Cut Off Your Hands. Feed Them To Me. Let Me See Your Heart's Vagina.

Some real blog shit. As told to Patrick Thomas Thompson. Born March 22, 1984. Native of Califon, New Jersey, Hunterdon County. Son of Don and Terry(sp?) Thompson. Brother of Don Jr. and Mike. Graduate of Vorhees High School and the University of Maryland, College Park. Member of the esteemed Delta Tau Delta Fraternity, Delta Sigma Chapter. Devourer of beauty, connoisseur of disturbing art. Late bloomer in the metaphysical struggle amongst the machines, "God", time, the Seven Seas, mankind, the elite and the desire to be as entropic as possible.

Remember the TimeMachine as he is, not as you wish him to be. That goes for all of us, p.s.

i'm drinking alone in my bed, listening to aphex twin in my boxers, occasionally watching the video for sebastien tellier's "la ritournelle" and crying my eyes out.

i woke up this morning with pretty sizable chunks of cartilage on my pillow and i stepped on a piece of glass in the gallery and now it poss may be infected.

my body all but rejects anything that's not a cigarette, alcohol, a schedule 1 intoxicant or an MAO Inhibitor.

my checking account is overdrawn by an obscene amount (378.23 to be exact; don't ask).

my mother is like legitimately afraid that i'm going to kill myself (haha).

i make enemies a lot easier than friends and have basically been living the last scene of cloverfield for the last three weeks.

yet as i sit here, in the UVA shirt i stole from their bookstore during my campus visit junior year at Gilman, watching this (possibly underaged) girl get brutally facefucked by an impossibly massive cock, i can't help but think that i am a bigger beast than 96% of NYC.


They Should Have Put Him In A Glass Jar.

(Fuck You!)

"Well, fuck you, too. Fuck me? Fuck you, fuck this whole city and everyone in it.

Fuck the panhandlers, grubbing for money, and smiling at me behind my back. Fuck the squeegee men dirtying up the clean windshield of my car. Get-a-fucking-job!

Fuck the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming out their pores, stinking up my day. Terrorists in fucking training. SLOW THE FUCK DOWN!

Fuck the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped up biceps. Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jiggling their dicks on my Channel 35.

Fuck the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speaky English?

Fuck the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafés, sipping tea in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth. Wheelin' and dealin' and schemin'. Go back where you fucking came from!

Fuck the black-hatted Chassidim, strolling up and down 47th street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Selling South African apartheid diamonds!

Fuck the Wall Street brokers. Self-styled masters of the universe. Michael Douglas, Gordon Gekko wannabe motherfuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hard working people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail for FUCKING LIFE! You think Bush and Cheney didn't know about that shit? Give me a fucking break! Tyco?! Worldcom?!

Fuck the Puerto Ricans. 20 to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls, worst fuckin' parade in the city. And don't even get me started on the Dom-in-i-cans, 'cause they make the Puerto Ricans look good.

Fuck the Bensonhurst Italians with their Pomaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, their St. Anthony medallions, swinging their Jason Giambi, Louisville slugger, baseball bats, trying to audition for the Sopranos.

Fuck the Upper East Side wives with their Hermes scarves and their fifty-dollar Balducci artichokes. Overfed faces getting pulled and lifted and stretched, all taut and shiny. You're not fooling anybody, sweetheart!

Fuck the uptown brothers. They never pass the ball, they don't want to play defense, they take five steps on every lay-up to the hoop. And then they want to turn around and blame everything on the white man. Slavery ended one hundred and thirty seven years ago! Move-the-fuck-on!

Fuck the corrupt cops with their anus-violating plungers and their 41 shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray-our-trust!

Fuck the priests who put their hands down some innocent child's pants. Fuck the church that protects them, delivering us into evil.

And while you're at it, fuck JC! He got off easy! A day on the cross, a weekend in hell, and all the hallelujahs of the legioned angels for eternity!?! Try seven years in fuckin' Otisville, J!

Fuck Osama Bin Laden, Al Qaeda, and backward-ass, cave-dwelling, fundamentalist assholes everywhere. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your seventy-two whores roasting in a jet-fuel fire in hell. You towel-headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal Irish ass!

Fuck this whole city and everyone in it. From the row-houses of Astoria to the penthouses on Park Avenue, from the projects in the Bronx to the lofts in Soho. From the tenements in Alphabet City to the brownstones in Park Slope to the split-levels in Staten Island. Let an earthquake crumble it, let the fires rage, let it burn to fucking ash and then let the waters rise and submerge this whole rat-infested place. "



No, fuck you, Kasai Richardson. You had it all, and you threw it away, you dumb fuck!

Rome wasn't built in a day, but it fell in the blink of an eye.


This Is The Best Blog On The Internet. It's Indefatigable.

Kasai REX is a product of private education. And despite this fact, he has seen humanity at its most severe, at its most pedestrian, at its most grotesque.

At its most... HUMANE.

And yet, in light of all the pulchritude concordant with modern strife, this fail-safe world of ours still refuses to step aside as he cuts a swath through the cosmos, killing red dwarfs in a manner not unlike the way you scatter dandelion spores, traversing the void, piling light year upon light year upon light year upon light year the way you try not to step on a crack, BREAK-YOUR-MAMA'S-BACK.

Have a butchers.


Keith Legend... Paris, Texas. Diazepine Tangerine. Dream.

Nerve's Blog: Heath Ledger's official cause of death was ruled "acute intoxication by the combined effects of oxycodone, hydrocodone, diazepam, temazepam, alprazolam and doxylamine." In other words, he died of an "accidental overdose."

Diego: you can't be eating and snorting that much shit with the letters x and z in them

Well put my friend.

Well. Put.


You Don't Remember Me Do You? Burbank? '83? Yeahhh! Good To See You! How's The Wife? Ohhh, Sorry To Hear That. Remarried? No. Yeah, Such A Trap Right?

"... And after one-thousand-and-one years of anguish, the Harrier Of TRUTH finally sinks its obsidian talons into the flesh and marrow of the sexually sated Fuck-Titan, and things begin to begin again Mr. Finnegan, the slender ovipositor having posited something rather sinister."

"What Did You Expect From A Crakhead?"
- Revelations 11:16