Here post this email as a rant! I’m drunk and I don’t give a fuck! Jesus was black; get the fuck over it and concentrate on what the brotha did; not what he was! Fuck! Next, women suck! Sorry, I know it’s sexist! But that’s because I bat for the penis in this lifetime! Next time, I might have a vagina and bat for the pussy! But right now, I bat for the man team. That’s right! That’s what we’ll fucking call it! We’ll call it…THE MAN WITH PENIS TEAM!! That’s what I bat for, and right now, I’m fucking Mcguire bitches!! I smash records fucker! Kiss my ass! Ya’ll suck! You theivin’, schemin’ fuckers! I hope you get crotch fleas on your clit and they burrow inside the hood and lay eggs!

BOOYAH!

Next, this line of government is the latest line of dumbfucks to be in office! We haven’t had a decent present in 40 years! At least, nobody worth a shit! The last one was Johnson, and we were happy to run his ass out of office because of Vietnam! Fuck what the man did for for Civil Rights! Where the fuck are our leaders at!!!!???? Bush?? Clinton?? REAGAN!!!!??Carter!!! I don’t fucking think so!! We have no leaders!! Black, white, mauve, or green we are fucking leaderless! God this makes me want to eat a suicide cookie! Someone lace a cookie with choc. chips with arsenic so I don’t have to watch the next 50 years!! This is fucking bullshit!!!

BOOYAH!!

Eat my shit assholes! No matter what kind of social circles you have or what kind IQ you THINK you have because of a test! I own you! I own you like people owned my ancestors menstral licker! Iown you! I’m smarter! I’m more creative! What I don’t know, I’m willing to admit and then look up just so I can find a way to beat you! Your worthless you mcdonald’s bigmac fucking pieces of shit! Go hump Wal-mart’s legs and fucking die!! When we go to hell, I’ll see you there and 2pac, Biggie, Jim Morisson, and Marvin Gaye are going to blow blunt smoke of the chronic at your ass with. Then we’ll stomp on your nuts with while we smoke a harmonic version of The Beatles “Come Together!” That’s right bitches! I’m a black Charles Manson, cut out your liver no questions askin’, scheme maskin’, drastic action enpowered by bitch smackin’, righteous motherfucker! The power of my lineage makes me a survivor, your a court jester to my throne fucker!

Booya!

I need a fucking cigarette! I know their bad for you but fuck that you worthless sons of bitches! I want to damn smoke! I want to smoke in public! I want to breathe lucky strikes in babies faces! I want to rip them from their mother’s breats when their smoking, put my lips on the tit, and blow carcinogens!!! HAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHA! mmmmmmmm. TAR! eat shit and die!!!!

Dream Therapy bitches! Emailing you from my drunken mind. Agree or Die! see you on the otherside when my liver gives out!!!

Alexandre (Ale-Shaun-Dre)

The Jesus Christ of Space Funk and Leader of The Revolution!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Make me President!!!!!!!!!! Assholes!

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My mental window is having a hard time being clean; when I spit freely in front of people the words flow from my mouth like sperm from a man’s balls. When I touch my keys and try to ejaculate my thoughts on the screen, I become mentally impotent. Unfortunately, they don’t make Viagra for my mind my friend. Some would say weed would be the inspiration but instead that just makes me want to play video games and eat Cupcakes; the chocolate kind, with little cream filling. My mental window is covered with sludge; it’s as dirty as Joe Pesci’s mouth. No matter how much I try to clean it I can’t see my way to write something. I’ve stared blankly at this stupid screen for three hours trying to write because I know if I don’t then Chronic will cut off my lyrical balls; and I don’t know how many black people you know, but are balls are important to us. How else are we supposed to get women pregnant and leave them? You can’t do that with a pussy. I guess that’s the benefit of being a lesbian; you never have to worry about if your lover is missing her period that having anything to do with you. I wish I had the words to express that polkadot blanket that is my soul; it has so many colors but I wouldn’t know…the window is too dirty.

The Mental window is your third eye. The one the Buddhists use to have tantric sex with your mind. That window is where we first saw a cross on our lawn, and a man nailed through it looking like he got fucked up worse than Bobby Brown fucks up Whitney. My mental window sees nothing; knows nothing; maybe is nothing. Supposedly, the wise man knows that he knows nothing. Am I a wise man or just empty headed? I can’t tell. The window is dirty.

