turkeyneck1349.bsky.social
turkeyneck1349.bsky.social
@turkeyneck1349.bsky.social
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Reposted by turkeyneck1349.bsky.social
although some oppose the fifty foot hologram of a grinning Augusto Pinochet that appeared on the White House lawn this morning, we spoke with people from across the political spectrum to get a sense of how opinions differ
& then electrocute my wee John Thomas
onna the "dark toast" setting, know what I mean --?!?

If'n I survive, the dingus shalt be ebon forevermore,
blackened n' burnt ere ya butter it
... uhhh, youuuuu ARRRRE gonna BUTTER IT, r-r-r-right--?!?!
🦃🧈🍆🤤🦃🧈🍆🤤🦃🧈🍆🤤🦃🧈🍆🤤🦃🧈🍆🤤🦃🧈🍆🤤🦃
This is how pungently I do love you.

I mean, a L.U.V. SOOO DEEEP, I'ma gone form
a tight seal round yer li'l A.N.U.S. with my lips, see,
& proceed to huff in alla yr broken wind.

& if'n ya one mornin bark a order at me,
STICK YOUR DICK DIRECTLY INTO THE TOASTER, BOY
I'll cry, "How DEEEP, Ma'am?!?"
My adoration fer you be
depthless as a fat feller's navel.

It's essentially a bottomless hole, my Love,
fer all intents & purposes, see what I mean?

& believe ME, it's EVER BIT as STANKY
as some dank sweaty guy's DEEP INNY:
make a schmegma, got its very own odor,
distinct from foreskin smegma.
on into the soft crayfish meat beneath.

Was a snotnosed, sullen, bored Godhead,
staring balefully into the pail & dispatchin
the crayfish dispassionately, ya dig me?

Evincing such absence of Human affect,
such a paucity of FEELING
that maybe the little shit WAS God.

Pop/pop/pop/pop/pop/pop/pop.
As a lad, he was of a varietal
who was entirely SATISFIED If'n ya simply gave him
a black nine BB pistol, & a tin pail fulla crayfish for to kill.

Pop/pop/pop, this dull eyeballed li'l miscreant
played Arbiter of Crayfish Life Or Death,
pumping BBs thru their hard exoskeletons
the vulturescraped, disarticulated bones
& sunbleached skullcaps of yr 100s, if not 1000s,
of unwary sojourners thru its scorchin
high West Texas desert depression
whose hellscape will actively be tryna annihilate us, you dig it?
wastin some lowdown,
no-goodnik sumbitches, dig me?

& YOU look to ME as if'n ya ALREADY strapped
fer ACTION, Ms. Jackson, leastways
if yer lonnng, black-lacquered gougin talons
be a reliable indicator of yr GAMENESS.

Where WE be goin, El Valle De Los Abandonados,
the arid flats is scattered with
how you handle yerself behind the hard recoil
of a pump action .12-Gauge Streetsweeper shotgun, ya think?

On account of, the phrase "ridin shotgun"
ain't no mere figure of SPEECH, honey:
I'ma NEED ya along the way to lay down a nice scatter
of double-aught buckshot cover whilst I busy MYself
Deathtrippin like Iggy, or like ya Kamikaze Zero pilot,
plummeting outta the clear azure
& crashin directly into a nitroglycerin warehouse,
not on any Mission save the muhfuckin KICKS, y'dig?

C'mon baby, doncha wanna ride SHOTGUN?!

The Suicidalist Seat is free, & incidentally
Mein Trümpf is no Savior, no Second Coming of The Son Of Man.
He AIN'T Messiah material, The Megalödonald;
he more akin to a flamin brown paper sack of Mastiff turds
Father Yahweh, who DO L.U.V. a good PRANK,
left on America's front stoop ere He rang the bell
& vanished into thin air with a cackle.
(The wax museum gots a standin dare:
drink a glassful of Idi Amin's gastric acidic last meal, & they refund
yr price of admission, ya dig it?).
Or, say, the perfectly preserved contents
of what the autopsy found
sloshin around in General Idi Amin Dada's stomach
(I'M guessing chunks of his political enemies!!),
on display inna clear aquarium bag atta wax museum,
somewhere on that old highway to Wall Drug.
Like, do these institutions
surreptitiously employ ruthless dick n' vulva hunters?

