The World Cries Out for Puma Jones

The internet is dead, so stricken by hobbling pink midget Prince, a marginally black transsexual from Venus by way of Lake Minnetonka. He crash-landed in a buttcomet into the seaweedy depths of the gay lake & emerged moments later, clad in some pink shit armour only a toatle pooft-waffe would wear I mean OMG blarf.

It is in dire times like these we need a leader to rise up, take us in his tastefully calloused hands, cup our tender scrotum, and whisper truths to our unborn kidlets: "SPERMATOA OF TOMORROW, THIS IS A LAND OF MILK & HONEY, BITCHES BENZES BLOW & MONEY, WHERE NIGGAS GET CAPPED IF THEY LOOK AT YA FUNNY &c." But ALAS, Puma Jones is no longer with us to throatily launch into a solo chorus of benign faggotry all over our sweaty ballsacks as we wait to impregnate some likely maiden we plucked out of the midden heap of all-girls community college somewhere nestled in a matronly bosom of gay pink hills.

"Come here," he'd type, "sit on my knee." Then vaguely racist, unfunny, nonsensical rubbish would pour forth from betwixt his charmingly ruddy cheeks, bewhiskered with the gay faggot pink whiskers of homoshit. And Prince would pronounce the internet dead yet again, play the guitar with his dexterous sphincter, let loose a righteous unmedicated fart, & dart into oncoming traffic to pray for a particularly phallic semi to ram him up his bespangled arse.

What's the point? you cry, rending asunder your credit cards, coupons for free sprays, & student IDs. There is none. The white whale is black with effluvium, the President is bright brown with shame; the lightbulbs of penury blink on unchanged, FUCK THIS GAY EARTH TO DEATH WITH AN ACID FILLED ECLAIR.