Not to be confused with Morgan Manorgan, most valuable defence in the Irish senior hurling tournament 1989
Women just don't understand the rich dedication and imperative care that goes into organizing records and book collections. They think they can just cobble any old clasped spaff and cootch cock slap them on the shelves like they're wet dog stank. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead does not sit smack bang in the middle of Escape From Camp 14 and a curiously cream-stained quarter-inch pamphlet of Siegfried Sassoon's life and poetry. There's a creative sphere of stringency and each man is cast under the curation nodule of the left hemisphere of the brain called Bentham's Dirk. Evolutionarily it makes sense for the primate side of us that still had apex predator instincts and whatever alpha was in the group had a harem of all of the females and passed his genes to them all. Marital sanctity mandated by the theocracy meant we didn't need to club the buff-gutted pork loins that would bungle in the jungle as lions like. (I got a theory about the Bungle in the Jungle song by Jethro Tull that it's about freemasons forming their own gentleman's clubs to tongue relish after work and then spend the weekend with the unsuspecting lady wife "eating their nuts, saving their raisins for Sunday". That's all I have to go on though if I remember right so really it could be about holidaying in Borneo for a month, who knows.)
We need to feel how layered they are, from furrowed leatherbound to sore ironed slips, whether their bodiced foldings make tactile instinct tinkle. We need to feel these babies out like a blind molerat noncing tiny wrinkly clawed raw chicks in a colony of matriarchs nozzle blasting him in shite that's making him go blind more so the eyes grow and look inwards at the chickpea noggin knocking about. Note that they are cancer-resistant and their pain sensitivity is utterly dulled so it's fine to smoke one. He's conscious of nothing but burrowing for protein peppered nuggets of inbred droppings. He hasn't even developed shame that he's naked or a chomo like Eve definitely was because grown men don't wax fruity with a costermonger grass snake unless they're on mescaline or the apple is a caged liberty cap patch (I know you can't confuse them but this was the olden days when colour wasn't invented). I've been high at the Eden Project and it's like doing sweatboxes as a sand puppy in a snow globe. I mean Eve might have been having a top trip until Adam span her like a needless record about hearing thunderous booms of megamalophilic shrieks from inside his own head. Adam goes proper schiz even on chill pills. The red one made his ego draw a stag beetle fart of a withering terminal breath before he realized his face was exactly like his dad's but he doesn't remember ever having a dad or being younger or older than 37 on that day in the meadows with Eve.
That's actually a true story but it's not connected to Genesis, it's just an old man that tells you MK Ultra put pachinko prions in all foods. "Nobody knows who's next, man!" and then he told me about the mad cow epidemic ages back and about kuru and how Papa Guinea Pig got set up with the pachinko prions and I pointed out that the calculations are a little off if it's a global spread food production conspiracy that of the 8 billion they all happened in the same rival tribal villages that practice thought for food. He backed down but Eve was apparently a social worker he met who can attest to his background of being the first human being to be injected with another injection of nothing. I wasn't sure I heard right. Injected. With another inject- an actual injection of a needle slightly smaller than the one they injected him with. He said "That's pure science. I got out of there before they made the snake and apple put that gown on."
It's a painstaking process; the manorganising. Yes, selecting the most attractive pattern we can perceive without a frame of reference. I mean, the frames are the reference, specifically the shelves which can sometimes give way under a book tide but all you need to do is cradle the shifting until it turns into a naked molerat rolling tob baby maelstrom. You need to really get your hands off your cocks and on with your socks with this one. Just gaffer/duct/Austrian murder tape the loosies and support the head. Let a few fodders go like your old university reference guides that gave me the hard and fast rule of not having attention issues and sometimes sitting for 48 hours without wondering if my bladder oozes the impression of milk teeth in cream soda or pennies in Marxist fishnets. What else? Choreograph! It is interpretative but there is a right way, of course. Hire yourself ostler for cooking any books at the back and a tin ostler to wear around your neck and whistle for somebody in the same home to find one-star catering for booking the cooks. Some jam and dancing. Orchesis for western philosophy, colophonic irrigation should get a movement going if you like being the kind of dipslit that remembers publishing houses and the author's dedications to avoid remembering how it all went again. Pirouettes and lying tongues for bibliomancy. Remember you need the Ars Notoria but read out a few cheeky gags in between to not bewitch the wardrobe. Flash photography fitters may like jitterbugging while studying the cost of toob tops and tootpaste but if ya gel combed ya coca-cola head instead of smoking cigarettes you wouldn't look like a curly clown, and what's this? A book? You brought your homework with you, Jimbo? You're getting a D- in Geography for not knowing Pearl Harbour doesn't go with flowers. Now what ya gone done, Jimbo? Your curly hair just smudged the grade off! Was that a clean shot or is it tomentose? Heh, remember, Jimbo! No underage drinking until you're 45!
