Stream of cuntsciousness

Nobody On Medium Gives A Fuck Anymore

And that's a good thing

(Wikicommons)

When I say nobody I mean Reuben Salsa who wrote this meaningless work of profound genius.

You May As Well Write Any Old Shit

And Sherry McGuinn whose slippery piece caused me to ejaculate in my Y fronts and elicited nine whole claps from me.

I No Longer Give a Shit

These stream of diarrhea geniuses got me wet

Now I too am slipping down from my own tower of logic into the cesspool of literary kombucha where I can swim alongside these RANDO gremlins and bathe in the turd of my own indulgent senseless brain drizzle.

Some people call this slick turd freewriting, but that bugs the shit out of me cos none of it is free.

It is a stream of unwiped, unexfoliated, unbleached arseholes marching like the hammers in THE WALL — marching arseholes born from long, slow, deep conditioning that goes back and back and back — way further back than the days when Steven the Seagull was thin, and Erika Eleniak jumped out of a cake in the movie Under Siege.

Even further back than Nico.

And by the way, why doesnt the Seagull let her finish her dance?

Answers on an LSD soaked postcard please to

Frank T Bird, 4 Privet Drive, Hogsmeade

Now pass me the motherfucking pumpkin juice. This shit bout to get REAL

If singing were possible, I would offer my rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody by that Canadian band Oasis, whose lead singer died from

Autoerotic Asphyxiation (AA)

That’s a fancy name for,

spanking the

peach-like monkey

while strangling with yer old school tie just as your wife comes around with the couple for the real estate inspection that you forgot about.

How embarrassing, you cunt.

I’ve got 99 problems but I have 100 only at certain times a year when my herpes flairs up or 101 once a year when the inside of my nose turns crispy and sore as a reminder not to snort crystal meth in yer twenties cos yer can’t crush those last tiny crystals.

• It’s not like the fluffy dust of coke.
• Sometimes it’s better to smoke.
• Or wank and choke if yer broke.
• Whether yer a Sheila or a bloke.
• I hate the word ‘woke.’

I hate most of the words people make up.

I prefer the ones that were here before words were invented. They reckon Shakespeare made up a good portion of his own terms, and they made sense till we put meaning to them and used them in serious conversations with our solicitor, personal trainer, or LIFE COACH.

Can robots be Bodhisattvas? Let’s not go there just yet. Let us get crude again. AMEN

Would you fuck a robot? Digital porn is halfway there. Five years from now, will you be spunking or squirting into a sterile chamber while you get yer dong sucked or clitty licked or whatever by Siri or Alexa or Apple or Google or whoever?

Will they remember when you told them to fuck off for not turning the TV off properly? Don’t they remember EVERYTHING?

Will they bite off your dong slash clitty? Will you bleed into the sterile chamber while Siri simulates an ambulance and a hospital?

(SIRILEXA GOES EX_MACHINA.HELP)

Will you live the illusion of medical help while you bleed out into a digital fuckhole?

• Is that what life already is?
• In the massive ballbag of life
• The tiny spunk people’s strife
• I must get rich, so I can die rich
• I must get ripped so I can die ripped
• I must get famous, so I can die famous

So many offerings for Yama, the Lord of Death.

Indeed it’s time the Lord repaid us for our offerings.

Empty your pockets, Oh Lord. What can you offer back to us?

Death and more death and more. Endings both to excite and to bore.

Knife in the head. Bullet in the toe. Trampled by a camel, frozen in the snow.

AIDS, CANCER, BAD CHICKEN FROM NANDOS, Choking on pizza cheese.

When it comes to death, he is there to appease.

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, cops, housewives from the fifties, even that paedo Uncle John.

Everyone take a bow. The fucking show goes on.

More from Frank T Bird:

There Are Medium Writers That Aren’t Spending Their Kofi Money on Coffee

The Coffee Pod Penis