Fat Babies riding dogs is really…good. But what if they’re not fat?

It’s hard to find pictures of Fat Babies riding dogs. The one below seems fat, but it’s difficult to be certain.

What if they’re not babies at all. What if they’re monkeys?

What if the dog is violent? Is it still ok?

Is it ok if it’s a cat?

A horse?

Can babies do other adult things, like wage war?

Can you imagine a place where there are only babies, and the only public transportation is dogs?

If that place comes to exist, should Mcdonalds be the only eating option?

Robert Siegel from NPR told me that the Heat are going to dominate the Kobe Bryant Lakers like Scarface dominated the US Government. I dislike LA strongly, perhaps because it’s the doppelganger of the biggest city in my homestate—Miami, except it’s doubly worse withe the plastic surgery and the ugliness and lack of public transportation although both have good weather.

I don’t love Miami, but I do love myself. And I come from Florida. And Miami is in Florida. And Lebron has chosen to represent me because he agrees in his calm objective opinion that Florida is the best of the fifty nifty United States. Only in Florida can you literally feel the cultural legacy of Disneyworld and Nasa and Timberlake/Speares and the 2000 election. Only in Florida is the weather perfect for people like me—people who can now have a favorite NBA team to follow. You can’t beat the heat. (You gonna get smoked).

They lived among us, wore shirts and pants, socks and shoes.

It was like Avatar in reverse. It was like the Blindside except the football player kills Sandra Bullock and her family. It was like Toy Story 3 where the toys pretend to be inanimate and then jump on the child  and drags it off to a communist bunker where they try to make it talk using blowtorches.

It’s time for Americans to act—it’s time for fathers to move their loving families to strategic locations in and around the U.S.S.R. in order to sabotage the saboteurs. In no way must we be associated with the federal government, which is under Soviet control. We must blend in, which should be easy enough, since the world speaks English, eats at McDonalds, and loves America. Learning Soviet would only slow us down. We should report the information we gather to local and state governments, which I am certain are still independent of the U.S.S.R. In 10 years time, top level officials will reconvene and start to organize state militias. Then the fight between Family and Soviet can begin. Good luck and God bless.

Like a phoenix that’s lit itself on fire to be reborn like a furless rat squirming around in burnt flesh and feathers, Costner has risen yet again. He teases, he toys and then he delivers—or says he is highly confident he will deliver by October at the latest.

This is his dream machine, his machine dream. His dreams are of a world run by machines where we live on barges in the middle of a world covered with water. This explains why he has spent the last 17 years of his life in a submarine bunker floating in the deep parts of lake superior, just planning—planning and experimenting and occasionally watching baseball games and golf tournamets. He has spent 17-years dreaming of his machine dream and now he has risen like a breeching killer whale ready to separate the oily heads of baby seals from their 80% water trunks. Named the V20, Costner’s machine dream is as powerful as two Ford E-350 full sized vans. It’ll suck up water an oil and anything found in that oil and water like a black hole—it’ll suck up the whole gulf and divide the water and oil so that only the northern half of the Gulf of Mexico will be black but the southern half will be bluish and maybe a little red from the all the animals separated into there two essential parts—water and oil.

Costner lives in a dualistic universe, where subtlety has no place. Good is good. Bad is bad. Water is water and oil is oil and that part of the whale goes north and that part of the whale goes south. But he gets shit done. Or is highly confident that shit will get done soon. In October at the latest we think.

So where are we left to point our fingers? At the British? At Bush? At Gaia? At Skinny/Shy babies. No, I think the only place to point is Cosnter, because he got our hopes up. He got us revved up like a car, motorboat, or airplane engine. He convinced us that if we jumped off the cliff with him, we would fly. But we fell like an object that has mass. Why Costner? Bend, bow to the heavens like Nosferatu/Ratzinger did today when he asked forgiveness from God for hiding child molesters. May he listen.

Dictatorship (N. Rea): Kim Jong-Il has whipped his country’s baby-children into symbols of freedom and creativity with an appropriate mixture of eugenics, torture, psychological manipulation, and never-ending practice session. Never has a culture of music proved so rich. Thinking about it makes me want to dance right now. Right now in my living room. I’m getting up. I’m dancing. I’m back. There was a 30-minutes of dancing between “I’m dancing” and “I’m back”. Just look at how much fun they’re having. That one with the raised eyebrows bobbing his head up and down is clearly loving every second. The other one with the unchanging smile of un-forced joy warms my heart. Just four kids, chilling—smoking a bowl and jamming outside in a field in front of some bushes. Soloing. Banging their hands against their guitars like drums until the bleed. The future of music is in N. Rea. Party hard.

Democracy (S. Rea): A fucking disgrace. No talent hack singing a song written by Paul McCartney—consistently ranking high on my lists of the the worst people in the world. This young gentleman can’t even play the fucking guitar. He has a guitar around his neck, and he’s not playing it. His English is abysmal—unable to pronounce the “l’s” or “t’s” so that the lyrics just sounds like “rererer ro rer rer rin roo ror rart” . He also isn’t singing close enough to the microphone. But perhaps that’s a good thing, considering he’s just producing a series of hellishly acrid moans. The set is ridiculous. Two toy cars. Are you kidding me? The boy is not even wearing pants. He’s wearing a diaper for God’s sake. Once Youtube was a respectable venue for talented artists to reach their audience. O brave new world, how things have changed.

