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The onlookers said little as they watched the sasquatch peel apart his mate. He started at her scalp and slipped his frito-nails under her hair, his toes instinctively enveloping her shivering thighs to lock her into his grasp. He was attacking her, but the zoo-keeper said there was nothing they could do. The sasquatch was a creature of habit— interrupt him and we were liable to deeply upset him. 
"It’s either you or his mate, there’s nothing you can do," The zoo-keeper half-heartedly cried. He looked around at his audience— children’s eyelids were beginning to well up with tears, toddlers’ lips began to contort into the pained expressions that signify imminent tantrums. 
Sasquatch slashes and toddler tears began to overwhelm Tim, so in an act of frantic desperation, he jumped into the pen and grabbed hold of the male Sasquatch. He immediately regretted his decision. The sasquatch ripped his zoo-keeper’s badge from his chest, threw him up against the synthetic oak-tree-stump, and trampled him with the sort of impossible visceral ferocity that can only be found in a WWE match. 
Tim was dead— the audience of toddlers, children, mothers and their accompanying strollers knew that much. But what they didn’t know was that he hadn’t been killed by a sasquatch. In fact, there really was no sasquatch at all. The sasquatch was merely George Meurshan, the 7 foot 8 former center for the Washington Bullets who had gone into hiding after multiple disgracing episodes of being dunked on by much, much, much shorter players. NBA league officials retainered PI’s for years out of desperation, the Washington Police devoted millions of dollars to the case— but despite their best attempts, George escaped their grasps. 
If they’d really known where to look, though, they would have seen that only a man of such enormity, infused with such a strong desire to vindicate his on-court embarrassments, could achieve Sasquatch status. This is the story of George Meurshan— one-time NBA basketball player, full-time terrorist dictator of the Smithsonian National Zoological Park. His story is one rooted in deep cultural alientation, spurned expectations, and deep-rooted Hominae affiliations. 

The onlookers said little as they watched the sasquatch peel apart his mate. He started at her scalp and slipped his frito-nails under her hair, his toes instinctively enveloping her shivering thighs to lock her into his grasp. He was attacking her, but the zoo-keeper said there was nothing they could do. The sasquatch was a creature of habit— interrupt him and we were liable to deeply upset him. 

"It’s either you or his mate, there’s nothing you can do," The zoo-keeper half-heartedly cried. He looked around at his audience— children’s eyelids were beginning to well up with tears, toddlers’ lips began to contort into the pained expressions that signify imminent tantrums. 

Sasquatch slashes and toddler tears began to overwhelm Tim, so in an act of frantic desperation, he jumped into the pen and grabbed hold of the male Sasquatch. He immediately regretted his decision. The sasquatch ripped his zoo-keeper’s badge from his chest, threw him up against the synthetic oak-tree-stump, and trampled him with the sort of impossible visceral ferocity that can only be found in a WWE match. 

Tim was dead— the audience of toddlers, children, mothers and their accompanying strollers knew that much. But what they didn’t know was that he hadn’t been killed by a sasquatch. In fact, there really was no sasquatch at all. The sasquatch was merely George Meurshan, the 7 foot 8 former center for the Washington Bullets who had gone into hiding after multiple disgracing episodes of being dunked on by much, much, much shorter players. NBA league officials retainered PI’s for years out of desperation, the Washington Police devoted millions of dollars to the case— but despite their best attempts, George escaped their grasps. 

If they’d really known where to look, though, they would have seen that only a man of such enormity, infused with such a strong desire to vindicate his on-court embarrassments, could achieve Sasquatch status. This is the story of George Meurshan— one-time NBA basketball player, full-time terrorist dictator of the Smithsonian National Zoological Park. His story is one rooted in deep cultural alientation, spurned expectations, and deep-rooted Hominae affiliations. 

