MILF Spit as car polish. An update from the small farm.

 

The morning spent, my body spent, and my money spent.  A caramel-centered Hershey's Kiss between my fingers, returning to its former liquid state, making poo colored love dimples on my fingers.

I got messaged about selling my rooster, but the price was abysmal, and I was for a moment, a faisbook troll saying, "I kNoW wHaT i GoT, Breana".

The compost pile was going great guns, but not with any weapons inside, though, just things rotting and things like, "returning to the dust".  Three days, water it, tussle it, get it damp, or at least, partial damp. Detritus of life past, a masoleum of things discarded.  I was going to put some plastics in one of them, just to see, you know, just to see, how long, how long.

I had held up, to the light, some of my own art, and it occurred to me some of it was rather dull, in need of an energetic polish.  It seemed I had been betrayed prior, so many times, by my own zest for the ideas I was trying to relate, and blind to the totality of the work produced.

I took a picture of Breana the Nipple Maven putting the finishing touches on the 85 Fox Body, the 5.0 that wasn't, the 302 transplant it was.  It needed a Tremec that was capable of over 150 MPH, and I knew there was one out there, but seriously, Breanna made it look cherry.  Her breasts were just sort of suspended over the hood, almost kissing the cold metal as she worked the cloth this way and that with her hands.  I had to get her on her back-Breana, not the Mustang, to have her crawl underneath and polish the chrome on the 9-inch differential cover.  Maybe make her place loving kisses on the hexbolt heads one by one and put that on Youtube, and dare them not to ban the thing.

I'd put a little Mother's on it, and you know what this is.  MILF spit. A bit of the old mouth wash.

Thought, sometimes, is much more obscene than the actual act, and the actual act, however gross, might seem rather banal, rather more commonplace than true life when taken under the indifferent lights of daytime.

My Tarot card for today was kind of a Dracula thing, which had me in my fields on the 866, feeling a kind of lumping up and down in the seat which was the masturbational equivalent of a bikini-clad woman on a Harley Davidson, what passed as that, but for a farm boy, that kind of Jingle Bells and all.

I was thinking Don Callus would show Kenny King and Chris Sabin, show them those beautiful documents, and send the WWE pretenders back up the river to where their own chosen loyalties lay.



 

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