& what of the even DARKER rumour
that Philly's Mütter Museum
the BLACK SHEEP of museums,
got Jayne Mansfield's decapitated head
on, like, a secret menu; you got to KNOW
how to ask about if'n you hope to get a peek?
had the codgers for to do the deed
& HARVEST the Holmes corpse's grotesque dead sex organ?!?
& how did it come into the possession
of The Smithsonian...?

Perhaps there's a great deal
onna subject of museums about which
I's simply IGN'ANT n' shit, dig?
Truly, rumour has it
that his severed, mummified member
is in a secret holdings collection at The Smithsonian Museum;
thusly dessicated, it's reputedly down
to a mere 11 inches, but appears more tumescent NOW
than it EVER WAS in LIFE, you dig?

I wonder, what intrepid collector
right out of some starlet's mouth
makin her grimace in frustration that her ardent labors
have all been fer NAUGHT, y'know what I mean?

Fact is, I don't believe that tall, scrawny dude
had enough blood in his whole body
adequate to fully harden his ridiculous endowment.
As a young man, back inna 80s n' 90s, I seen
a surplus of John Holmes movies, that 70s porn meat-O
knowed for to boast a plug-ugly 13 inches;
I don't believe I ever saw ONE flick in which Holmes
was able to raise a decent hard-on outta that tubesteak.
He be flippin n' floppin round, fallin flaccidly
A foolish flaccidity
be the hobgoblin of large penises.

Countless, anonymous
pornographical footlongers have proven it on film n' video:
ya can't squish an OYSTER
into a COIN SLOT onna SLOT MACHINE;
that bein the case, what good's it DO ya anyway, you be strapped
with an ultramega JUMBO OYSTER?
wealthier'n CHURCH, & every bit
as POWERFUL as GODS, dig me?

But THAT'S ANOTHER hackneyed story...

Türkeyneck OUT, like a prolapsed anus!!! 🦃😵‍💫🤢🤮🥵🥶😵⚰️🕳️🪦🤘🦃😵‍💫🤢🤮🥵🥶😵⚰️🕳️🪦🤘🦃
& they been retrofittin everything about THEMSELVES,
with hardware outer n' software inner, residing
behind their flat, stony
dead eyeballs, see what I mean?!?

Course, the TOP SECRET DREAM be Planetary domination
as an Über Race of Supervillainous Cyborgs,
Li'l So N' So N' His Velvety Twin Satchels
(Satchel Numero Uno leftward n' lowww,
the Deuce Satch onna righthand side high & tight, natch...).

Yeah, these billionaire Hegemonoids is fixin
for to realize the DREAM-- THEIR dream... OUR NIGHTMARE:
of a Man/Machine Hybrid, see?
Ain't it a FACT, Jack, the FatCats inna black hats & glass monocles, see,
they has all been acquirin themselves
BIONICAL components, electively,
even retrofittin upgrades to their... urrrr.... MAN... bits?

We be talkin they's bangers n' mash, their twig & berries,
Sgt. Rock & His Hand Grenades,
& WORMY GRAVEDIRT, redolent though I might could BE
of Death & Decay-- I mean, lookit my muhfuckin BLUEJEANS:
them shits is ROTTING offa my legs---!
Gots bracket fungi growin onna thighs! ALMS!!

Beside baby, the name pronounced "Moud"
not "Mud", so I'D say the whole subject is MOOT, wouldn't YOU?
O, though my name may in fact be Müdd,
you best refrain from takin me fer some common ole DIRT
when it is self-evident I'm the GOURMET dirt,
near-black, loamy n' rich in phosphorus
-- in short, I'M the MÜDD in which you GÜRLS
gone wanna grow all yer PÜRTY FLOWERS.

I most assuredly AIN'T no DANK