BigJimsWornOutTires
Kraken
- Joined
- Feb 6, 2021
- Posts
- 26,462
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I know it's only a mouse under the tire I just ran over. I understand that. I know rodents. Ugh, my ex. You could say I'm an expert on scavengers, especially those with short red hair. I'm a specialist in many things. Yes, you know the lingo.
As I sit in my dune buggy with dirt hills surrounding me, I watch the deer near the trees and wonder if I drive really fast, maybe, by some stroke of nature, I could run one over. Ah, yes, I am indeed a big dreamer. Not only that, I am the Buggy Bussy Butcher.
Four days later, I stand in line at a taco joint I've nicknamed Dirty Mexican Garbage. Ah, yes, I am indeed a master of naming things. I order some shit that's not important to mention. While impatiently waiting for the fucking migrants to serve me my food, I scan my surroundings like a paranoid snoop. On the wall, I see a square portrait of an employee of the month. He's one big eater! My order is up. I grab the tray, find an empty table, and sit on the germ infested chair.
There were not many people there that day. An elderly couple reminded me of Hitler's original target for the gas chambers. Then there was a woman and her son. Or perhaps she's his teacher... seeing how she kisses the kid's hand when his shoulders tense up. Ugh, fucking liberals. A movement from the floor catches my attention. I see a rat darting under the tables. What a hideous yet familiar creature. She disappears into an opening in a cabinet door below the fountain drink counter. Reminds me of my ex-ex. That love affair lasted a few months, though. I walked in on her having sex with her K9. I called him Klansman. She called him Daddy. Ah, yes, the life in Mississippi. I don't miss it. I definitely don't miss brunettes. When I learned that Mississippi women have a tradition of fucking dogs, I moved a few states over, which is also not important to mention.
Five years ago, after I dumped my ex-ex-ex, I set eyes on Mississippi because I heard those women were easy, I had a dream. I was riding a dune buggy chasing deer with a mouse on my shoulder and a rat hanging out of my shirt pocket. But this off-road vehicle was odd because when I looked behind me, expecting to see an engine, instead, there was a food cart with soda dispensers. A brunette waved at me as I passed. I shouted, "Yo, what up?" She smiled and scratched her crotch. I cringed. A female voice distracts me! I pivot my attention opposite to the first vagina; it's a redhead holding a leash to a Saint Bernard. Her shirt was a landscape of dirt hills. The dog wore a bib with black bold lettering—BIG DADDY. Suddenly, an obese man in a white robe and matching hoodie slammed on top of my hood! He seemed frightened. He said, "Mexicans and teachers don't fuck dogs, they fuck children!" Ugh, creepy thing to say. I punched the pedal to the floor, but he held on. I woke up.
That's how dreams of future events appear to me, minus the disturbing sexual nature and hateful theme. I'd rather explain this in an inflammatory layout to discourage search engine spies. Ah, yes, algorithms restrict adult content. Teehee, depriving their apparatus of true intelligence by using their design to my benefit.
As I sit in my dune buggy with dirt hills surrounding me, I watch the deer near the trees and wonder if I drive really fast, maybe, by some stroke of nature, I could run one over. Ah, yes, I am indeed a big dreamer. Not only that, I am the Buggy Bussy Butcher.
Four days later, I stand in line at a taco joint I've nicknamed Dirty Mexican Garbage. Ah, yes, I am indeed a master of naming things. I order some shit that's not important to mention. While impatiently waiting for the fucking migrants to serve me my food, I scan my surroundings like a paranoid snoop. On the wall, I see a square portrait of an employee of the month. He's one big eater! My order is up. I grab the tray, find an empty table, and sit on the germ infested chair.
There were not many people there that day. An elderly couple reminded me of Hitler's original target for the gas chambers. Then there was a woman and her son. Or perhaps she's his teacher... seeing how she kisses the kid's hand when his shoulders tense up. Ugh, fucking liberals. A movement from the floor catches my attention. I see a rat darting under the tables. What a hideous yet familiar creature. She disappears into an opening in a cabinet door below the fountain drink counter. Reminds me of my ex-ex. That love affair lasted a few months, though. I walked in on her having sex with her K9. I called him Klansman. She called him Daddy. Ah, yes, the life in Mississippi. I don't miss it. I definitely don't miss brunettes. When I learned that Mississippi women have a tradition of fucking dogs, I moved a few states over, which is also not important to mention.
Five years ago, after I dumped my ex-ex-ex, I set eyes on Mississippi because I heard those women were easy, I had a dream. I was riding a dune buggy chasing deer with a mouse on my shoulder and a rat hanging out of my shirt pocket. But this off-road vehicle was odd because when I looked behind me, expecting to see an engine, instead, there was a food cart with soda dispensers. A brunette waved at me as I passed. I shouted, "Yo, what up?" She smiled and scratched her crotch. I cringed. A female voice distracts me! I pivot my attention opposite to the first vagina; it's a redhead holding a leash to a Saint Bernard. Her shirt was a landscape of dirt hills. The dog wore a bib with black bold lettering—BIG DADDY. Suddenly, an obese man in a white robe and matching hoodie slammed on top of my hood! He seemed frightened. He said, "Mexicans and teachers don't fuck dogs, they fuck children!" Ugh, creepy thing to say. I punched the pedal to the floor, but he held on. I woke up.
That's how dreams of future events appear to me, minus the disturbing sexual nature and hateful theme. I'd rather explain this in an inflammatory layout to discourage search engine spies. Ah, yes, algorithms restrict adult content. Teehee, depriving their apparatus of true intelligence by using their design to my benefit.
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