Ideas usually spring forth from me; my muse seems to have left me. Maybe she went to Amsterdam, leaving me behind to deal with a slowly sobering situation: I am shit without her. I hope she comes back, and cleans my fucking window. If she doesn’t come back, will any of you clean my window? Just be random, have nice tits, and a great ass. Giving a quality backrub would also earn you a raise. Monetarily, and also from my pants. A writer needs a muse like Jesus needed the cross, like Moses needed the commandments, like David needed a slingshot.

C.S. Lewis is rolling in his grave right now. Mark Twain is laughing his fucking ass off though.

Ha Ha fuckers.

My window is dirty. I need a muse. Leave applications at www.myspace.com/negro4lifeent

Inspire me to hail your name to the heavens. Goodnight.

Alexandre (Ale-Shaun-Dre)

The Jesus Christ of Space Funk

and Leader of the Revolution

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Past: Defied the Third dimension. Stomped a mudhole in the Fourth.

Present: Entered the Fifth. A place of utter comedic chaos. Dreams are born here. Nightmares are tortured also. The place smells vaguely of burnt sulphur and sugar; “A Dream Deferred” by Langston Hughes cologne for men. This is where Jesus came from. Buddha pasts through on a regular basis. The deity, the creator, Master and Commander, brought forth the very notion of an idea– From this place. Feel it’s energy; it wraps around you like a warm black velvet glove around your body and then with one grasp of the neck it makes you it’s slave. See how it conquers you, makes you give in to it’s very desire as you thrust into the electrical outlet of pure thought. Rocket charged orgasmic neurons flood your brain at the speed of a Evil Knievel enema! This is where the artist was born my friends. This is where you make your mark. Very few people hit this level in their lifetimes. Jim Morrison did. So has Willy Nelson. Outkast was berthed in this dimension. Pink Floyd structured it. The closest way to describe these surroundings is to picture it looking like a Bugs Bunny or Warner Brothers cartoons. There are episodes where the characters disappear into books or paintings and the world is topsy turvy; or maybe like Wacky World in Tiny Toon Adventures. There’s a floating animated Dhali painting, lights and colors flash everywhere, and a hand is walking along the ground. No body. Just a walking hand; like Thing from The Addams Family.

Is this where we get our essence from? Did we receive our ideas from this place? I used to believe that there really were no ideas. Any ideas that we formed as new were really the ghosts of our predecessors whispering in our ear. “Hybrid Cars…Professional Wrestling…Dude, Where’s my Car?…Spider-Man…Johnny Depp…Martin Scorsese movies….Nickalodeon…Cellphones…Commerative Plates…infomercials…The Crucible…These beings were the Guardian Angels of Art and if we were lucky and put forth their ideas, than when we died we be able to join the pantheon and whisper in the ears of of our successors. Now I think they come from this place–or maybe it’s both. The very idea of that, came from this place; and therefore, it is true. Since I have cast this idea into the ether and have proclaimed this piece as my Art it is true. After all, it came from the Fifth, and who’s to say someone wasn’t speaking through me now? CAN YOU DENY IT!!!! No. You can’t. Never deny the power of influence. Influence can make you wet enough to touch yourself by sheer command or raise a fist in mutiny to take down tyranny. Revolution fucked “The Man,” for the first time–Here. The Man put down The Revolution six months later. They have had a never ending battle ever since Time was a zygote. Yesirree. Constant cycle of fucking shit up and getting fucked up; don’t get truer than that. In no way shape or form is this the last dimension; there isn’t a last dimension. You only go up or down. The levels never end. Not even Death is the last level, you transcend that. Through Art, Influence, Experience, Conquest, Passion, we transcend Death, because you are a part of life. This place, is an expression of that.

Future: Be a while until I can get through the Fifth and on to the Sixth. I hear it’s a racial parody of the “Wizard of Oz” but with winged Klansmen instead of monkies. I want to take pictures. Send them to the folks back home. If you need me, I hear there’s a Toxic Avenger marathon at the nearby theater. Might sit in front of the TV for an eight hour marathon of All-You-Can-Mayonnaise. Make sure to come through some time. Keep me company.

Alexandre

The Jesus Christ of Space Funk

and Leader of The Revolution

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Strapped into my throne on the enchanted land of independent thought, I meditate on how this place is a strange one. We are filled with madmen, power hungry cyber-titans, religious porno downloaders, and amputees only able to masturbate with their feet. This world is strange indeed.