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With my face clenched between her legs I ran my hand along the small of her back, and then let my fingertips drift down her arm. The weathered skin on her elbow tickled like a truffle; short stems sprouting from her flower grazed along my stubbly cheekbones and cracked lips. She was sweet and textural, but i couldn’t see her, so i dragged my face along her stomach until her glistening kiss brushed along my gruff one. i let the warm concavity between her legs pull me in further. 

once her faint whimpers crystalized into coos, and my smooth strokes slowed into taut jabs, we relinquished each other and I fell by her side. the warm, ephemeral glue that slithered between us had dissipated. her eyes slowly opened, and i could see the seductive sheen that had met me hours ago was gone. i let the distance between our bodies grow. we spoke sheepishly. what time is it. when do you have to get up in the morning. can you reach my underwear. 

as she got up to leave her movements dragged my gaze along with them. it was dark, so i had to squint to see her, but amidst the shadowy noise she moved under a new light. she looked back for a brief moment, and i hid my glance. once she had finished covering herself she leaned in and kissed me something. then she was gone. 

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a song for jesus to rise to happy easter

(Source: Spotify)

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(Source: Spotify)

Tags: music spotify
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big dicks and cherry blossoms, crinkling crinkling crinkling, growls and whimpers tube-tied in a cumcierto. trans-out„,trans-in—-slooper slooper slooperslooper SLOOPER. ENOUGH. enuff. 

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Factory of Taxidermy: We create animals stuffed with metal giblets and cubed ham, terra-cotta bannisters broken into pieces and television sets filled with useless globs of wire. Sometimes we eat what we’ve made, and sometimes we feed it to others.
Most of the time we clean our teeth with toothpicks assembled from the wreckage of home foreclosures. You know, tha banging and tha booming and tha smashing and tha scraping that happens when a family is told they have to leave their home. We pick up all the scraps and shards and sawdust that they leave, and lather it in epoxy, and then stick that shit in our mouth, and then stick that shit in your mouth, too. 
Sometimes we clean our toes with lint-rollers. Sometimes we hammer away at your self-esteem with peanut-butter sandwiches so delicious that they make you feel insignificant. But most of all, we eat our own hearts with our forefingers, mop up the juices with slices of soft leather bread, and fucking cry about it when no one’s watching. 
A lot of the time no one listens to this shit, but the truth is, we don’t care. We’ll keep doing what we’re doing, fuck all that incarcerated brotherhood of Narnia shit. We don’t believe in make believe, and we only read what’s been read, not written, and only when it’s read before it’s written. If you don’t agree with that, fuck you, and fuck your teleprompter too. 

Factory of Taxidermy: We create animals stuffed with metal giblets and cubed ham, terra-cotta bannisters broken into pieces and television sets filled with useless globs of wire. Sometimes we eat what we’ve made, and sometimes we feed it to others.

Most of the time we clean our teeth with toothpicks assembled from the wreckage of home foreclosures. You know, tha banging and tha booming and tha smashing and tha scraping that happens when a family is told they have to leave their home. We pick up all the scraps and shards and sawdust that they leave, and lather it in epoxy, and then stick that shit in our mouth, and then stick that shit in your mouth, too. 

Sometimes we clean our toes with lint-rollers. Sometimes we hammer away at your self-esteem with peanut-butter sandwiches so delicious that they make you feel insignificant. But most of all, we eat our own hearts with our forefingers, mop up the juices with slices of soft leather bread, and fucking cry about it when no one’s watching. 

A lot of the time no one listens to this shit, but the truth is, we don’t care. We’ll keep doing what we’re doing, fuck all that incarcerated brotherhood of Narnia shit. We don’t believe in make believe, and we only read what’s been read, not written, and only when it’s read before it’s written. If you don’t agree with that, fuck you, and fuck your teleprompter too. 

Video

(Source: Spotify)

Tags: music spotify
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"Identity politics are becoming less important since culture’s being blended into one big thing, especially in younger people. Kids are starting to dress the same, listen to the same music. I look at their Tumblrs and they’re all into the same things."

Toro Y Moi’s Chaz Bundick (via pitchfork)

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(Source: Spotify)

Tags: music spotify