The Surrealist / Stream of Thought writing Thread
- Thread starter AchrisK
- Start date
zabu of nΩd
Free Insultation
- Feb 9, 2007
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zabu of nΩd
Free Insultation
- Feb 9, 2007
- 14,620
- 805
- 113
I am not a dumbass
[Intro: Ghostface Killah]
Yo... who the fuck brought me this chocolate shit, man?
I said a banana nutriment, man
Ya'll heard the fuck I said... I gave you.
I wrote it on the fuckin' paper, man
Ya'll muthafuckas always fuck around and forgettin' something and shit
Smart dumb niggaz and shit, runnin' around here and shit
Ya'll niggaz need to wisen up, man, yo..
Fuck that special ed, shit
[Ghostface Killah]
I said Big O, hydro-face, pass me the sazone, it's on
There go son, tap out the hash bone
Half moon, he rock, three's fourth quarter length
No jewels, no rocks, it's not worth the spotlight
His gun tool, was a half a hill
That's a six digit slip behind five sticks, eatin' steel, fuck him
We gon' -- we gon' get our money
If he front, they gon' read about the rocks in his tummy
Mouth was red, socks was bloody, fuck all the talkin'
Safety off and shit, crept out, "What up money? Freeze!"
Don't move, turn around, act like James Brown
And get down! Get slapped with the put down
Wasn't you the same clown? Uptown, yappin'
I keep big Shirley on my side, so What's Happenin'?
Try eatin' these shells, they non fattening
After you digest gat, I'mma stomp you bastards
So take that.. blaow, blaow! Ghost, he still breathing
Blaow, blaow! Anything after that it don't matter
Your homies and your close relatives
Even them nosy ass pigs'll get splattered
It's the TH-EO-DORE, send me to Iraq I come back with don heat
Teeth, less than a week, they be callin' me
Keep with the fists, cuz I sure do cook when it's beef
[Chorus: Ghostface Killah]
Yo, what up? Meet, these, O.G.'s, quote these and
Baller' shit, long biscuits
Fuck around, take all your shit
Call your bluff, y'all faggots don't want no beef
Grind your teeth, and just, roll with it, don't risk it
Fuck around, and be a statistic
[Trife]
Yo, yo, niggaz ask why I use my glock
Cuz it's 2003, muthafucka, I refuse to box
I'm true to block, strip you for your shoes and socks
Remove your watch, yo I'mma have to lose your top
I'm from a place where chunkheads and zombies dwell
And niggaz keep they heat blazin' like laundry wells
Don't ever talk to a nigga like I'm one of your kids
Cuz I'll cock back the mag and pop one in your ribs
So homeboy, keep runnin' your jibs, I'mma run in your crib
Pistol whip you right in front of your wiz
My nigga, that's how it is, I get it, just how I live
Cuz me without a gun, is like Queens without the bridge
Classic cut, this is how a O.G. live
Lamp in village, and still get heard with no spins
This is Trife Diesel, New York's backbone, back home
Black blown, it's Theodore, nigga, fuck your wack stones
[Chorus 2X]
[Outro: Ghostface Killah]
That's right, it's real!
It's that muthafuckin' Theodore Unit
Nahwhatimean? Staten Island, live shit, y'all
Straight up and down, nothin' but that cutthroat shit
Blowin' niggaz back home, you know what I mean?
I don't give a fuck... we could take it there
Whatever, peace, we got him nigga
Yeah, now I'mma strangle it there
No doubt, it's real right now, muthafucka
Ya'll niggaz done done it, fuck y'all yeah
I'mma get the fuck outta this booth
zabu of nΩd
Free Insultation
- Feb 9, 2007
- 14,620
- 805
- 113
zabu of nΩd
Free Insultation
- Feb 9, 2007
- 14,620
- 805
- 113
zabu of nΩd
Free Insultation
- Feb 9, 2007
- 14,620
- 805
- 113
How many times do you feel you have to announce to us that you're a fag?
zabu of nΩd
Free Insultation
- Feb 9, 2007
- 14,620
- 805
- 113
V.V.V.V.V.
Houses Ov Mercury
I'd clean this thread, but it is perfect as is.
Now if only I could find where I put my waffle blasphemy...
Now if only I could find where I put my waffle blasphemy...
zabu of nΩd
Free Insultation
- Feb 9, 2007
- 14,620
- 805
- 113
entanglement
Member
Borknagar throws apples down the balcony for dogs to sniff and vomit on for the sheer joy of it.
DarkBliss
...And okra for all
It was late Feetday noon and I, having a snoreload of nothing to do, was contemplating the everchanging status-quo of my nonexistent entity. Subduing the sudden urge to soar downwards naked while screaming: worldwide death to all penguin molestors,I instead floated to the ancient clock that I had acquired during my last dumpster-jumping in the lowest recesses of Hollyshit, Farnicoolia.
