I want to have a place in the mushroom cloud, for when all things blow up

I want to have a place in the mushroom cloud, for when all things blow up—don’t you talk to me with the same mouth you use to orally copulate with half the population you dirty little flea bag you sleep on a fruit roll up but you dance with the devil’s pitchfork and you expect me to actually punctuate your sentence in hell? Go sleep with a door jam in a toe jam in strawberry jam that covers a whole English muffin that sweet, sweet muffin that left me a cookie made out of used toy parts with a crust thicker than the earth’s. I want to name a helicopter after a punctuation mark, preferably the apostrophe. You know, this stream of conscious writing doesn’t really work. The only thing it might do is sharpen my writing skills by pure numbers alone, in quantity I mean. But where is the quality? The quality comes from hard thinking, not mindless prattle taking form on the rattle of fingers beating against a keyboard like some Viking war drum. Did the Vikings even have war drums? Hell if I know, maybe they crept around in silence, not warning the village that they were about to get plundered and marauded. But don’t stand there with your eye lids glued to your eyeballs, if you want to wow me, you’ve got to show me your flamingo nipples, and that’s not easy to do. But I’ll tell you what. If you write ten thousand words a day, for one hundred days, then we are talking about some serious training. And after you’ve got one million words under your belt, you will have proven yourself to be a serious champion of words, and maybe then the god of language will bless you with wild ideas after you’ve proven your dedication. But maybe the God of words demands a sacrifice? Maybe you should hang a man for him. Maybe you should hang ten, and all of them should contain words and phrases that are unfamiliar to you. Maybe then the sharks and the dolphins will loosen their stomachs , and the snakes will loosen their jaws, and the owls will turn their heads in reverence, and you, yes you, will walk through the forest with your head held high like a Pez dispensers. And maybe you can finally take off your paper suit, and stop screaming at the black clouds for ruining your suit. Huh? You ever think of that? Maybe yon need to wear a garbage bag like some homeless man. Walk around with a moving box on your head demanding newspapers and hamster food to be thrown at you. But not tomatoes, because that upsets your acid reflux, you silly little mushroom-haircutted Lorca lover. But don’t take my word for it, take my words. I’ll give you two: Fuck off.