The Greatest Way to Go…

If I ever live to a hundred I’ll be sure to relieve myself on the Whitehouse’s front lawn.
After signing a bill to legalize the cloning of your clone, the president will lean back, and from the corner of her eye, she’ll see something glistening gold in the July 6th summer sunlight.
I’ll only wave, with my half high hand as the other aims for the First Gentleman’s Peonies.
Astonished at this, the president will send the secret service to haul away the old pisser out on the mall.
To my un-surprise they’ll cock their pistols and approach with tactical maneuvers.
I could be hiding a gun in there.
The trickle of my urine will begin to die down until I take another sip of Vodka which, passing through my worn out liver, immediately streams out the other end.
With their agitated pistols raised the secret service will be afraid that they’ll get my vodka scented shot all over their shoe-shines and knackers.
My attackers will then take aim and in the same moment I finish my final plutonic sip of my last trip, my last high on life, the bullets will tear through flesh, riddling my body to a bloody, urine soaked mess.
As the piss quits and the projectiles rip-I’m smiling in my sleep.
What a show!
It’ll be the greatest way to go!

lol ur banned lol

And thus the thread goes down hill...

Here's one about fighting alcoholism!

Angles of Angel Wings

I awake to the angles and colors of my room, the same dull lines fading with each yesterday afternoon.
I’m soon soaked with water from the shower head, and I’ve almost forgotten the feeling of pillow and bed.
Bread to toast, box to bowl, hopeful to uncaring.
Staring at Captain Crunch, I realize that breakfast is a time of transition.
Mission aborted I’m escorted to the doom gloom school on the rise.
Quiet cries of anger as he tries to materialize food, or gold from his empty lunch container in his lap, an old bum tears himself to sleep.
Creep and Crash, the bus makes its last stop of the day.
I’d love to stay, but the driver would rather let me go because I’m so slow to get off the city bus.
Must we all keep moving, as if we’re losing time to some divine measure of productivity?
Activities of dormant pleasure accompany me to the wee hours of an empty school.
I’m a fool for taking the early bus but this is better than home.
I’m roaming the bottom planes, trying to get my head strait, trying to keep sane.
Blaming troubles on beer foam bubbles of weekend last, I play reruns of the past, and make excuses for an empty glass.
Excuses for being an ******* ******** who really always meant what he said.
Dread as those I hurt friends attend to my sorrow-filled-faces.
Places of comfort in those forgiving friend’s eyes, my demise of beer-brewed-bloodlust is broken by a trust of friends.
Those angels of the Cloud-covered school in the sky.

Yay! :]

hmm alcoholiganism.