Jim Morrison woke up, he was in a blindingly white phallic-shaped room, with no furniture or windows. It was as if the room never ending, stretching into infinity like a giant penis of God. It wasn't the fact that he he had no idea where he was that scared him, it was the fact that he couldn't find any booze!
He sighed, his breath smelled (and tasted) like anchovies covered in urine, sprinkled with some shit, and it didn't bother him one bit that he knew what that smelled (and tasted) like.
"I wonder if ingesting injecting semen into your bloodstream is toxic," he intoned.
With those words spoken, a strange man appeared. He looked as though he was 30 or 40, or possibly 78. But one thing was certain: He was a guy who could stretch his asshole immensely. At least, Jim hoped it was his asshole.
"Hello," the asshole said.
"Man, what the fuck are you?" Jim drawled.
The asshole chuckled, "I'm an asshole!"
Jim snorted, "I know that, shitbrains. I'm mean, like-a, what's your name, or somethin'."
The asshole thought for a minute, then exploded. This was all very weird.
Jim decided that it was better not to think about what just happened and decided to pass out in a puddle of his puke.
He was awoken by a strange whooshing sound, and blinked his eyes. He couldn't believe it! The asshole was rebuilding itself, this time in the shape of a man in a blue suit, with a yellow stripe. He looked old, grey hair and crow's feet, heavy eyebrows and a set jaw. Jim thought he was hawt.
"Ahh, you're here," the sexy old man said.
"Damn right ah am." Jim slurred as he stood up, stumbling, as the vomit he ingested being 190-proof.
"Well, we have a a problem, the water chip has given up the ghost!" The man eyed Jim, looking over him as if checking to see if he was fit for this.
Jim laughed, alcohol-laced spit going everywhere. "Man, I've never seen a ghost and I don't plan on it! Heehaw!" Jim tried to put his hand on the man's shoulder, but it fell right through as if he wasn't there. "SHIT, MAN! YOU IS A GHOST!" Jim scrambled on all fours, frantically trying to find a weapon of sort to kill it.
Of course, everybody knows you can't kill a ghost without first consulting the Ancient Index of Vorhtiulien, which is obviously hidden by the Great Daemon Batltheizar, who was slain by Drizzt after he sealed him by killing the 4 lesser gods with his dual-scmitars he got after he discovered that all along, Malcom X was white.
But Jim didn't know this.
The Old Man laughed, "HEEHEAWHAWE! U R A FEWL! U NO U CANT KILL ME, LOL, FAGGET!" Now the man was speaking in strange tongues! Jim clasped his ears, the words burning his eardrums, the vibration gnawing away at his bones. He couldn't take it anymore, he closed his eyes and throw all his worries into a mental fire, cleansing his brain and accepting his destiny: To die and then to go to heaven and Kill God!
TO BE CONTINUED!
Jim Morrison: The Man, the Myth, the Hangover
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Spazmo
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Re: Jim Morrison: The Man, the Myth, the Hangover
Please don't.Naked_Lunch wrote:TO BE CONTINUED!
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POOPERSCOOPER
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