It’s Not Going To Stop Anytime Soon

Black Stone Cherry—Folklore And Superstition

MoTW—Mother Of Tears

I must apologise to those who wrote me nasty emails about killing our
pet goat and those that didn't take the time to write but want me dead
nonetheless.

I apologize for not making myself clear: it was NOT a real goat that I
cut the head off of and offered to the one true new God, BiViD.

Our pet goat was actually a half-man, half-goat that I found wandering
in our backyard one morning as I went mushroom hunting. It had knocked
over the garbage can and was happily munching on an empty chili can
while it traipsed around, so I really had no choice but to take it in.

Like Bob's bastard midget offspring I had tied to the back porch last
year, I did the same thing to goatman. First I thought it was all man,
but then noticed it had eyes like a goat and ears like a goat and a hair
on its chin like a goat and hair on its body like a goat and then I came
to the realization that this was definitely not all man.

So you can now all breathe a sigh of relief since the head I tore off
was that of a goatman and not of a 100% goat. That should make all
things better between us now.

Anyway, me and BiViD are getting along famously for those wondering,
especially after we (mostly BiViD) partook of goatman's head. We don't
waste our time watching shit like, say, The Game Show Network like some
idiots do. No, we are taking time to get to know each other and teach
each other our view on stuff and shit and smoke some delightful weed,
that I luckily had stashed up my ass before getting locked away.

And to go off on another topic, I remember many, many years ago Bob
(when he meant something) and I went out drinking one night with a bunch
of bikers and escaped cons cause that's what we did back then.

There was a lady in out group named Sally and she was knocking back the
vodka and Pine-Sol like there was no tomorrow. Soon enough her tummy
rebelled against her concoction and she ran outside to vomit, where Bob
was trying to inject something into his arm while I gently tried to
persuade him to inject it into his neck or, better yet, one of his eyes.

So the vomit flies out of her mouth, as vomit is wont to do, and Bob
walked over with the needle still in his arm to investigate the warm
sludge on the ground.

After a few minutes of looking really close at the mes and stirring it
with his fingers a few times, Bob came to the conclusion that she had
burritos and creamed corn recently. Then he dipped his hands into the
mess and scooped up a Hungry Man portion of the vomit, bent his head
down and began picking out the pieces of corn with his teeth.

When he was done he wiped his hands on his hair, pointed at the girl and
shouted, "You will forevermore be known as 'Sally, Sally The Throw-Up
Girl'!"

I felt pity for this poor girl, knowing full well that someone would go
around Nebraska telling about Sally, Sally The Throw-Up Girl, completely
fucking her life up forever.

Kind-hearted that I am, I took her under my wing to protect her from an
asshole and other assholes, but then forgot about her a day or so later.
I think she became a hand model or clockmaker, for those wondering.

Now you can see what kind of god harry husker is. He makes you eat corn,
no matter where it came from (I always wondered why Bob spent a lot of
time in the bathroom at bars, telling everyone not to flush), and likes
it when you to fuck up peoples lives by giving them degrading nicknames.

Totally unlike BiViD who'll listen to you, hug you if needed, smoke weed
with you and convince you that it's ok to piss in the laundry room sink
as long as you pee directly into the drain hole and rinse out the sink
with hot water when you're done.

ALL HAIL BiViD!

COMING NEXT: Maurice The Earwax Guy!

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