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Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you with no honor, and a burden that should not be bestowed upon any man, Mr. Jones. . .
Mr. Jones, attack mode.
I met Mr. Jones a year ago, where she was immediately given said nickname (stemming from a song written by one Bob Dylan entitled Ballad of a Thin Man.) A nickname so cruel and inhumane, one must pass a test by persistently annoying us. Needless to say, she passed with flying colors. Mr. Jones, has no respect for others because she has no respect for herself. She is delusional, shows no signs of being self-aware, is miserable to be around due to her constant criticism about "how messed up life is growing up in northwest Glendale, and is the reason behind this blog in the first place. She is, infinitely retarded. She can't simply make observations, there's always something more to it, some hidden insult about her that she finds a way to bring out and skew and stretch out so it fits just to her liking. Everything is to be challenged, unless of course she says it, and even a person who says "oh its a nice day aint it?" will find themselves at the wrong end of her stick, as she'll find a way to turn all their words around and make them feel like they were attacking her, insulting her oh so horribly that they should be ashamed. And seh always takes to poking and prodding, to baiting you this way and that; she's perfect for government work, anybody who doesn't think like her obviously has something wrong with them, and its up to her to let them all know all the things that are wrong about them so vigorously that she doesn't even notice her own faults. She's some invinicble hate monger, immune to anything foreign that comes in contact with her, and anything foreign is wrong, because she is so righteously perfect.
When you say something she can't comprehend, she takes to the three questions, Meat? Minteral? or Vegetable? And if you give her a chance, if you toss her up an idea like a wiffle ball, she'll hit it out of the park with her retardation, every time.
But, where did this retardation stem from? Is the world we live in really so deserving of so much criticism from a person with no real perspective? In order to find out, I had to dig deep with a total disregard to my own safety, because to find this out, one had to travel to the deepest crevices of Hell.
She was born on a typically cold January evening, the winds whispered through the trees and the moon hung low in the sky, blood red. A wolf cried, it rang through the air as a pickup truck sped past, bouncing along. A woman was in the back, all alone screaming, as a freakish looking man drove, the truck hitting every pothole in the street like he meant to do it intentionally. The man was driving fast because he was trying to get to the hospital, and the woman in the back was screaming because she was about to have a baby, bouncing along, in the back of a pickup truck. She was in the back cause "whut if-yah pop and get yah baby juicin's and blood all on mah new leather seats! In the back widd-yah wo-man!" The woman ended up having that baby, bouncing along in the back of that pickup truck, and the baby, who's head was still soft and new bounced along too, scrambling her brains just like scrambled eggs. The poor thing never had a chance. Despite the scrambling, the genes had still passed from her parents. Her mother was a truck stop tramp, which meant she was good at turning tricks and leaning against walls in such a way that would make any respectable male vomit. Her father was a carnie freak, he liked to swallow fire and bite the heads off of bats, and from him she developed her love for livestock and animals of all kinds really. Growing up in the circus environment was perfect for her, for there was no shortage of livestock - the circus was a real traveling zoo, and some of the beasts were actually men, men in coats with slick tongues that conjured up bullshit and raked in money at stands and fixed cranie games. One of her boyfriends was one of these beasts. He was 72.
Being legally raped for years, she wanted something more, something natural. Apparently, having to wait 15-20 minutes for the Viagra to kick in before sex each time wasn't doing it for her anymore. She decided to broaden her horizon, with her first, true love; livestock. This was the beginning, this is where she felt most comfortable, frankly, it was her roots. She wanted to be on of them, have her own commune where man and beast can walk as equals. Home. It was there that she took to caressing the llamas, putting them down to sleep nice and soft, just like a caring mother, and she would pet the horses with a great adoration, and eye the goats with a hidden lust she tried to conceal but could be noticed by any beastialty officionado - theres something about the eyes. Yet much to the disdain of all the other livestock, she found herself one true love -mini horses. And not just any mini-horse. She fell in love with Goliath, an award winning mini-horse, who in his hay day had taken every ribbon in the mini-horse rodeo, and had even inseminated other mini-horses, to preserve his lineage and abundant talent. Although that was in the past, he was still a majestic mini-horse, though you can tell his days are behind him. It didn't affect her, oh no, she loved him like he was still 4 again, and could jump through rings of fire and had many a female steed looking for his affection.