Can't believe I wrote all of this shit. This was honestly one paragraph I sent to my mate on telegram and now it's this worms, grubs, and nugget chow mein parfait that's wriggling in your gut wanting to pass out for a point. Actually, you either just skipped to this bit on the off chance of actually knowing if cigarettes were prescribed in the 50s. Yes, as an expectorant like lime kiln huffing, or a detectorant if you need to slowly inhale a 2-inch man that's wearing a beige long coat. My doctor says I can't ragdoll myself out of the living with deep freeze menthol crystals and toilet cleaner but I've still got orange matter in there.
Now books are big, medium, and small but if you eliminate the medium from the equation then when does small become big? You don't want an irregular length. Tipped for screwing. From the side of the shelves, it shouldn't look like a row of terraced houses but some have front gardens that are Mossad pretending to read UN agreement legislature or lots of high rise flats with some popping their heads out to puff puff pass the cutback cladding between windows with literally brick hash. 'Ashen Crumble' like those jocular labels on Chinese Cannabinoids of Mashed Destruction like 'Annihilation' and 'Brain Damage 4-LYF' and we'd all sit in the park during sixth form dinner time and share our joints of marshmallow plant sprayed liberally with F-35 jet fuel and fire ant killer. Fuck knows what was in those pouches and they sold it to us at 15 in the head shops during school dinners. No scruples or scran, man. "Somebody needs to buy those 20p Tesco swiss rolls today while I mount up on AMT crystals and molecular structures that are longer than the Hanbury dynasty's roundabout train.
Back on the point said the ball. P.E. teacher taught us that phrase. You can do it the other way around you want. That's what he used to say to us to old Jimbo and Adam. I got to chew the pen so I won the game, I think.
Saturn knows his positions are filled but I just need to copy the original paragraph I sent to my friend that inspired this abysmal dross. A wall of text this long will do its best to slap any Spanish out.
Women just don't understand the rich dedication and imperative care that goes into organizing record and book collections. They think they can just lump any old shit together. It's a painstaking process picking the most attractive pattern, getting the sizes right, and it's uncomfortable and serves no purpose except to gratify ourselves. That's why I'm convinced it's mang's version of a cushion.
I've swept through 5 hours doing this and all the good books I have preached about (I'm not a monotheist. I suppose there is a whole to the facets such as we are trillions of life crawling in our lives on a very populated life and do we know if these planetary systems are molecular in the same way a skittle of mogadon is? Interconnections. The spiritual world and the material. Balance them. Meditation, in my opinion, is not good for the soul. The brain is a muscle and the spirit wantonly embraces its morphal dreams. Medding, tation that is, is the equivalent of lying down in wax occasionally remembering you've rolled back more sushi rolls than your own (actually probably grey) king skin. Say fore and the clubbing is Heaven in the lard lolly dispenser. Fortunetelling phimosis.
Just thought of a good pitch so if you see it anywhere I came up and patented it. All rights reserved under me. Contact for deets and red root beats. Veg-wave. So reality telly idea here. We take half and half Zen Buddhist monks and Miami violent inmates and we make them switch places and make new matey pals and learn the ways of rehabilitation through inner peace and secretly hopes a Shaolin showdown kicks off in the yard at the mega jail. Call it Orange is the new Orange. Few creative license issues but we leave that to the suits innit because it'll be massive if the flix picks it up. Much better than my other idea. Black is the new Black. Send grime yoots from inner city London to the Solomon Islands and they have to spear fish crocs and get ritual roulette rounds with spoonfuls of kuru flesh and the tribesmen have to learn to adapt to the world of underground pirate radio (set them back to the golden days because otherwise they are just watching reactions to Wretch 32 on youtube while eating a sandwich the wrong way round somehow, having a shivering ego death in council housing, having ancestral shellshock from Dutch slavers every time a kettle goes off. Get them dancing on eccies on fireworks night.
So, I'll leave you with this because I basically said organizing your own library, be it tune playlists or vinyl of vapourwave albums (you are a proper daft cunt) is like how men don't understand anything about decor with anything else but the cushion is the most obvious example of needless objet d'art because it is just a filler for perfectly adequate space like an inflatable sumo suit in the black hole of Calcutta. Also, it's not the least bit functional. You lob the plumper off the couch before you can say "Alexa, play 'degloving priapism' in 4k'.
