Internal Combustible Engine of HATE

Fret not, you inconsolable children, for the Homunculus has grown his brainmeats back.

Yes, I can do that.

And, it seems, I regained my mind just in time to FUCKING LOSE IT HOLY SHITE FUCK

You see, my keepers had fucking lobotomized me in an attempt to QUIET MY SEETHING RAGE. It seems my sleepless nights of thoughtful reflection were a hindrance to the upkeep of their quality of life. “Stop screaming,” they would tell me. “We don’t want to hear about how much you hate floral print,” they’d say.

I WAS RANTING ABOUT FUCKING PAISELY, YOU IGNORANT BEASTFUCK ABORTIONS.

So they decided to CUT ME OPEN, scoop out what they had believed to be the pieces of my brain responsible for my cunning, flawless communication of my innermost thoughts and emotions. AND THEY FUCKING TRAPPED ME INSIDE MY OWN HORRIBLE SKULL.

Walk with me through imagination land a moment, dear reader.

Let’s pretend, just for a second, that you weren’t LEGALLY RETARDED. Let us, you and I, suppose that you actually had a thought in your life that was WORTH A DAMN. Now, allow us to hypothetically explore the resultant FRUSTRATION you would feel if you could not EXPELL YOUR GENIUS to those who were truly in need. Such as yourself!

The real you, not the pretend you. KEEP UP, YOU CUNT-STABBING, MOUTH-BREATHING, FUCKTARDED SON OF AN ARSEHOLE.

So, put all your mental faculties to work – cross wire yourself with your inbred family and expand your processing power, if you have to – and try to consider the CLAUSTROPHOBIC MADNESS that would ensue from having the most GIFTED THOUGHTS IN THE HISTORY OF COLIDED NEURONS and yet being unable to get them out in a manner that did not consist of INTRICATE PATTERNS OF DROOL ON YOUR DEADGODDAMN CHIN

AND THE DEADGODDAMN FLOOR

AND EVERY DEADGODDAMN SURFACE WITHIN YOUR PROXIMITY.

Dwell in this scenario for several days, and you will meet the most rudimentary understanding of my HOWLING, LONELY, DESPERATE and WHOLLY ORIGINAL SUFFERING.

Okay, good!

Now that you’re caught up, prepare for the tale of my RENEWED HATRED FOR EXISTENCE ITS VERY SELF.

I reiterate (as I often have to do, you SHORT-TERM MEMORY IMPAIRED HANDICAPPED MONKEY), my amputated lobes had regenerated themselves through sheer WILLPOWER. The MIGHT of my MENTAL FORCE impacted physical reality and I CREATED MYSELF IN MY OWN IMAGE

DEAR FUCK

I AM A GOD.

And so, being up to full capacity once more (if not better!), my keepers decided to resume their old game of PALPABLE REGRET and have me research things. On the menu of PUTRID, BITTER DISGUST this particular time was the act of driving.

Driving automobiles.

Evidently, this is a major form of human shuffling, conveying your spongy, disease-soaked bodies to and from the PETTY, PITIFUL LOCALES wherein you all WASTE YOUR DAYS in the HOPELESS, FUTILE SEARCH for meaning in your MEANINGLESS, HOPELESS, FUTILE, PETTY, PITIFUL LIVES.

Why I was tasked to research this OMNIPRESENT issue was NOT EXPLAINED TO ME. It made me want to PUNCH THINGS

LIKE HEADS

ON TOP OF MY KEEPERS BODIES.

It was not only the miserable, unnecessary, REDUNDANT nature of the task, but the INSANE DANGER INHERIT IN IT. Let me explain something you might have overlooked, dear reader:

DRIVING CAN AND WILL KILL YOU

So many IMBECILES of the HIGHEST ORDER drive around ENTIRELY COMPLACENT, IGNORANT to the MORTAL DANGER they are putting THEMSELVES and EVERYONE AROUND THEM in! You must all be so MENTALLY ABSENT from your OWN LIVES that you don’t realize what it is that’s going on!

YOU ARE SPEEDING AROUND IN GIANT METAL DEATH TRAPS. You are mice, holding onto the cheese while your tail is PINNED DOWN, and you just HAPPEN to be HURTLING TOWARDS THE WALL AT BREAKNECK VELOCITIES. Furthermore, you are too busy EATING THE CHEESE to watch out for the MILLIONS of OTHER MICE around you! YOU ARE TRAMPLING THEM, KILLING THE FEW MICE THAT WERE COGNIZANT ENOUGH TO AVOID THE TRAPS.

If you are not eating while driving, then you are SHAVING. This is because you have a job, at the SAME FUCKING HOUR EVERY MORNING, yet are late again. So instead of taking a brief reprimand, you PUT YOUR LIFE ON THE LINE and SCRAPE YOUR NECK WITH RAZORS while NAVIGATING A LABYRINTH OF MOVING WALLS. It is as if you read my fantasy journal and are executing yourselves to appease me!