Where would we be without these people; these werewolves and vampires of a sideshow freak show that hide in their closet away from the sunlight of societies searing sunbeams. Would we be locked onto the next Reality TV Show featuring another boyband member? Would we feed crack to babies because the lack of personality numbed us to the point of insanity; where we would have sold all available food for cardboard? (You trade cardboard for crack, duh!) God, I hope not! Cardboard, crack, and boybands could give a man a case of anal leakage like nobody’s business! So don’t let “The Man’s” ray’s touch you miscreants of midnight. You’ll get dragged to a place, where your asshole will be prodded by a pig in blue before it’s raped by a vicious thug until the jury sees you to give the state permission to kill you. Doesn’t sound glorious, does it?

So isn’t it funny that a majority of time we actually live, is at night?

I mean, during the day Katie Thompkins is that mild mannered girl you see around the office, bending her ass over slightly while photocopying memos for the next day. When nighttime falls upon the city though, she transforms. She mutates. She transfigures from office attire to slutty leather outfit in two seconds. Her hips are able to do things on the dance floor that you only imagined at work, with your hand slightly rubbing the tip. She swallows more shots of tequila and bites more limes than there is blood in the human body. This is Katie. This is who she really is. She is the Master and Commander of the party; and like the Tao, the party is a force that moves through her. She is the Luke Skywalker of “The Scene”; the sun in the shindig galaxy. Every party or bar has at least one of these sirens; luring us with their gaze and all we can do is watch in awe and hope to be Icarus so we can be burned by her heat.

Shaniqa Jenkens is the your average Dept. of Motor Vehicles worker. Miserable; for there is nothing worse in this world than being tied up and gaged by the red tape of a bureaucracy. The pain is even more excruciating when that red tape forms a never ending line of people; a third of which that can barely speak English. When Friday comes around and she has her check, she oozes her 230 pound frame out of that swivel chair, gets her hair and nails did at the beauty shop, and she hits every club in a 10 city block. She is the Saturn of our societal solar system. The Metorite that we pray doesn’t smash into our personal plant, disintegrating everything we hold dear to us, like self-esteem. She is the one, for when we stare, we feel sympathy for the spaghetti straps barely holding her clothes on. Through it all though, she couldn’t give a fuck about your opinion though; because she is here to have a good time. All there is the music. The Bass and Rhythm shaking her ass, 3 chins, and pillows of armfat…AND SHE LOVES IT! With every jiggle she creams “Fuck you! I am Free!” I wonder what would happen if we could all be free like Shaniqa?

That woman’s freedom is enough to make a man in prison salivate like Pavlov’s dog.

Yesiree cunts; this world is very very strange. There are loud whining emo kids screaming for discipline from their neglectant daddy’s. There are Jesus Freaks screaming that they know the answer through only one slice of the pie. There are legions of dumb dumb women who plead devotion to Oprah as if she were pure gospel; or a heavenly embodiment of cold fusion. Without these lost souls, we don’t know we’re lost too.

Johnathon, poet and actor; sweats out a daily hike through the tri-town area from audition to audition. During the day, he is looked upon as another hungry mouth trying to get by on supposed talent. When night closes her veil upon the world, he takes a breath of Buddah from his hookah, and the cannabis rushes his mind like nos through a Aston Martin. His audience are his neighbors, friends, and co-workers that have gathered at his apartment for their ritualistic peace pipe ceremonies; and they become enraptured by his very being as he spits forth rants, jokes, dreams, ambitions, ridiculous metaphors, and poems. He is Mercutio from Romeo and Juliet. He is The North Star of our Universe. There is one in every crowd. He is the one you look to when we get lost and need a way out of our day to day troubles. He is the Christlike figure that teaches us alot through his laughter, but pays the price for his reckless abandon and constant search for love. Out of everybody in the solar system, he is the one I want to hug. I guess I want to hug myself pretty bad.

So many planets, stumbled upon like America or unimpenetrable like the Congo, lie in the vastness that is our evolutionary conscience; they swirl around, like my dreams, or the smoke in a bong. Never underestimate what may also be in the galaxy; examine it! You may find out that your not alone, and the things you thought were alien were familiar people you see everyday.

Dream Therapy—didn’t know a brotha could be this deep, did ya?

