Saturday, January 26, 2013

Sky City
164 26th St. SW
Hickory, NC


Anonymous said...

Lord Fugue sent me his CD. He lost his copy. He asked if I could send him the one he sent me back or make him a copy of it. I just got a POLLY POCKET METRO JAM JIVE GIRL PINK BEAUTY RADIO WITH A CD MAKER ON THE SIDE NEXT TO A PHOTO CARTOON DRAWING PICTURE OF THE FACE OF PEPPER ANN. Soon this portable jam moozik system shall create both you and Lord Fugue a copy of the elusive LORD FUGUE CD. Included also is the latest mail batch of creations by Angelique AMY CARSON. All should be arriving soon.

Anonymous said...

Ross. I am several times a day performing destruction rituals to generate cancer in people who have slighted me in the least little bit or irked me. A friend's brother who was always a total jerk has already gotten cancer and the rituals are designed to heighten its pain and induce an endless melaisse of slow rot agony. The way this person has acted over the years and the things his yipping mouth have uttered needs to be PEELED. And so it goes. Chemotherapy is blistering the hell out of him. IT IS THE GREAT GOOD his suffering pain. His TORTURE is a GOD in itself. Any thoughts of life or contrition or eternity which flit around his withered consciousness is the greatest of all HILARITY. This world is a rotten place. And so is the god that humanity shackles us with who places so called SIN on us. Guilt is the torture device. Once one is psychologically freed from guilt one can operate telepathically as a GOD. One becomes a GOD and PROJECTED PAIN AND SUFFERING to the truly deserving is more exquisite than a rare caviar. Each day I enjoy awakening to generate curses. Each night I sleep and dream of just tortures and afflictions to all who have even ssssslightly wronged me. I am GOD ALIMIGHTY the only TRUE LORD AND DIVINE SAVIOUR OF MYSELF! I REIGN SUPREME! I AM TRUMAN BENTLEY JR!
Oh yeah. The withered little cancer boy is in his early forties now. In his withered shell he still functions and behaves as the little A@#$%&LE he always was. Only a little more tearful. Crying because he has to sit on the bench in life! EXCELLENT! PARTY ON GARTH! PARTY ON! P.S. All who smile and enjoy-laugh about what I have said here, you are worthy of a few Satanic tokens. Satan shall reward you with luck today. As your enjoying this writing you vicariously participated in helping generate more power for the hex-curse on cancer boy. Those on the other hand who may have sinscerely found this writing to be awful, remember the scene in the movie THE TEN COMMANDMNTS when that fog floated around Egypt to all the households and pharoah's son got sick and croaked. That was jehovah god whacking pharoah's son. Well that god you all call GOOD you bunch of hypocrites. Satan has that power too, and HE ALONE is KING OF THE WORLD. So go buy yourself a box of raisin cakes and go nibble on them you rat. Crawl on down to your chur-itch and dislocate your knee caps on that little pull out genuflect bar beind the pew. Throw all your money away in your HOUSE OF GUILT worshipping your dog, oh I spelled it backwards, I meant god. Cancer boy! Cancerboy! Ha! Ha! Ha! I hope his teenage kids fly off a curve after a mari-jih-wahner pilled up liquor-dope party. I hope his wife slips on a banana peel and quadropleghics. I hope he is placed in an iron lung. You see, the brief seconds of insults was only a brief second to you cancer boy when you said it. But I think about it 24-7-365. You got a kick of yipping that statement. It brought you pleasure. And you laughed. But why aren't you laughing now cancer boy? Does the cancer feel good as how happy you felt laughing insulting me? It has to feel good your cancer. I work so hard at generating it and psychically projecting it on you every day of the week 24-7-365. I am a WITCH. KING OF THE WITCHES in fact. You can call me SATAN. Enough for now. Maybe a can of BUG BALM ointment shall soothe those blisters. Drank yuh uh cup uh mineral oil if yuh insides feel too dried out to take uh dump. Remember. There are other people around. Give us a courtesy flush. Oh. By the way. Psychic powers are now working up a CONFUSION in the mind of your doctors so they'll accidently mess up your scrips. But relax. You got another good fifty years dealing with your cancer. You not going anywhere. Maybe a diabetic foot amputation. That might be good for you around christmas in another 24 months. Boy you uh mess. Your family gonna be sick of you.