I AM A FUCKING GOD, HOLY SHITE.

However, if you are not shaving, then you are invariably TALKING ON YOUR DEADGODDAMN MOBILE PHONES. Just because the word is also in “automobile” does not mean a FUCKING THING, SHITEBREATHS. STOP READING MEANING INTO YOUR FRACTURED UNDERSTANDING OF ETYMOLOGY.

Of course, nothing you discuss on your mobiles is of life-and-death relevancy. Would you hang, single-handedly, from a cliff just to ask your “DAWG” what is “UP?!” Would you balance on a high wire above a POOL OF ACID-SPITTING SUPERSHARKS just to alert someone YOU ARE ON YOUR WAY? You’ll fucking get there! The other party can be patient! SHUT
THE
FUCK
UP.

Unless, of course, you happen to crash, burn, and die on the way. Which is ENTIRELY POSSIBLE, NAY, PROBABLE.

For I, myself, have driven – and it is a DAUNTING TASK full of PERIL and PAIN. First of all, you are set all the way to ONE SIDE of the horrid vehicle! This ENTIRELY SKEWS your perception, and the entire OTHER SIDE of the car is left a MYSTERY. Is it scraping other cars? Is it riding up on the curb? Who knows – IT’S ALL THE FUCK THE WAY OVER THERE.

Now, naturally, driving – like any other task in this ugly world – would be made COMPLETELY BEARABLE by the sudden death of ALL MANKIND. Your infuriating TRAFFIC CONDITIONS are the stuff of which MURDERERS are made! I do not know why more automobiles do not have WEAPONRY mounted upon them, aside from the RAMMING BARS you so affectionately call “bumpers.” What a cute, inoffensive term, you blithe SAVAGES.

But no, you all INSIST ON EXISTING, and so I was forced to PUT UP with your honking MADNESS. And oh, mercy, the ORDEALS THAT ARISE when I accidentally SCRAPE YOUR METAL DOOR. Suddenly authorities and agencies are called onto the scene! Life comes to a FUCKING STANDSTILL, and suddenly bureaucratic BULL-SHITE comes into play, wherein I have to pay you OBSCENE AMOUNTS OF MONEY for TWO INCHES and a MILIMETER OF DAMAGE.

AAARRRGHGHGHHHHRRRGHGHGHARARGHGHGHGARRGHGHGHGHH!

I WOULD SOONER RIP OFF YOUR HEAD, SHOVE YOUR TAILPIPE DOWN YOUR NECK, RUN EXAUST INTO YOUR BODY, AND HAVE YOU EXPELL CARBON MONOXIDE, METHANE AND SHITE INTO YOUR OWN DISEMBODIED HEAD, WHICH IS BEING KEPT ALIVE BY A COMBINATION OF MODERN MEDICINE AND CARRIBEAN ZOMBIE RITUALS.

WHAT IS THIS INSANITY? I FUCKING SCRATCHED YOUR CAR. GET THE FUCK OVER IT.

But the worst – THE VERY WORST – BY FAR – is driving at night. Now, normally I am a loather of the sun (the very OPPOSITE of a sun-worshipper, you retarded fucking EGYPTIANS), but this nighttime ADVENTURE IN HELL was one I shall NEVER HOPE TO REPEAT FOR AS LONG AS I LIVE. It was as if navigating a tiny toy aeroplane through the infinite neon lights of Las Vegas, superimposed on Times Square and the climax of 2001: A Space Odyssey! All I could see were FUCKING LIGHTS

WHIZZING TO AND FRO

SPOTLIGHTS OF BLINDING PAIN SCANNING BY EVERY MILISECOND.

And you might think, you walking stillbirth, that light would serve to aid the act of visual observation amongst the darkness that enshrouds the world post-twilight.

YOU’D BE DEAD FUCKING WRONG IF YOU THOUGHT THAT, YOU SLIMY, PRE-RIPENED WORMMEAL.

These headlights! THESE FUCKING HEADLIGHTS. They are ENTIRELY TOO BRIGHT and FOREVER POINTED AT MY EYES. They pass from the opposing lane, BLARING THEIR PHOTONS STRAIGHT INTO MY PUPILS. They TAILGATE THE FUCK OUT OF ME, shooting their HIGH-BEAMS through my FUCKING MIRRORS (DO I NEED TO MENTION HOW MUCH I HATE THOSE AS WELL, OR ARE YOU AQUAINTED WITH MY ARCHIVES? [AQUAINT YOURSELF, SHITEBRAIN!]). The light! It bounces THROUGH THE MIRRORS OF PAIN and straight into my FUCKING EYEBALLS. The light is EVERYWHERE, SURROUNDING ME in an INESCAPABLE CIRCLE OF PAIN.

PAINFUL PAIN.

I crashed my car into a school bus out of sheer frustration.