It was a regular timepiece that you could get in touch with in all metaphysical abodes scattered across Generic Lettuce Head, once you have learnt Kabbalah, ate an infected larva of a giant cockroach and smoked enough carrots to die of extreme retardation and then reincarnated as a smurf.
Anywhowoeehow, the clock was comprised of body parts of disembodied celebrities. Two hands: one of Macaulay Culkin and the other of Michael J. Fox, the face of Cher that aged ten years each time you stared at the clock longer than five milliseconds, Michael Jackson's eyelashes for numerals and Boy George's retractable head on a spring as the annoying hourly commentator. A pendulum of questionable origin and odor was also included with the clock, but I had to discard it after noticing Fox's hand trying to grab it each time it descended to the six eyelashes.
A vague promise of a nervous breakup, excessive bitching and singular personality disorder was given on the box to the owner who forgets to pee on the clock at 2 PM daily during a full moon.
I needed to know the time in Sweden so as not to be late for the intergalactic orgy in a million light years from now. Random semen spills in China assured that the uprising of hordes of chocolate flavored rhinos from Australia will enable me to fork-punch wormholes in time-space, thus in turn allowing me to skipper doodle to the designated destination in a split egg shell, however I disregarded this most sensible of projections and turned to my grotesque timekeeper for advice.
Having forgotten to water the clock tomorrow I now observed the weird side effects as the growth of new eyeballs within me escalated rapidly in a geometrical progression.
Fox's hand was stubbornly clenching the twelve eyelashes while Culkin was giving me the finger. I heard Boy George's giggling inside. Cher was testing her rusty vocal cords preparing to sing her only number one hit single Blessed are the Sick. I ripped Fox's hand from its place and just as I was attempting to strike the clock, Boy George's head exteneded outwards, pleading: "do you really want to hurt me? Do you really want to make me cry? I swatted the clock anyway as Cher growled the first vocal line of Blessed are the Sick. The clock disintegrated in pieces and time immediately froze around me. Trying to thaw it back into its former state, I concentrated on liberating my searing passion for hairy, post-apocalyptic turkey coated in black mayo and toenail clippings, but couldn't forget the combination to the metaphysical vault where it was never contained.
...And then I woke up.
It was a regular timepiece that you could get in touch with in all metaphysical abodes scattered across Generic Lettuce Head, once you have learnt Kabbalah, ate an infected larva of a giant cockroach and smoked enough carrots to die of extreme retardation and then reincarnated as a smurf.
Anywhowoeehow, the clock was comprised of body parts of disembodied celebrities. Two hands: one of Macaulay Culkin and the other of Michael J. Fox, the face of Cher that aged ten years each time you stared at the clock longer than five milliseconds, Michael Jackson's eyelashes for numerals and Boy George's retractable head on a spring as the annoying hourly commentator. A pendulum of questionable origin and odor was also included with the clock, but I had to discard it after noticing Fox's hand trying to grab it each time it descended to the six eyelashes.
A vague promise of a nervous breakup, excessive bitching and singular personality disorder was given on the box to the owner who forgets to pee on the clock at 2 PM daily during a full moon.
I needed to know the time in Sweden so as not to be late for the intergalactic orgy in a million light years from now. Random semen spills in China assured that the uprising of hordes of chocolate flavored rhinos from Australia will enable me to fork-punch wormholes in time-space, thus in turn allowing me to skipper doodle to the designated destination in a split egg shell, however I disregarded this most sensible of projections and turned to my grotesque timekeeper for advice.
Having forgotten to water the clock tomorrow I now observed the weird side effects as the growth of new eyeballs within me escalated rapidly in a geometrical progression.
Fox's hand was stubbornly clenching the twelve eyelashes while Culkin was giving me the finger. I heard Boy George's giggling inside. Cher was testing her rusty vocal cords preparing to sing her only number one hit single Blessed are the Sick. I ripped Fox's hand from its place and just as I was attempting to strike the clock, Boy George's head exteneded outwards, pleading: "do you really want to hurt me? Do you really want to make me cry? I swatted the clock anyway as Cher growled the first vocal line of Blessed are the Sick. The clock disintegrated in pieces and time immediately froze around me. Trying to thaw it back into its former state, I concentrated on liberating my searing passion for hairy, post-apocalyptic turkey coated in black mayo and toenail clippings, but couldn't forget the combination to the metaphysical vault where it was never contained.
...And then I woke up.
zabu of nΩd
Free Insultation
- Feb 9, 2007
- 14,620
- 805
- 113
Not bad.
I try to avoid having a consistent storyline/context throughout my pieces, as it tends to clash with the random, flowing nature of this writing style. I think this was the case with your clock gimmick.
That said, the first two paragraphs were hilarious.
I try to avoid having a consistent storyline/context throughout my pieces, as it tends to clash with the random, flowing nature of this writing style. I think this was the case with your clock gimmick.
That said, the first two paragraphs were hilarious.
