MAGAZINES

I’ve known a lot of perverse ingrates so Penis Dixon is nothing new, but when you see them rotating in the flush of their slough, often enough with pricety psychiatrists at their beck and call, it’s never surprising to have them work their evil by calling you what they are in reality, like Dr. Frances Cress Welsing working with Zell, by excellent, immortal example, or Dino Rossi.

Wm. Pepper swears that his bug-eyed obsession with my cock isn’t evidence that he hired Don Ostro to molest me as a child. He insists he obsession is clinical and not the senility of an aging pedophile lost in the funhouse of his vicious, Jimmy-raping past, but can the same be said for smut-addled Penis Rossi? Penis Rossi has a huge collection of pedophile pictures that he inthists is State Police Research Division 404 and nothing more. He lobs them at me for pop ups whenever Wm. Pepper isn’t around. He calls it acid testhting. They are the es and the et that wizard Erlen of Falk Medical History of witchcraft would talk about with magic fingertips when daddy showed up with no appetite on the heels of Jewtown’s rejection of a nutrition center.

Brother Adam is a kike, by the way, so since the kikes got there’s he’s soft on Dixon. Mason Dixon is not only the Seattle Southerner doing Diamonda Galas routines like Oliver North mining harbors to prove himself civilly disobedience itself, but let no man come between the arrangement that David Douglas and Kate McPHerron made for David Duke’s new Obamaesque protegee in Louisiana, someone Alpana and Bobby Jindhal, with a little jingle, getting some equality, raping deaf Jeannie, in this here far away island of Greater India.

Seattle heavies are doing what Penis Gabriel does best. Penis Gabriel paints his eyes all sallow. He, like Dino Rossi, has the same sordid axe-murdering tinkerbell inside of him that every queer in Capitol Hill has, so they are as one, and their new loper, paid for and sponsored by the sort of fat girl Lennon freaks with their hips spilling out of their leotard who play Misty for Lennon on 444 cockpit Dylan and Eric aimed at the Worth Trade Center from State to State. They drive by me with Gail Burstyn eyes, like Ragan in the Exorcist, while Yoko Ono loads lookalike Japan sexpots who get a Burstyn look in their eye at the peak of attraction.

This is why there has to be documentation.

It’s a frighteningly disturbed country that calls Japanese War Bait like Midori Goto a U.N. Peace Ambassador. Penis Fripp heard little Jimmy say, “I had to come” and his obsessive tape loop mind played that sleeplessly the rest of the tour, until he was finally sure that gently removing my weeness from a highness when ever so slightly asked nicely was lape! Twas! Tis only explanatio.

SHANNON HARPS MUST PAY! Flipp larfing all ze way to ze bank.

Shy fat ugly hedgehogs for Lennon foot the bill for any act of insanity the sicko Dino Rossi-Burstyn mind of Penis McCartney dreams up. Hillary Swimmer jealously jumping from the chilly sea choruses with angles to FORGEEV Burstyn she is AS ONE WITH MIDORI GOTO. Aung San Suu Kyi says Hehn, just hehn.

Yoko Ono sneers everybody knows that if you run that means you hide something. Like that deteriorating European running from old Freedie Dixon in Texas Chainsaw Massacre.