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Description

Since the beautiful folks at DA allows me to pay a small fee to take mental dump after mental dump on their fine site. My antiquated and entirely disillusioned post-modern, 80s raised, 90s fucked and sucked, 9/11 dick slapped and now taking a knee deep in the digital desolation of the 2020s where man is now born without a soul and with the ever present safety net that if you don't like your gender you can make your entire family and to a lesser extent the world very uncomfortable for your remaining days.

I think I am going to culture a digital lawn of sorts. The kind where people pad their non-existent personality with signage of who they intend to vote for and eventually attach their ego to a satanic abyss that not only kils with race wars, political wars, ideological wars, religeous wars, proxy wars, chemical/biological wars, Monday Night Raw is Wars, it also creates with the latest sacrilege science allows, because if there is a god then there exists teams of sophisticated 5D chess edge-lord cults in a arms race to offend/twist-creation/gross-out/terrorize/sadden/dissapoint/ and deny and erase him and yet somehow, find the time to placate the NPC masses with non-movies (unoriginal is something at least), proceedingly uglier teen pop sluts (they missed a whole flight of stairs and fell head first into the basement when transitioning between sexy af Katy Perry to Miley Cyrus), reality simulations that seem to mine deep, but make homemade pancakes look like conjuring a swiss watch from flour, to music so boring that the new devil in devil music is jay-z-list-rapper and that stale piece of bread beyonce damned herself to hell to attract and inkling of interest and she's still meh personified.

Holy fuck I'm sorry. Whats my fucking problem...? Back to the point. I'm going to construct a lawn vigil/monument/cringe-hole to probably one of the funniest stories I heard, when it was still new.

Whats that you ask. Well I'm not going to spoil it for you, but still spell it out for you. It's about the one time, ________ __ ___ ___s and made the ___h_ a____ _i_ ____ke.

My lawn, my digested half-digested, half-woke, and fortified with only the most annoying, boring and gay sounding 90s cynicism that I could hide up my ass without ironically shitting it our for the last 30 years and thrust my thirst for my own dehydrated husk of a reality that is so old and faux, that beliving in it's nothing is the only way i can hold on to something that I can thrust back in satan's face and say you once were the master of evil, but now only your banality shows and quite frankly that hell in a handbasket, is now a joke where only a miniscule amount of air is exhaled through your nostril being both technically a laugh and technically a scoff, where supposed racists, hate-crimelords and homophobes dare to laugh with their mumbled and whiny inside voices.

artist's depiction of an idea of what a lawn is

comfy dog taking a load off and warming itself after a hot summer walk

man's best friend in man's best machine blinded by man's oldest illusion

sand in a vagina quite possibly the loudest proponent for a lawn

what passing jealous moisture vapors will say when masking their conceit of our lawns

typical reaction of a guest trying to deal with the absence of your lawn

Description

Since the beautiful folks at DA allows me to pay a small fee to take mental dump after mental dump on their fine site. My antiquated and entirely disillusioned post-modern, 80s raised, 90s fucked and sucked, 9/11 dick slapped and now taking a knee deep in the digital desolation of the 2020s where man is now born without a soul and with the ever present safety net that if you don't like your gender you can make your entire family and to a lesser extent the world very uncomfortable for your remaining days.

I think I am going to culture a digital lawn of sorts. The kind where people pad their non-existent personality with signage of who they intend to vote for and eventually attach their ego to a satanic abyss that not only kils with race wars, political wars, ideological wars, religeous wars, proxy wars, chemical/biological wars, Monday Night Raw is Wars, it also creates with the latest sacrilege science allows, because if there is a god then there exists teams of sophisticated 5D chess edge-lord cults in a arms race to offend/twist-creation/gross-out/terrorize/sadden/dissapoint/ and deny and erase him and yet somehow, find the time to placate the NPC masses with non-movies (unoriginal is something at least), proceedingly uglier teen pop sluts (they missed a whole flight of stairs and fell head first into the basement when transitioning between sexy af Katy Perry to Miley Cyrus), reality simulations that seem to mine deep, but make homemade pancakes look like conjuring a swiss watch from flour, to music so boring that the new devil in devil music is jay-z-list-rapper and that stale piece of bread beyonce damned herself to hell to attract and inkling of interest and she's still meh personified.

Holy fuck I'm sorry. Whats my fucking problem...? Back to the point. I'm going to construct a lawn vigil/monument/cringe-hole to probably one of the funniest stories I heard, when it was still new.

Whats that you ask. Well I'm not going to spoil it for you, but still spell it out for you. It's about the one time, ________ __ ___ ___s and made the ___h_ a____ _i_ ____ke.

My lawn, my digested half-digested, half-woke, and fortified with only the most annoying, boring and gay sounding 90s cynicism that I could hide up my ass without ironically shitting it our for the last 30 years and thrust my thirst for my own dehydrated husk of a reality that is so old and faux, that beliving in it's nothing is the only way i can hold on to something that I can thrust back in satan's face and say you once were the master of evil, but now only your banality shows and quite frankly that hell in a handbasket, is now a joke where only a miniscule amount of air is exhaled through your nostril being both technically a laugh and technically a scoff, where supposed racists, hate-crimelords and homophobes dare to laugh with their mumbled and whiny inside voices.

artist's depiction of an idea of what a lawn is

comfy dog taking a load off and warming itself after a hot summer walk

man's best friend in man's best machine blinded by man's oldest illusion

sand in a vagina quite possibly the loudest proponent for a lawn

what passing jealous moisture vapors will say when masking their conceit of our lawns

typical reaction of a guest trying to deal with the absence of your lawn