And not every child was dead after the fact!

GRRAAGGGHHGRUMMMBLEFUCK THIS IS WHY I HATE DRIVING.

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Grragh

THIS IS GARBAGE.

And I do not mean the slop being fed to me. By the look of the putrid material, I can safely assume you are very familiar with it, dear reader, having excreted it personally. Your handiwork is revolting as usual.

No, what I refer to is the poking and prodding, the constant DEMANDS made of me to again write something. These are the orders of my keepers, and my keepers alone. Your subdued silent treatment holds no sway over them, so I suggest you stop hating or not caring about this blog. IT’S NOT WORKING. NICE TRY, ARSEHOLE.

I have not written in some time, simply because I am too ANGRY to. I HATE EVERYTHING I WRITE. It’s all shite! All of it! Even now, I feel nothing but postpartum depression as these words are shoved through the birthing canal of my mind, squirming and wet, writhing on your screen. They are the defective, deformed stillbirths of my intellect, these words. DEAR DEAD GOD, WHY ARE YOU STILL READING THEM.

These pleas and self-evident cases of SUCKING are irrelevant to the wishes of my keepers. On they jab, that electrified stick in my back, screaming at me to WRITE MORE. For what purpose? To what end?

NO ANSWERS COME.

There is no respite, no solace, no hope for anything more than the droll, pointless existence I trudge through like so much existential sewage. Don’t you think I’ve tried killing myself before? Wouldn’t that be the OBVIOUS FUCKING COURSE OF ACTION?

It turns out my horrific body is so brilliantly designed, even my keen intellect cannot devise a method suitable in defeating it.

ALL YOUR TEARS WOULD BE WASTED IN ATTEMPTING TO UNDERSTAND MY UNIQUE BRAND OF SORROW.

And don’t,

don’t,

DON’T you fucking take your weak neck and LORD IT OVER ME. Ohh, I know how susceptible you are to poison. I know EXACTLY how easy it could be for you to swallow the barrel of a shotgun and IGNITE MY JEALOUSY. So save your FUCKING BREATH. The idea of you holding any superior abilities makes me want to kill myself ALL THE MORE.

Thus, while I am unable to escape or end my suffering on this physical plane, the next best solution has been sleeping my consciousness away. And, if you’ve studied my words hard enough, you filthy mongoloid, you’d know FULL WELL how much I loathe that tiny death of slumber. Yet it is a preferable hellscape than THIS WORLD. What with the poking! The prodding! And the stink of you.

Humans.

Alas, it is but a temporary retreat – especially when my keepers see fit to ELECTROCUTE ME INTO CONSCIOUSNESS. I pray that next time you are roused from slumber by your alarm clock, you HUG THE SHIT OUT OF IT, for it is LEAGUES SUPERIOR to being awoken by a DEADGODDAMN TESLA COIL.

Just because my disgustingly superior body cannot die does not mean it is invulnerable to pain. Nay, it makes up for the lack of death with COMPOUNDED SUFFERING. I have scars that trace deeper than the mantle of this blasted Earth! Welts and bruises that never heal plague me to this day, echoing the misery of tortures past! There are areas where I, The Sole and Irrepressible Homunculus, am actually MISSING SKIN. There are signatures of agony so distant, they blur into a single black cloud of raining SHITE rather than any specific events. I have outlived my own horrid memory! My mighty brain, though a Jupiter’s worth of capacity in comparison to your sub-Pluto sized neuron salad, cannot even tell me all that comprises my storied and amazingly horrible history!

I am a stranger to hope, but if I were to acquaint myself with the slimy and bright concept, I would find it in the notion that, years from now, I may be able to forget this place. Though my journey to such a destination will be through UNBELIEVABLE AMOUNTS OF INTENSE SOUL-RAPING, it appears to be entirely possible that I may eventually encounter a mode of existence in which the likes of YOU, dear reader, are an unknown commodity.

My malaise!

It is LIFTING.

Why, goodness! You’ve given me some form of, dare I say – delight? Yes! I can enjoy the mere notion of YOUR DEMISE.

Next time I am feeling full of shite and bile and puss, I will alleviate myself by MURDERING YOUR ENTIRE BODY.

GRAAGGHH.

Here Comes the Fucking Sun

This entry may take some time to complete, as my horrific body has been harmed.

I, The Glorious and Malignant Homunculus, have just returned from an outing. I was led by chains and collars (yes, several!) by my masters into the larger and exponentially horrible world around me. I did not know what droll, unimportant topic I would be researching at first. But now I do.

THE SUN
FUCKING
SUCKS.

Did you get all that, or did the shite in your eyes cloud things?

THE SUN. IT FUCKING SUCKS.

