Probably the best ending to a trainwreck comment I’ve ever read on the world wide web. And I mean the WHOLE World Wide Fucking Web.

“When Many Fay was born, inexplicably Walter Matthau, who was across the Atlantic, stood up in a 4-star restaurant and shit his pants so full they had to cut them off with salad tongs.

Some years later, in his fourth attempt at senior year, Many Fay hid inside a hollow rock wall at the Museum of Modern Art’s “Jurassic Birds and their Prey” exhibit, and popped out during a 3rd grade science class fieldtrip and skull-fucked the exhumed corpse of Minnie Pearl with a strap-on Mrs. Buttersworth’s bottle in front of the exasperated juveniles.”

That should be enough to convince any doubters as to the hypocrisy of Many’s remarks.

I had a stalker once, in high school. And thankfully SHE was not a HE. Unfortunately, her braces stuck out farther than her boobies and even her uni-brow couldn’t distract from the acne. This evening, the only picture I can conjure of my petty writing critic / stalker is that of a three hundred pound gorilla wearing a camouflage thong with a leopard print scarf and chain smoking Virginia Blends while hunched over a Commodore 64 in the abandoned wood shed behind Mort’s General Store on Mayberry Street.

But enough about my fantasies.

You must be another junior college English professor. And by a ‘professor,’ I mean last ditch effort to save a fledgling career by critiquing the writings of those with superior skill. You haven’t written anything here even remotely entertaining. I’m just titillating your fantasy.

And since you’ve gone through enormous efforts to explain your trite handles, I’ll go one step further.

Who am I??
I am: A figment of the imagination of a senile bougainvillea flower in the possession of a chronic masturbator, tall and boneless, yellow-eyed, a serial person who rips off the faces of other people and slaps them silly with them, an armchair anesthesiologist, a wheelchair wiccan, a Segway Superman, sensitive, with coagulated milk for feet and centipedes for toes, an avid reader and writer, an outdoorsman with sixteen assholes, each one inside of the previous one.

Who are you??
You are: a virgin who has been holding the world hostage for months by threatening to drink copiously and snort cocaine from Lewis Samuels’ penis while pregnant with a future messiah, stout, with crooked teeth and a bellybutton with “self destruct” written on it, no lips, breasts that scream bloody murder in a false falsetto when twisted, a winning smile, receding dark auburn hair crawling with an army of lice hell-bent on Islamic jihad.

Together, we will enjoy: long walks on beaches during sunsets to find a beached whale with oversized genitals to mutilate, integration of rational expressions by geometric substitution, Monopoly, going to the supermarket and mocking the grapefruit, the throes of existentialism, clove cigarettes, inciting a worldwide genocide of people who can touch their noses with their tongues and also that dick with the mustache who works the counter at Jack’s Surfboards.

Contact Information: I’m currently squatting outside your bathroom window, watching your girlfriend tinkle into the toilet.

(Call me!)

Every attempt at narrative uses “lewd.” Maybe thesaurus that one next, give us some variety.

Mr. AKA never made the connection:

Many Fay says: = many faces.
A says: …up my sleeve. = aces up my sleeve.
Until He Sea says: = until he (you) ceases.
Quasi Narrative Pea says: …of poo. = (Do you get it now?)

The Google link for depression and loneliness (aside from your obvious over abundance of time) referred to your comment:

“Tap Tap.
Hello, hello, hello…
Anyone out there? Is this thing on?”

That is sad, all joking aside.

And as “I use nearly every bygone boogie’s name in my name” made clear, responsibilities will pull me away from MAKING you dance; the flat, wind ruined weekend is over.

Although, as sesquipedalian still refers to your poor diction and style, parts of your ramblings deserve credit. The ‘Promethean rock between your ears’ may have been your peak. It was pretty good, I recommend you disappear now knowing that further attempts will only deepen your depression.

As he rounded the woodpile, Fany witnessed in the pale orange light of his pole-mounted metal halide yard light, the hideous sight of a slim Caucasian male with close-cropped hair, bordered with a cheap necktie, EATING HIS OWN HEAD atop the busted John Deere bush hog. Nearby, a severed foreskin the size of a Mongolian meat loaf mindlessly humped a rotten squirrel with a lewd Lovecraftian action; like a raw sexual fuck-comma at the end of an unspeakable phrase…

Fany backed slowly away, back into his kitchen where he filled their jumbo Sunday Dinner crockpot with Big Momma’s secret Pepsi and Lipton-Cup-O-Soup meat marinade.

Tomorrow they would eat like kings.

Unfortunately, Fany May’s prophecy came only half-true, just before dawn, in a hellish rain of the entrails of his beloved…