would go about in Cambodia with his Mr. Rogers sweater, fuck bitches, and just kill people because that's what vacation is to that man.

He would probably just walk into Laos and clock in at work like it was the good old days running narcotics through the jungle. I doubt anybody would bat an eye at cold eye pain James "heartless" Earl "Magnificent" Sir President and Peace Peddler Carter Esquire with 1800 kilos on three easy trailers with 22 people with some camo nets, automatic riles, and plenty of peanuts, because god loves peanuts.

God loves Jimmy Carter.

that man boats his bounty out to Australia to peddle his fine wares, cross the outback, just to sail to South Africa in search of the Quaalude trade. Not because it was any faster, just because he wanted to look like a badass fighting snow and artic sharks and whales in that empty ocean fairway. Because he just whistles sailor songs, eats lemons, and cleans a gun to pass the time.

Good Spirits are a commodity my boy, be in good spirits, nay, have good spirits be in yee, yay, any high, lye or nyx on nigh, rye and ergot, pass the time of day naught by naught, nauti nati natty nautical knots as smooth as if a man sailing, were about as we, enjoying the time, just so as an old woman would be spending fucking with tangled knots in her bitch hair, or poor beggar wench clothes and rabble such rife strewn amongst her dickens.

Because these are not things, stricken smitten little dittling dittles and pittlles petty trifles or trinkets but these are the dickens, the sullen marquee of poverty. These are the laurels of street whores. What she carries and wears, swears by, at the door, in the bed, and on the floor. Whore for sure, getting the job done, elle dort une whore, je vous poser ma sea cheré, delicatam delicitatis god diddly damn dem tittys and dat ass.

I know we don't live in the north, and i can't convince you to lick a flagpole, street sign, or cauldron; but that doesn't mean i can't bind your hands and tie your hair to a post and beat you for weeks on end, my beatings like the steady fall of waves against the beach, your blood coming in tides, questioning whether women do correlate and oscillate with the moon.

Lonely, all alone in the moon light. You know she diddn't deserve it right, bitch was just too damn pretty to let her walk around like that. FDR won a world war in leg braces, and still gave radio programmes; bitch, i can't feel anything for you. Instinctively you bring up only one feeling and that is that general murderrape and that always leans towards rape.

The only people who appreciate you do so in the vain and conceited idolatry fueled by lust and feelings of personal inadequacy, inducing fantasy, indulging their minds entre un cuerpo, in a corpse, that fucks you but doesn't move.

Because you're a shoe, and a picture, in a lonely locket, of a little girl who got jewelry for her birthday one time, and its sad when she looks in there, because in her language, the word god, is said as gotte, essentially goat, there is a man of goethe, and a gypsy has told me, i was born in the time of the ram, i say, what am i but not a sheep to a goat, what is a shepherd to a goatherd my boy.

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