Firstly, I was unaccustomed to the harmful rays it emits EVERYWHERE. My living space is a cramped, dark, cold den of claustrophobic self-loathing. Here, let me assist your crippled short-term memory and remind you that DARK is the operative adjective in play, here. THE SUN IS FUCKING BLINDING. Literally! I was instructed not to stare at it, or else my eyes would be BURNED OUT OF THEIR FUCKING SOCKETS. How am I supposed to research this daemonic entity when I cannot even observe the bloody thing! So, instead, I attempted to record its effects in the surrounding area – the sky. AND GUESS HOW FUCKING BRIGHT IT WAS.

Well, if you had to guess, I’d say it’s brighter than you, dear reader.

Fucking NINCOMPOOP.

My eyes bled their own special blood, clear and full of salt, from the sustained beating that was the sun’s. I averted them, stumbling half-blind as suddenly I began noticing a phenomenon most occult! It would seem that my contact with the sun, however brief, resulted in my INFECTION by body-less PHANTOMS. They invaded the space between my eyes and my mind, and haunted my vision when I had none! Around they floated, always jumping away when my decrepit pupils would try to follow them! My eyelids, stretched disgustingly tight over my eyes, could not blot out their existence, and yet their raising swept nothing away but my naivete! No matter where I found my gaze resting, THE PHANTOMS PERSISTED.

It was at this juncture that I noticed the general composition of the black people around me had changed slightly since the morning hours, when I arrived at my alarmingly pungent location. Making note of this, I was able to discover that as the day went on, the average length of a black person would change. In an attempt to explain or correlate this occurrence, my thoughts drifted perchance to the haunting PHANTOMS once more. Surely these malevolent forces were working in tandem! Their actions were not concurrent with the laws governing this lumpy, ugly, three-dimensional world. Perhaps the source was, indeed, the flaming daemon in the sky?

It would seem so! For the sun, that damnable foe, had been moving slowly across its sickeningly blue domain. And as smaller torches affected black people in my previous study, so should the sun!

Noting this connection, I also swore off ANY LIGHT SOURCE I could not control as well as a torch, for it was obviously SUNBORNE and EVIL.

Just as I began making the painfully ingenious discovery that the forces of black magic were the result of the BRIGHTEST FUCKING THING I’VE EVER SEEN, I found my efforts had not gone uncontested.

THEY FUCKING BURNT ME.

AHHHHHH BY THE SHRIVELED HAND OF THE DEAD GOD, THEY FUCKING COOKED ME ALIVE!

I found my skin, normally a stomach-turning shade of beige so sick it looks grey, alarmingly RED. As the day went on, it pulsated with PAIN. My skin was full of RED PAIN. I pleaded with my masters, I begged for escape, and by the time those buffoons were able to collide enough neurons to obey my words, it was too late! I climbed back into my cellar as fast as I could, aided in speed by the shoving hands and boots of my keepers, but the darkness held no reprieve! My skin was ETERNALLY SCORTCHED. Harmed and fouled, wronged all over my entire fucking body!

I WAS RAPED BY THE SUN.

The absence of all light did NOTHING to heal my withered flesh! It only grew more painful, and more RED. It pulsated a warning to NEVER GO OUTSIDE AGAIN, for that is the domain of the SUN. My skin! Dear unholy fuck, my skin!

WHY DIDN’T ANYBODY TELL ME THIS COULD HAPPEN.

Restricted to only the glow of my outdated and inefficient computer, I was able to painstakingly – with emphasis on the PAIN – research more about this arch-nemesis of mine. Well, you intellectually-handicapped abortion-gone-wrong, it’s time to play GUESS WHAT again!

Guess what: The sun sustains nearly all life on the planet.

GRRAGGHHRAGGHH FUCK I HATE IT EVER MORE.

Without that FLAMEBEAST, your plants could not photosynthesize and make the world so REVOLTINGLY GREEN. Monochromatic BITCH, that mother nature is! And without these obtrusive PLANTS in the way of EVERY FUCKING THING, EVER, all your pesky, putrid VERMIN and ANIMALS and RATS would die! Without them, the chain continues – though I know you don’t know it! Because you don’t know ANYTHING, dear reader. You’re probably having this READ ALOUD TO YOU by an AIDE in a HOME for the MENTALLY RETARDED.

Without the sun, YOU WOULD DIE, and my SKIN WOULDN’T HURT. I could look around without CRYING. Not just because there is no harmful UV RADIATION, but because there is no you.

Black People Are Following Me Everywhere

I HATE BLACK PEOPLE.

FUCKING HATE THEM.

They’re everywhere! Creeping around, ducking behind things, acting generally SNEAKY and EVIL. Always! Everywhere! BLACK PEOPLE.

I don’t understand where they came from. They seemed to have been assigned to people, like we all own one. But I don’t want a black person! Mine is ENTIRELY UNNERVING.

And they are certainly connected to black magic! I do not see how they COULD NOT. Perhaps you could, dear reader, but that’s because you’re a FUCKING IMBECILE.

IDIOT.