One day, while on the road, she was passionately horse fucking when the ringleader of the circus stumbled upon her trailer. He thought to himself, "how can I seel this?" Mr. Jones was to be a star, but not on the silver screan. No, but to be a founding member in the underground bestiality circuit.
On a cold autumn day, the truck pulled up to a run down whore house, Mr. Jones was the main attraction that night. There had been talk about a revolutionary performance, a performance with 4 mini-horses. The lights dimmed and the crowd was patiently waiting with great anticipation. Amongst the crowd were men of great social importance: murderers, child molesters, child rapists, catholic priests, and Jews. A spotlight turned on, aimed at the side of the stage, then Mr. Jones appeared. She was wearing a wedding dress, a beautiful gown, could have even been a gift from a family member. Then, a cup was brought out and was put in the middle of the stage by a man dressed in all black. After the grand entrance of the cup, four horses were brought out, one of whom was Goliath, all their handlers wearing black as well. Each man lead their horse to the cup where the horses then relieved themselves into the cup. Mr. Jones got down on all fours and slowly crawled over, the crowd grew silent. They had never seen such a display of raw passion. The house filled with the raw stench of fresh horse manure, as Mr. Jones and Goliath met at the center of the stage, just next to the cup where they both lowered their heads down and started eating. After getting a stomach full of horse excrement she gracefully slid her hand down Goliath's side, slowly, erotically, finally reaching his phallic member, he always went first. She went to work. The other horses started growing anxxxious, "shhhh" she said, "you'll get your turn." They relaxed as if they understood. Goliath blew his load in her mouth, she assumed the doggy style position as the other horses, one by one, took their turn. You almost had to feel bad for the horses, not knowing that they were committing a sin. A sin, punishable by an eternity in the deepest pit of Hell. A sin no man could forgive. The crowd rushed out the door in disgust, a 49 year old man curled up in the corner crying. A priest threw up on himself and declared it was the workings of the Devil. Before she could swallow and pack up the horses, a small crowd was forming outside the house. They wanted blood. They were mostly made up of peasants, the same folk that Mr. Jones so gallantly stood by. The same folk, that were forgotten by society and she would speak of any chance she got. "I'm making a difference," she would tell herself. Sure you are. They were poor, and couldn't really afford foor or health care, but they could afford torches and rioting.
Goliath, may he rest in peace.
They burst into the room, some of them with rifles, distraught at the vile acts they had just seen. One man in a straw hat drew up his rifle, and fired. The bullet hit Goliath in the side, the mini-horse fell over from the force of it, turning his hide from white to blood red. Mr. Jones cried out, loud, she tried to save him, but her family dragged her off stage, and as they made their getaway, she turned in the backseat and watched the building begin to crumble, for the mob had taken fire to the place. They were content to let it crumble and leave only ashes in its wake. The tears stained her cheeks, she knew she would never love again. Her sole occupation from then on would be hate, and over the years she would get very good at it. It would be refined, made stronger, till she got to the point where she believed she knew so much better than everyyone else, that she was so much nobler, despite the fact that in her past she had let dozens of mini-horses train fuck her, one at a time, for money. Her family changed their names, to escape the tragedies of their past, but she couldn't forget Goliath. She kept a picture of him in her heart shaped locket, kept there forever and protected from the elements.
They enrolled her in school, where she was treated harshly, "They just don't understand" she would say. She was greatly hated, and she echoed their bigotry and hatred towards her with words of hatred all of her own, and proclimations that she was better than everyone else, and so much more noble. It became a theme in her life, a sort of mantra that she would say to herself each night, "I'm better, I'm more noble. . . I'm better, I'm more noble. . ." and she took it all to heart. She became a scaley dragon, with hatred for her fire, and she never feared breathing on a man and turning him to nothing but ash. In fact she enjoyed it, it brought her pleasure, for the world had taught her nothing but hate, and she reflected it daily.
And so Infinitely Retarded names Mr. Jones, well. . . infinitely retarded.
cowrits; pbarnes.
It's not Tom Jones the singer is it? Lol. I kid. I kid.
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