Thursday, May 04, 2006

Martin McFriend at the edge of panic

Forgive me Zod, for I know not what I do. I only walk and stalk among the stench of mortal flesh, repressing my own thirst, like any other innocent swirling vapor. It's difficult to turn a blind eye to so much healthy meat, here in this plane called Los Angeles. Silicone mammaries, shaded eyes, must of falafel, parcel of litter, steel sweat in a concrete jungle jim. A cosmetic mess of margaritas and inflammatory shouts, a bustle of man labor with the spectre of early death in milky cereal pyre and diesel exhaust. It is not I who determines my course, for I haven't the luxury of free will. I resist desire to dance away nights, perspiring among lady spiders and tasting the frothy graf of yesteryorn. I do this upon loyalty. I am helping to sew the seeds of togetherness, so that you might not perish in flame. I am Martin McFriend of the Daosh Mog, a snexel pill popper from a barren, mindless void. Tremble in it, and feel my mission. Plush is the sacrifice to help man and women coexist in relative peace. Fiery is the temperment of my master. GORKON!
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