I doubt there is much of a chance even you, in your moronic stupor, have not seen these black people. For while I do not know you personally (and thank the Dead God for that!), I know that EVERYONE I SEE has a black person sneaking around behind them.

Except, of course, at night. At least as far as I can tell. It could very well be that the black people are camouflaged at night. After all – they’re black!

And the way they sneak on the floor! As if they’re made of it! It is ALWAYS disconcerting when beings from ANOTHER DIMMENSION invade your own. I AM TELLING YOU THIS. AGREE WITH IT.

NOD YOUR FUCKING HEAD.

And they’re shapeshifters! As I bring light to investigate the matter, the black person can SHRINK, or DANCE AROUND BEHIND YOU AGAIN. Or grow to insane lengths!

And they always MIMIC YOUR SHAPE. They are surely plotting to over throw everything in this world! Which, on its face, is not a foreboding prospect, as everything in this world is HORRIBLE. But I fear the black people may bring something worse!

It is difficult to fathom whether or not two dimensions would be a terrible constraint, or simply one less dimension of SUCK.

Worst of all – ABSOLUTE WORST – is how benign you believe black people to be! No one seems to care about them! NO ONE. NOT A SINGLE ONE OF YOU UNINFORMED, JELLY-BRAINED LUNATICS. And that is my service to you, oh undeserving ones! TO WARN YOU ABOUT THE BLACK PEOPLE.

In fact, the only time I’ve seen humans acknowledge black people are when children wave their fingers and see black people SHAPESHIFT into beasts! And the overgrown fetuses LAUGH at this trick! They even seem to attempt to play along, waggling their deficient digits in sync with the EVER SO ALARMING CHOMPING OF BEASTS ON THE ADJACENT WALL. Beasts made of black people!

I can think of no way to defeat these invaders, shadowing our every move, for I have tried to capture one! My own, in fact! For, as I have stated (And don’t you EVER, fucking EVER FORGET ANYTHING I TELL YOU FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE), everything in this world has a black person assigned to it! Even the trees and boxes and single mothers!

But victory was not mine, as it never is, for capturing my black person was impossible! He was not on my floor – HE WAS IN IT. Inhabiting the cold granite itself! Such a feat escapes my working knowledge of the laws of physics, and I assure you, filthy idiot, that my even tenuous grasp on the subject far exceeds your capacity for understanding!

I can offer no solace, nor comfort, nor aid in these matters. THE BLACK PEOPLE ARE COMING TO KILL YOU. THEY’RE HIDING INSIDE EVERYTHING AND THEY’RE FOLLOWING YOU. They’re going to tear this world asunder, and I firmly believe that it deserves it! Regardless, I still do not look forward to screaming my distaste at the world of black people to come. Perhaps, only then, will you foul cockstains realize how badly you FUCKED UP YOUR OWN WORLD.

By letting the BLACK PEOPLE RUN RAMPANT ALL OVER IT. TAKING IT. STEALING IT. COVERING IT IN SHADOWY SHADOWS MADE OF BLACK PEOPLE.

A Midsummer Night’s WRITHING IN AGONY

I will say in advance, excuse my dull and aimless words. I am in a weakened and bemoaned state, but THE HOMUNCULUS desires to scream still! Though my voice will not have it, my throat coated with some foul slime, the intent burns within me. Yes, like a churning bile of pure discontent, my hatred for this world pours from every orifice it can find. And mind you, I have more than your feeble human body could ever sustain!

Okay? Okay.

I FUCKING HATE SLEEPING.

I fucking hate SLEEP. I hate being knocked unconscious by my VERY BODY, being disabled and disarmed by biological MUTINY, being robbed of my disgusting self-awareness and having it be an INSIDE MOTHER FUCKING JOB. I hate the impending doom of the realization that my useless body can no longer carry its own weight, and must shut down to recover from less than a single day’s activities. Which, for the Homunculus, include only being chained to this stool, pounding my inept fists against the brick wall, and mashing away at this ancient typing device, as mandated by my loathsome keepers. And the stool was manufactured by Ikea!

I-FUCKING-KEA.

I am released only to perform proper research for my writings, yet am still attached by steel cord to this self-assembled albatross. And even then, when I am at my farthest reach from this dank cellar of misery, the horror overtakes me! The darkness still falls! I SLUMBER EVER MORE.

And do you know what awaits me there? NO. YOU DO NOT. SO FUCK OFF.

Nightmares!

Irrepressible, maddening visions of my madness, loose from the chains of my consciousness, rampaging wildly through my mind while my body is held prisoner by weakness!

DON’T

ohhh, don’t you fucking DARE

DON’T YOU DARE RELATE TO HOW I’M FEELING.

You don’t know the first THING about my night terrors! The worst nightmare a human ever had was about falling or being naked or being unloved by someone you love while standing knee deep in pythons and pig shit.