-Alexandre

The Jesus Christ of Space Funk

and Leader of the Revolution

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Ladies and Gentleman of the jury, let’s face the fucking facts. Men get fucked over on the dating scene. Now I’m not talking about relationships and whatnot because women get fucked over in those areas too; but when it comes to a general act of courtship women have it pretty easy. For those female twits in the audience who still can’t comprehend the picture; allow me to fucking simplify: All you have to do is be there! Really. Truly. That’s it. All you have to do is be there, and occasionally shut up. That’s it. If your wondering what you could do while your occasionally shutting up, try occasionally eating food. That way you won’t look like a coatrack for any future dates.

Now Ladies and Gentleman of the jury, your probably wondering why I say that men get fucked over on the dating scene. I’m about to tell you. First, the pressure is always for us to approach you. The average fear of rejection by a woman for a man is the equivalent of you bleeding from your meatflaps for the first time in front of the entire class wearing a white skirt; except every time a man tries to approach a woman he gets that fear… every time! If a man manages to stick a spear in his fear like Shaka Zulu, (One of the greatest Zulu Chieftains of all time! Read a fucking book people, this is what happens when you watch ‘Friends’ all the time!) he then has to learn how to approach you with something that you haven’t heard before from five hundred other guys. Should he go with some corny pick-up line from the sixties that his Dad used on his mom or should he go with something more updated that has been posted on the internet; maybe he should just go with something more basic like “Hey, My name is ________. What’s yours? Can I buy you a drink?” As lame as that latter shit sounds, sometimes it works.

Doesn’t matter at all though. Unless we’re some Antonio Banderas looking motherfucker able to make a woman wet just by the sound of our accent, we’re not going to be able to hook you in the first thirty seconds. So we try to be creative and hook you with personality. Oh if only courage was respected in the fucking world; there would be more motherfuckers around with purple hearts. Shit, if a motherfucker has a purple heart now it’s cause some bitch squeezed that motherfucker with bare hands like it was your wallet. Sorry, I digressed. Once we have spit out our pathetic attempt to initiate conversation, we are rewarded with this look that usually says “We are not even in the same league.” Which at that point she’ll return talking to the fat girl that she pretends is her bestfriend that she brought with her to the bar to make her look better and who also doubles as a bodyguard. If this girl wasn’t at the bar trying to negotiate her first lesbian experience with her new bestfriend than she probably be a lineman for the Dallas Cowboys on the weekends or drinking a bucket of chicken grease at home while watching “Sex in the City”. In short, you were shot down like Daffy Duck after he was tricked into saying “Duck Season.”

See, for the majority of us a woman is the factor that determines whether or not we have a title shot with her. Women are the sentinels for the pussy and her heart; just like the “The Matrix,” they are the gatekeepers and they hold all the keys and if your ass doesn’t give the secret knock they won’t let your ass into the club. On the other hand, women get into our clubs all the time. Shit, they don’t even have to knock! All they have to do is show cleavage or wear a tight sweater and the door flies open with a drink shoved in her hand as soon as she enters. That’s it.

See, no long diatribe here. That’s it. That’s all they do. They just show up, and they’re in. Simple.

Now, congregation of the negro, assuming we get past this embarrassing moment don’t think that the battle is over. Overestimating your opponent like that and you’ll get your ass knocked out like when Rocky faced Mr. T in their first match. The worst thing you can do, is spend money on the woman because she will suck you dry until your down to your last shilling and you won’t even get a peck on the cheek. Over my entire life I have estimated that I have spent $1000 on just flowers alone! Man do I wish I had that money back. Wanna know how many times I have ever received flowers in my life? None. Zero. Zilch. Notta-Notta-Tori. That’s some bullshit. How is it you can spend a shitload of money on some women who couldn’t give a crap or two drops of monkey piss for your ass but none is ever spent on your ass. Now I know some of you punk motherfuckers are saying “Buying a guy flowers? That sounds kinda gay.” Well, that’s because you have a limited intellect and zero imagination cumsnorkeler! The gift doesn’t have to be flowers shithead; it could video games or a Sports Illustrated Football phone; or it could tickets to a game or a threesome with her hot friend. Shit, it doesn’t even have to be for anything special like birthdays or anniversaries; just like when men give flowers to women, it could be because it’s a Tuesday (If your man doesn’t do this it’s because you, the woman, have shitty taste in men. How about dating the guy that you treat as the gay friend who’s always there for you, and then you stop writing Cosmo about “How All Guys are Shitty.” A woman who wants to hangout with your ass all the time when you don’t spend money on her is a keeper; the one who conveniently never has cash and always gives you dewy eyes is a golddigger and you’ll never “see her with a broke nigga.” (Thank you Mr. West

Men get hosed. Some of us persevere though and get revenge on your asses by getting you pregnant. Yessir, nothing says revenge like morning sickness and labor pains! So women, the next time a guy approaches you and tries to start a conversation. Don’t automatically blow him off. It took alot of courage for that guy to approach you. You should congratulate him, and then buy him a drink. If things go well, you’ll at least get a friend out of it, at the most; some quality deep dicking.

