Bored by this defective pestilence? This plague of impotence? Well, all the various books by myself & David C. McLean are available at our storefront here. This piece will be in The Philosophy of Extremism IV. The first three in this series are at the above link, or here at Amazon.
Bitches, Scum, Etcetera
If you’re one of the cunts who reads David C. McLean’s blog all the time, you’re shit out of luck when it comes to his luscious cock being stuck up your dry rot used up cockroach hole where the cockroaches actually now have vacated, and, further, have allowed themselves (believe it or not) to have your dry haunts, once home to the renowned, yet not oft identified, middle class roaches, retaken by true squatter roaches (even knowing it’s not at all classy, and not the American way at all). His cock is mine. Maybe if you can fit inside your vacuous dry cunt or cunts, the lower class squatter roaches will let you ride their crusty backs.
My mother used to say that she is busy at everything she does. The last time that we spoke, she was studying to be a contortionist for what she called “a time that is not yore". I still don’t know what she meant. She might have been preparing herself for now, when empty homes festered with cockroach squatters and my alleged father either no longer existed, or was unable (for whatever reason) to perform sexually.
I do wish my mother and father well. When the cockroaches crawled on me while I slept, I’d complain sometimes.
“Oh, Jen, it’s just a bug,” my mother would say.
“But it’s inside of me,” I’d say.
“It’ll come… out soon,” she’d say, giggling.
Why did she laugh though?