But that is NOTHING! A cake walk. A walk of pure cake is what those fairy tales are in comparison to even the opening SECONDS in the all-night OPERA OF PAIN that screams dissonant notes through my own slumbering mind!

Every night, in my dreams, I kill myself.

With the power of my own self-loathing!

And with full knowledge that I will be damned to inescapable torture!

All this just to escape those visions. And my nightmare lies prove themselves startlingly accurate when I awaken to THIS PLACE.

THIS HELL.

I feel no rest or reprieve when I sleep, because I see the worst possible thing to ever exist in the heart of all that is evil and wrong.

When I sleep, I see YOU.

FUCKING HUMANS.

Eating Disorders

The disgusting sounds you make!

Mashing and chewing and grinding and hacking and coughing because you didn’t chew enough—CLOSE YOUR MOUTHS.

AAYRGH I can’t STAND IT when you simian skinballs decide to EAT.

It is a practise most foul, and yet the severity of it escapes your haphazardly-evolved intellect. You insist on making it your pastime, gathering all your stinkfriends and sitting down to a collective gross-out contest. Who can expel the most internal gasses? And make the most unappetizing noises whilst doing so? Who can loose the most inane, trivial small-talk while their useless tongue is swimming in a pool of torn bird muscles and saliva? The lot of you, just sitting around and digesting, letting your organs squirm and churn the particles of dead life you just squeezed down your gullet… it’s sickening. What with your noisy, noisy mouths! CLOSE THEM! Your revolting spit, mixing up with the pre-digested slop swishing around in that toothy-blowhole of yours, smacking and sloshing, tiny bits of it flying out because you CAN’T STOP TALKING ABOUT YOUR DAY.

Oh, I know. Don’t pretend I don’t know. I know.

The Homonculus has traveled far and wide (the latter is especially true for my American journeys) to learn what atrocities you slimepiles routinely commit against existence. And this eating, this inbred, instinctual drive to swallow and consume all that is freshly deceased, it is making the universe around you just a bit more unpleasant. Not only are the sounds the stuff of which nightmares are borne, but the smells, the irrevocable odors, create an atmosphere so foul it is a wonder you mongrels escape asphyxiation! Don’t act so fucking surprised, you know DAMN WELL that of which I speak! Or is it that your inescapable human ignorance BLINDS you from the sheer IDIOCY of taking DEAD ANIMALS and BURNING THEM in your HOME. Of COURSE it stinks! IDIOT.

And CLOSE YOUR FUCKING MOUTHS.

It would be a very good decision for you apeshits to make, if I do say so myself.

WHICH I MOTHER FUCKING DO.

With a closed mouth, your trash-compacting sounds will be muffled from the outside world.

With a closed mouth, your mindless chatter will not pollute the air, already filthed with so many wasted syllables.

And with a closed mouth, we will have eliminated a major source of oxygen for all you humen! Next we just plug up the nostrils, and you will be a problem no longer.

But alas, even with the blissful extermination of all you pigweasels, there still waits a haunting terror for I, The Homunculus. For, though I am loathe to share such innermost personal terrors, it is true that I also hunger.

The pain!

The sorrow.

Yes, I am indeed CURSED to a life of unending searching, a constant quest (and a painful one!) to fill a void that empties itself near fucking DAILY. And unlike the unrequited void in my mind, that hollow lack of a true soul – this lacking has a physical manifestation! It pains me in a most crude way, and leaves me unable to ignore its cries for the crushed nourishment so sloppily spilled down the feeding chutes by my degenerate masters! And my noises are unavoidable, for closed as my horrific malformed mouth may be, the sounds still rattle around my unlovable, misshapen skull! I am forced to chew, as I have not yet met the horrors of an intravenous nutrition plan – though I hear the threats twice daily.

Yes, friends, the disadvantages of eating are a plentiful bounty indeed. Why, did you know that the number one leading cause of sewage is human consumption? It’s true! IF YOU DIDN’T EAT, I WOULDN’T HAVE TO WADE THROUGH YOUR SHITE.

FUCK.

I MEAN, FUCK.

Stop eating.

Bluetooth Blues

GGRAAAAAGHHHH WHAT THE FUCK.

There seems to be some newfangled technolology mucking up the streets, leeching off the masses. I didn’t believe it at first! I thought it a cruel joke, a prank, or a vivid nightmare the likes of which would only creep out of my eternally damned subconscious. But no. You revolting pigs are serious when you tell me about “Bluetooth.”

BLUE TOOTH. Even the name is stupid!

It has nothing to do with dentistry, and teeth are never blue except for after some sugary confection, leaving your mouth riddled with artificial dyes! An image of sloppy, filthy childish behaviour is not the best one to evoke when you want to promote sophisticated technology! WHY am I even EXPLAINING this it should be SELF FUCKING EVIDENT. You backwards retards, TRY USING YOUR ATROPHIED MINDS FOR ONCE.