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Travel with me amigos; as I take us on a magical journey past puff the magic dragon and into the forbidden realm of self-restraint.

“I know that nigga didn’t say what I think he said?” (This is going out to you white people too because I know your still saying it; it’s just behind close doors. Quit frontin’.)

Yes motherfuckers, I said “self-restraint.”

See, there are two types of smokers in the world.

For those of you who know what I’m talking about, but are too stoned to remember or for those who might not have tasted fine cannabis, and your doing some research for that first time you ever smoke and it’s out of a Dr. Pepper can…(C’mon the first couple of times you smoked I bet you did some lame shit too…Fuck you! You bastards can have oven roasted porcupines shoved in your ass.)

Anyway, there are two types of smokers in the world: Coasters, and Chasers. Type A smoker will smoke; afterwards, maybe have a cigarette, smoke another bowl, and drink some Mt. Dew while listening to music. Type A might coast on electric motorspeedway of some Hendrix; or Crip walk to some RadioHead imagining he is entertaining a crowd of hundreds. After taking this image invoking odyssey and being amazed that they did that and never left the house, Type A might smoke one more bowl before the emerald dragon carried him off to sleep in front of some Family Guy; but that’s it! Type A has reached a level where they have plateaued—— . Now maybe the dosage varies. Maybe it’s a couple of blunts, or a couple of bowls of G13 that you stole from that government facility with Wolverine and all your mutant friends. Doesn’t matter, Type A’s lungs eventually hurt and they want nothing more than a chicken sandwich and some head!

“No, I don’t want to smoke more weed bitch! We’ve smoked 5 bowls of chronic in 20 mins! How about a fuckin’ timeout! Shit! How about playin’ with my balls, damn! Shit, you wanna smoke somethin’? Smoke this pole bitch!”

That, Holy Congregation of the Negro, is the Coaster.

Type B is the Chaser. He is the Energizer Bunny of the Marijuana Scene; the one the American Government would deem the “junkie” but is really a poor misunderstood soul.

See, Type B’s parents never told him Stop!

Sounds ridiculous I know, but those shaking your heads are just too dumb to know it and I’ll tell you straight you straight to your faces why Type B is so damn dumb! Type B chases the Everlasting High! This stupid, hollow notion that they can always get to that very next high.

Your just wasting weed; and we all know that wastin’ weed is the offense that can actually piss a pothead off. Waste a man’s smoke, and you’ll disappear like smoke- leaving a foul smell of where you used to be.

There are times I have been so High I can’t do simple math bitches! Take five seconds to think about that for a second. I mean, your so high that this happens:

1+2= ………Fuck!

I know that I can’t smoke anymore past that point. You are as fucked up as you are going to get. In fact, you’ll smoke so much that you smoke yourself sober.

Now that’s some crazy shit. Why the fuck would you buy weed, to get so high that your lungs are blacker than Sudan natives, and you smoke so much that you get sober? What kind of Ouroboros type shit is that? (Ouroboros bitches—The serpent that swallows his own tail forming a circle? Read your mythology bitches!)

What’s the point of killing an eighth of ‘dro or a quarter of ‘dro in one night. I mean, I’m not going to lie. Sometimes that shit is fun, BUT EVERY NIGHT!?

No bra’. I’ll take two or three bong bowls to the dome and be straight for the rest of the night. I can still function. Enjoy a high. Power driving to the point of oblivion disgraces the very act of smoking pot. Emphasize the pluses and take away the minuses. It’s that simple. I rather keep a bag for a while smoking on it a little at a time and have money in my pocket than to be blowing through it like a taiwanese hooker on two dollar blowjob Tuesday.

These are the jewels of knowledge I have dropped on your ass. You can thank me later by sending in some of that money I’m saving you to:

“I Love Negroes” Foundation
on the corner of not even hood rich Ave.
right between your mother’s legs
and that empty space in your head.

