Organ Punch it’s either a drink or a maneuver for a street monkey or something you do when the wife is out of town?

Now I know that what I write here is often confusing, sometimes I admit I don’t even know what I am talking about. It’s like Stephen King blurring reality with storytelling or Lindsay Lohan blurring reality with drugs and fist fights or George Burns blurring old age with reality or horses blurring carrots and apples or dungenous crabs deep fried and propped up in a diorama of Brigadoon or Spiders crawling in your mouth as you sleep and dancing on your soon to be violated tongue or Mistival Montclair the derelict oil tanker known as the rusty hippo of the south china sea where people go to get tetanus or the park near my home where I stick wrought iron spikes in the ground and coat them with rat poison so I can finally go to jail for constructing an attractive nuisance for the old folks who are lonely and really are just looking for an excuse for someone else to be blamed for their deaths or a GPS programmer leaving out his life on a shoe string budget in an abandoned warehouse when he makes 80k but he doesn’t like the MAN or TAXES or cleverly written crossword puzzles or furry pink plush toys or guys named BEN or people with six fingers or anything that rhymes with mint or fix gear bikes or fixed winged aircraft because if it’s fixed it might as well be another rule written to put us workers down.

Jungle Ben, a man of many names, but everyone knows only one but not the same one and that’s why no one ever knows who that other person is talking about when they talk about BEN. I’m rolling in the deep end.

I will not proof read, not today because it’s Friday dammit. I nearly worked all week. I don’t need to work anymore. I’m totally ignoring my other blog, I think it hates me. Well mean blogs suck…