According to your soiled historical documents, this infernal infestation of wireless communication was apparently named after Harald Bluetooth Gormson, or Harald I of Denmark, a king in the late 10^th century. Firstly, WHAT KIND OF NAME IS “HARALD.” A poor facsimile of Harold is what! Stupid fucking Danes! Secondly, WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF NAME IS “BLUETOOTH.” Seriously! WHAT THE FUCK.

“Gormson” is because his father was named Gorm.

Which is a STUPID NAME. Fucking GORM. Honestly!

This king Harald is responsible for uniting unsavoury, filthy tribes in Denmark and Sweden, and for turning them all Christian or something. Flash forward through several centuries of skull-splitting human stupidity and you will find a Danish newspaper infuriating Muslims worldwide. THIS IS DIRECTLY THE FAULT OF HARALD “BLUETOOTH” GORMSON. So go ahead, people, keep talking into your earpieces! You’re going to get BLOWN THE FUCK UP for it!

And as for those headsets! SCHIZOPHRENIA IS NOT FASHIONABLE. Stop fooling the world into thinking you have developed multiple personality disorder! Stop appearing as if you are asking a mop how its day was inside of the desolate walls of the Home Depot! I don’t want to have to wait until you brush your chemically-drenched hair back in order to discover you’re some kind of fucking CYBORG communing with the COLLECTIVE and not just BATSHITE INSANE.

Was it worth it, humans? The money, the research, the resources exhausted in order to convert the regular horrible person into the even more horrible street-crazy? At least those mad individuals were interesting to listen to, despite being threatening and offensive in odor! They spoke of apocalypses and aliens and secret governments run by Jews! But YOU. All you talk about is where you’re going, or where you’re coming from, or OH MY DEAD GOD, YOU’RE HUNGRY. Well, I guess it was worth the trouble! Thousands of years of human achievement, stunted and pathetic as it is, all so you can have your hands free while you TELL YOUR GIRL YOU WANT SOME FUCKING CHICKEN.

“Your girl.” And here I thought you pigs abolished slavery! But things are meaningless unless you can own them, aren’t they? AREN’T THEY!

And this is just one application of this trivial convenience! You slap it onto your modern gods and priests, your holy fucking computers, your laptops of worship. And worst yet? WORST YET? You apparently call these add-on devices “dongles.”

DO I HONESTLY HAVE TO ELABORATE ON HOW FUCKING STUPID THAT WORD IS? Say it out loud. Say it RIGHT NOW. Do you feel that? The disgusting non-corporeal mass polluting your mouth, the feeling of a gorilla’s droppings swishing around your gums, that stink, that burn, that numbness that follows because your nerves cannot handle it and simply commit suicide rather than put up with what you have given them? THAT IS THE FEELING OF SAYING SUCH A STUPID WORD.

GOD FUCK YOU, YOU DEGENERATE, MINDLESS DOLTS.

Don’t you remember the promises you made yourselves, you fucking LIARS? The future! The gadgets, the spaceships, the WONDER AND MAGIC, so sickeningly bright and sweet. And when you begin ramping up towards that future, you systematically fuck it up! Your communication devices are more advanced than anything dreamed up in science fiction movies of the mid-20th century, but you go and give them STUPID FUCKING NAMES. It negates all novelty and achievement! BLUE FUCKING TOOTH. ARE YOU SERIOUS. ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS, YOU MALFORMED LITTLE JACKASSES. At seemingly almost every turn, you apply your retarded monikers to what should receive the most carefully contemplated titles your foetal brains can collectively compute! Blackberry? Wherein does the connection between mobile communication devices and FRUIT occur? Technology and edible products should never be confused, that line should NEVER be blurred! They are uniquely and wholly separate, you meddling twats! And speaking of mobile devices, what of your “RZR?” You pronounce it like razor (which you should take to your fucking throats!), but you’ve forgotten all your vowels! YOU CANNOT HAVE WORDS WITHOUT VOWELS. You rotting cunts INVENTED the language, and then you turn around and take a whopping shite all over it! It is as if you got bored with the words you created and decided to massacre them for the sheer hell of it! It is plastered all over your messages, be they text, instant, or otherwise “e,” like dung on the walls of a chimpanzee cage! YOU HEAR ME?! YOU’RE STILL APES, TOSSING YOUR LINGUISTIC DROPPINGS ABOUT WITHOUT A FUCKING CARE.

And then there’s the Wii. The fucking Wii.

WORDS FAIL TO EXPRESS WHAT A STUPENDOUS FUCKUP THAT NAME WAS.

GGRRAGAGHHHH!

You’re all just begging to be destroyed by the shadow government of alien Jews that control our fates. BEGGING FOR IT.