Peace, bitches.
Alexandre
The Jesus Christ of Space Funk
and Leader of The Revolution

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For those who don’t know of the tales of ” El Negro Fantastico: Black Komodo Dragon;” I report from the frontlines of College Station, Tx. This does mean that I am from there, (I’m not a beer swilling redneck with one rotting tooth; but a well spoken rhyme boastin’ negro with flames in his veins!) I have traveled worldwide, and believe me soon to be followers of the Komodo Dragon, people are fucked up everywhere.

This is the truest statement you have ever heard from anyone, which I guess makes me your best friend, or your worst enemy. I couldn’t give a shit either way because if we’re cool then we’ll spark; if not we can go to war. Just to let you know, my teeth are sharp and I have no problem taking trophies from your body.

See, that was fucked up.

Nobody starts off an article talking about how they’ll keep parts of your body if you fuck with them; what a fucking weirdo I am! Well, I am part of a much larger population. I am a member of the wizards with words, an associate of the artists of the abstract and the absurd.

Everybody in this world seems to join under different banners because they perceive that we are different; but we are actually united under one banner: The banner of Fucked Up People!

Everybody is fucked up in their own special way, and the sooner we admit that the faster we can move on to newer subjects which boggle imaginations, such as fucking better! This is a constant journey that we must all practice. Who cares about if you’re a Republican or Democrat; we’re united under the flag that 98% of us like to fuck, screw, fornicate, have sexual relations, be intimate, make love, choose between either two or three holes. When you put it that way, is there really a difference people?!

No!

All humans feel lust, even if some of us choose to ignore it (poor poor monks, somebody help them bust that nut!) The beautiful thing is that no matter what you prefer, their is nothing wrong with the way you do it and that’s what unites us. Whether your gay, straight, one who likes their hair pulled during sex, or one who likes to be choked during sex, it’s ok. We’re all fucked up.

Some of you just like it the old fashioned in-out-in-out way and that may be fucked up to those who like more “devious” modes of sex, but that whats cool about this, we’re all fucked up so it’s ok! Some of you are doodoo chasers. That’s right, gay or straight, male or female, some of you liked havin’ ya booty played with.

“How could you say such a thing?”

It’s true. Some of you like to screw where you poo, or spit in it, and some of you shove small mammal’s up there and have to go to the hospital to get the poor hairy thing out;

but it’s ok.We’re fucked up! There are so many more acts that you can do sexually, but to list them all now would take my entire life, and I don’t know about the rest of you perverted bastards but I like to practice, just not talk.This is what makes up humanity.

We’re quasi-psycho-technicolor dreaming- fucked up human beings.

Admitting that we’re fucked up and wearing our flawed testimonials on our sleeves will also free up time for something every person in this world should be doing; discovering new ice cream flavors! I am in the process of experimenting with Tequila and Chocolate chunk ice cream. Tequila is the Devil’s piss. If there was a time where you ran around a fountain naked screaming that you were Batman; it was probably on Tequila. Combine that syrup from Satan’s loins with the sumptuous caress of chocolate ice cream with chocolate chunks and you have a nuclear desert guaranteed to do two things : Make the dick hard, and the pussy wet!

As soon as I perfect it, I’m going to run Ben and Jerry’s out of business bitches!!!

Now, who would think about combining Tequila and chocolate chunk ice cream? The same person who would find a way to work shoving hamsters up your ass in his article for his “Ask a Pothead” debut, that’s who! That’s fucked up, that’s random, that’s so ludicrous that it actually makes sense. Duh Son, I’m fucked up, we’re fucked up, let’s get fucked up and be fucked up together.

This is Alexandre, the Jesus Christ of Space Funk and Leader of the Revolution; El Negro Fantastico; the Komodo Dragon capable of secreting a bacteria known as Dream Therapy in my jaws. One bite and my enzymes will break down everything you thought was real and replace it with truth, imagination, and hopefully get you to wonder about this crazy life we live in. Not me, Not you, but we. I already love you, so show your love for me and this website by telling everyone you know. Gaining truth is only one battle, the war only becomes a victory when you choose to share that truth with others. Thanks Chronic for letting me show a small facet of the jewel of knowledge that I have for these people. If you bastards only knew what I really had in store for you, you would suck a gay Asian Jewish guy’s dick to make me stop! Making my AskAPothead.com debut, I’m out!

Alexandre

the Jesus Christ of Space Funk

and Leader of The Revolution

Written by Alexandre

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