Exquisite Corpse cb dw

Excerpt from a dating site for schizophrenics: "...and I really enjoy 'Fi, fie, foe, phylum,' it's my favorite post-punk melody to masturbate my grasshoppers to. Oh, that's the thing: I work from home, masturbating grasshoppers, and periodically receive stamps in return that are redeemable in exchange for the exclusive publishing, TV, movie, and twitter rights for the next 20 years, and a handful of gummy bears made from the fingernails of political prisoners whom I meet every Tuesday after getting a crack rock in exchange for giving a handjob to my dad's chiropractor. Did I mention God's lava lamps watch me as I anally probe myself with cigars stubs and candy canes? Surely, you remembered to shake out the magic carpet and empty out the souls of the marketers into the trash bin? They will be awfully cranky if you haven't. Paris may be a city, very well, I grant you that, but I know from the most definite experiences that it is also a starport where underground vessels managed by immortal authors who faked their own suicides find their way toward sublime dystopias carved directly into the rock by ancient peoples struggling to find the best ways of resurrecting their dead in order to chastise them for sloth. Ignoring the opportunity to make love to an anteater (but only if it gives verbal consent in its native tongue) is just fucking unacceptable, in my book, which reminds me, I hate all the fuckers who take my whip-its and claim to representatives of the Society of the Friends of Crime while actually, all the while being under the direct neural control of a team of blundering bureaucrats trying to secure their pensions but only garnering small heads of lettuce from well-dressed chinchillas who participate in polyamorous relationships with my next door neighbor. Which brings me to the question of knitting. Please, I'm begging you, get the fuck out of my face, if you are, underneath that warm appearance, truly a pair of needles and a cashew tree.