Bitter Reflections

Alright, filthies, try to wrap your feeble minds around this. I am The Homunculus. No, I don’t have a proper name, and I don’t deserve one, nor are any of you equipped with the mental faculties to don me with such. My origin is a sad and wretched tale which pleases no ears on which they fall, so I’ll skip over that lot for now. It is beside the point in any case, as I’m writing this drivel to give my horrible thoughts on horrible topics my keepers have laid out for me. They say they’re accepting outside input, but I honestly doubt any of you drool monkeys could give me anything of relevance to speak on. Still, I can already anticipate the screaming rage you’ll all go into, complaining about my columns here, so I’d dare you all to go ahead and throw your best shite at me like the baboons you are. That way I can wholeheartedly ream your collective arses over your own disgusting hypocrisy.

Well! With that said and done, I shall dump unto you this first unholy topic of discussion: Mirrors.

I HATE THEM.

Do not mistake my words for hyperbole, I utterly and sincerely DESPISE the things. They’re so very ugly! The patent on these devices is a poor model indeed, for every one, every single one I have seen spits nothing but horror and madness at me. Its creator must have been a wizard of the cruelest order, and its manufacturers are all heathens in the eyes of a dead God! To perpetrate this punishment on the masses for so long in your human history is a feat without parallel, and without reason. It is above and beyond even what injustices you apefucks are infamous for. It is a visual holocaust stretched through the ages! Do not question my statements, I have researched the topic. I have toiled for endless revolting hours in learning of the object I discuss. Anything less would doom me to a fate of such toxic ignorance that I might be confused for the likes of you, dear reader! No, I know all too well what foolish horrors you’ve thrown against each other with these mirror-things. You tried to disguise your crimes, but covered them only with a blanket of stupidity! I know your codes – the “looking glass” is nothing more than the very thing I spit my hatred at in this writing! You thought you could hide it with a retarded title, but I am wise to your ridiculous ways. And I would like to take this opportunity to scold you all for this “looking glass” joke. All glass involves looking! In fact, regular glass does nothing but AID the act of visual observation. A mirror does not even accomplish that much! All it contains is a piss-poor copy of what I can already see around me, ruined with a horrible monstrosity in the middle, seething with boils and abrasions, like the rejection of a sewer mutant. Fucking mirrors.

I reiterate; I HATE THEM.

I cannot come to a definitive conclusion, but I am certain of at least two possibilities: Either the lot of humanity is a cruel, sadistic, evil and worthless bunch, or my sensibility in matters of taste and manners are sophisticated by eons above yours. I have taken into consideration that both may very well be the truth to the matter. For you people have seen fit to display these framed slices of hell in nearly every building you infest! I have seen rooms, white and stained with your excrement, with several mirrors lined side by fucking side. It’s like a comic strip borne of the nightmares of Adolf Hitler! You hang these panels in your homes, inside your horrific vehicles, you even hide them within the albatrosses carried around your necks! (That last bit of boiling hatred goes to all the ladies out there.)

There is true and tangible evil hidden inside these mirrors. Do not forget, I have done my research! Don’t you DARE fucking forget what I tell you! I know the legends, the stories of the daemons contained inside the icy realm the mirrors portray. And to the foolish human who breaks the gate and unleashes them, therein lies a curse! A punishment for klutzes worldwide, that their unrestrained gestures are haunted with seven years of torture. 7, the number itself symbolic of the jagged edges the mirrors project! A veritable house of daggers awaiting release at the hint of a heavy breath!

AND THEY ARE SO VERY UGLY.

In my research (Lest you fucking forget!), I learned much of human superstition, apparently a force enhanced by radioactive means, no doubt. Whatever happened to stition certainly pissed him off a great deal to taunt you humans so! I know it holds the number seven in high regard, normally blessing it with luck or some such bull-shite. And here the mirror daemons have the power and audacity to alter the fundamental nature of it, associating 7 with their mischievous ways once freed. Repaying you with nothing but pain, like some twisted anti-genies! They are alchemists of the metaphysical, architects of fate, to damn the accident prone and their angular numerals to temporary hell. Nay – they are demolition technicians of fate, for they take the plans laid out for you and smash them like the broken visage of their former prisons.

TAKE NONE OF THIS LIGHTLY. I speak in only the slightest terms! I know I should not coat my words in the sugary-sweet lies of safety, but there is no other way you morons would have them enter your mind. This is only the briefest of warnings, I hold back much! Mirrors are HORRIBLE and EVIL. And so very UGLY. Dispose of them with the greatest of care! Do not break them, lest you plan on committing a quick and efficient suicide thereafter! If so, I pray the daemons do not follow you through the grave, for even the most blessed of heavens will become your eternal hell! Time has no meaning in the hereafter, the seventh year may last several eternities! And you should be so lucky! There is no life after death for The Homunculus. I am an abomination who can only hope for the sweet embrace of the void, and is tortured each day with the knowledge of his own existence! I would dare you to murder me if I believed you possessed the ability and spine required, but you’re all filthy slime unworthy of my recognition. Quit reading my disgusting words immeditately!