Conclusions: It’s time for the US to step up to the plate. N. Rea needs our help if it ever wants to annex S. Rea. The world will musically be a much better place when that finally happens. These young musicians need our support if we want their culture to continue to thrive, enriching all of our lives—the young, the old, the big, and small. Please take the time to write a letter to your local congressman if what I have said here today, or what you have read here today on your laptop or desktop, has touched your sense of integrity in any way.

I am a professional

This is no joke

Smoking is no joke

I am a professional

Fatness in not enough

To tempt the sisters three

Fatness is not enough

To be cute

I make you look away

And then look back

Again and again

Yes

I am a professional

I am Joy

I am Death

And I laugh

I am the Last Fat Baby

Fat Baby Smoker

I twirl my death stick

As a professional must

I make cute noises

And look sideways

I invite the media

To lick my feet

As I blow

Professional smoke rings

With my feet up

Where they may be licked

I am man and baby and guru

I could play poker

At the table in the movie “Rounders”

And beat Johnny Chan

I am a professional

Ope

Ya

Bootah

I blow kisses

I am a professional

Note: Ratzinger/Nosferatu has many lovable qualities despite being pure evil.

MIA Determination: 1st paragraph of Nytimes article  “MIA Agitprop Pop” (notable sections in red)

-  “On the Grammy Awards in 2009, Maya Arulpragasam, also known as M.I.A., performed her biggest hit, “Paper Planes,” a rap song that infuses rebellious, defiant lyrics with the sounds of her native Sri Lanka, a riff lifted from the Clash, the bang-bang of a gun and the ka-ching of a cash register“

- “Maya, as she is called, was nine months pregnant (to the day), and while she was onstage rapping about “some some some I some I murder, some I some I let go” — in a black skintight, body-stocking dress, transparent except for polka-dot patches that strategically covered her belly, breasts and derrière — she began to experience contractions.“

- “As the pain hit, Maya was performing with the male titans of rap (Jay-Z, Kanye West, Lil Wayne, T.I.) and she later told me that she thought all the free-floating testosterone caused her to go into labor.“

- “While American rappers today tend to celebrate sex, wealth and status, Maya, who grew up listening to the politicized rhymes of Public Enemy, takes international dance beats and meshes them with the very un-American voice of the militant rebel.“

- “In contrast to, say, Bono or John Lennon, with their peacenik messages, Maya taps into her rage at the persecution of Tamils in Sri Lanka to espouse violence: while you’re under the sway of the beat, she’s rapping, “You wanna win a war?/Like P.L.O. I don’t surrender.”

Paul McCartney Determination:

Paul McCartney Youtube Channel

You (YN1F, Gennie, Jen, Nate) may submit answers in the comment section

Costner/Clinton turned his piss into water like Jesus turned water into wine

Now, he has invested lots of money in an underwater spaceship that will fix the Oil Spill.

Gaia thanks him in spiritual apparition on a baseball field.

Ratzinger/Nosferatu wonders if he can catch Costner/Clinton at night.

Ratzinger/Nosferatu thinks he might be able to revive his career with Costner/Clinton blood.

Obama, jealous, debates whether he should help Ratzinger/Nosferatu or Costner/Clinton.

A hamster looks up from eating his cookie

Meanwhile, the Oil Spill rages. The volcanoes erupt. The whales. The birds.

Please donate to your local Wildlife foundation.

For the hamster above. Caught in between forces it can’t possibly understand.

Why is Gaia angry? Is Gaia Ratzinger/Nosferatu? Is Gaia angry with Ratzinger/Nosferatu? Is Gaia angry because it’s been a cold winter?

Us Americans try to plug up the oil spell with boxes.

The Icelandics try to plug up the volcano with human sacrifices.

Ratzinger/Nosferatu sings paeans in the night.

The whales? They swim. Through the blackness of the Gulf.

The birds? They fly. Through the blackness of the Stratosphere.

Bush? Is he doing enough? Is he doing anything? Does he even care?

Bush is on his ranch in Texas, chopping down trees with chainsaws. Or he is on a golf course asking reporters to now watch this drive.

Bush is eating a kitten.

The whales are blinded.

The birds are blinded.

Bush fails us. He appointed Obama, a community organizer, to spearhead the cleanup effort. A community organizer, in charge of the Gulf—in charge of Iceland—in charge of Wall Street. Obama has appointed demons to run Wall Street. Nepotism.

Cheney sits in the shadowy corner on his throne of gold, his fingertips locked together in a little steeple, thinking of the things that happened, are happening, and will happen. All that he asks Ratzinger/Nosferatu is granted. What will Cheney think-cause next? What cavity of the world will he erupt releasing smelly black solids, the next state of erupting blackness  after liquid oil and gaseous ash? Will Rumsfield give us nebulous answers—”I can’t predict what Cheney will do because I don’t make predictions, but we are sure that he is near Baghdad to the North, South, East, or West?”

Clinton rises.