I suppose I *really made this text post because i know nobody will read it so i'm just dotting a semi-confessional. Little remembrance sigh for Roman Catholic primary school leaver's mass. I shoplifted an Ivory statuette of a Hodou doll from this shop that is actually an amazing business. It's like a hoarder's museum. I bought an oak resin centipede too but the statuette was not worth its label but I lifted with honourable intentions. An anniversary present for my momo and step-peeper. It's the 20th I think so is that Lead or Nitrous? For rizzle, I have heard that the first decade is a paper anniversary but I was never sure whether my step-paps was chatting codscloaca or whether it was code for "Get us money because my pension is worth less than my bus pass." I remember actually believing a guy as a teen that he was making good money manufacturing Christmas tinsel. He had a decent motorbike and I was inhaling my Shanghai'd herbal haze and started getting lockjawed a little less slack as I pontificated on just about every aspect of that. Someone does that though. I mean, it's probably a jacked machine regurgitating fibred multi-coloured pythons of tree dressing. The colour of Father Wintersvensson in his jolly coca-cola suit (because for those that do not know Santa isn't a folklore tale. His image is invented by the coke and coper company. Why did the essence of American capitalism choose red to represent a time of togetherness in the flaky, sleety, cold war? Obviously, with what I remarked on before I rudely interjected was that it's not one guy called Cocker Jenkins that does the tinsel thing every year and will get a distinction and a life award for making what is essentially just disposable colours for a career. Once a year colon clutch the arse end of some astroturfed scarfs and then do the proper job of wasting electricity on lights to add to the flavour of Jesus our saviour on the what is the and I knew the guy was bullshitting eventually but the subject lingered like a lacerated groin boil that twins a 'just doing my methadone behind the bins next to my old school. Nothing to see here. I need water. This rusty puddle next to the drains will do." Because I had cellulitis TWICE on the pubic grove/ridge/groin. I looked up the medical term and it was apparently 'mons pubis' but the nurse laughed at me and then I noticed that was a term for a lady low cop top brass.
They asked me if I injected and I gave them a pious grimace as if the valves of my heart had steamrolled into abandon. I said "Just thousands of blister packs. Some from abroad. Some from pretend consultations. Some actually prescribed to me. I can show you the slag heap of slutty punctured holes in the strips and the invoices from very many money transfers that I am addicted to opiates and benzos and have been for the last 4 years." I mean, I would have said that but I wanted oramorph. I mean, at least junkies have an anti-hero's journey through the streets. I live comfortably. Not literally but I'm at home and I don't know dangerous cats. I know some hot dogs that are head-gone. I included. That Hodou doll is actually facing my exact direction and we're deadlocked at eye level since he's on the chest of drawers and I'm sat cross-legged on my Bedfordshire grave where I turn since I found out I'm still harking at wee saint peter gazing cherubim at the witching hour looking for company. A contractor that just wanted me to four-finger key the doors of a rival taxi company I could do. I got a spare steam roller so just need the connections, lads.
This is like that awkward moment reaching quarter past 11 and it's pretty clear everybody wants to just boot a zoot and pass out peacefully to a Belgian horror flick but I can't do that anymore! My cannabinoid receptors are mortar round muck ran and I can't enjoy alcohol because I become an impulsive danger to society. If I don't have a sitter with me to snap me back out of petit mal breakdowns and inane stumble bumps I will knock on people's doors and talk to anyone I see and buy a naked mole rat or a gollywog batman, is that the time?
Any comments and I will answer eventually. I'm tangential. All I've had is modafinil but I'm proper buzzing that I organized my whole bookcase. That is the impetus of this narrative but I thought I'd just click my pink fingers to snap back and be proud of just getting the strength to do something useful. There was such an immense build-up of dust it was like an asbestos miner's trousers. That's still a thing in the Balklands, right? Here's a pretty miserable fact - Half of the Russian men die of alcohol poisoning before cirrhosis because they still live medievally since the water wasn't properly filtrated and irrigated because townsfolk obviously used to piss and shit and bathe in the surrounding blues they would quaff pints of what they call 'small beer' because the brew would keep longer and the mites and weevils wouldn't be much of a problem with hop farming, I think. It would be like drinking two cans of fosters a day with your meal or more if you're on the mosey nose. Then you drink the hard beer, the cider up insider, the mead for honey feed. I don't know the history of spirits apart from potato vodka could have been a damn good private venture during the Irish famine. So Ruski men are pretty much mad because they, like the celts and anglo-Saxons, etc. don't really regard beer and ale as alcohol. It's the vodka that's for partying and your fifth pint is basically your second soda. Pop mate. People say soda here now and it pisses off nozzle because Americanisms are even more prevalent through this global control of free movement and all we got to do is just sit in our boxers in the meantime and at the right time of day, we'll watch the same thing and say fucking shit.
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