MARK WAYNE MOHR'S FINAL DYING
WORDS
Audience |
YOU
ARE READING THE TENTH CHAPTER; AND THEN MAYBE, YOU ARE NOT!
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My
monthly readership, presently is at a death drop, to twenty-eight
hundred; MY BROS!!!!
MY
BLOG IS DYING, I AM DYING, AND YOU KNOW MOTHER FUCKING WHAT, IF YOU
DON'T CARE, THEN WHY SHOULD I? I know in my deepest heart of
hearts, and inner most recesses, that I have told, straight forward,
a story like no other; YET, a story that none of you anywhere at any
dam time; can look me in the face, or yourself in a fucking mirror;
and guarantee you or me; that THIS WON'T EVER
happen to you, or someone who you love mother fuckiGN dearly
as all get out shit!!!! So it is thus my sincere hope, that when I am
no longer dreaming that I am Mark Wayne Mohr, in this particular
precise atomic signature and vibration of fifth dimensional STM
cosmos (hyperspace); that it does strike
others, lots of others, and then you all come to my final
resting spot. Come to a stinky bone-yard of decaying disgusting
maggot riddled filth and rot; and scream for me
to come forth, like Jesus did, with his old pal Lazzy, 2000
years ago almost now. Only I won't come fucking
forth. You are not the great Almighty
King Akoslem here in the flesh, and I will NOT respond; but
will lay there physically, dead revolting fucking worthless remains;
and your problems will go on and on forever, and you will now be the
ones all hopeless and fuckiGN lost!!!!!!!!!!!!!! So WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE,
and all that nice whittle mother fucking ass jazz, YO!
MY
COUSINS DON'T KNOW ME, MY DAUGHTER DOES NOT KNOW ME, AND YOU ASSHOLES
DON'T EITHER, BANK ON IT. YOU MAY HAVE ALL MY 1988 AND 1989 RANTS
FROM THE U.S. © OFFICE, BUT YOU DON'T HAVE A FUCKING CLUE,
BUTTWIPES!!!!!!!
If
one pound of cluelessness was worth a dime, you'd all be
multimillionaires even if you lost the fortunes you already had.
AHA-AHA-AHA-AHA
STARE CHASE AND BANKS OF MCNULTYVILLE, AND WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!
For
someone who would literally fucking kill to avoid seeing constant
daily ONES in a string, after this bitch fucked up my life
permanently with her ONES attack in 1993 on me at the ball-field in
Atlanta, Georgia, why oh why oh why, dear Dorothy, not can't I, but
why do I, see these ONES, over and over and over, try so hard as I do
to avoid this nightmare? THIS PROVES A LOT OF THE THINGS I SAY IN MY
MORIANITY, as in a small way, her assaults on me all these decades
and years, is almost well worth it, Mizz muscle girl Jane!
Witch-Bitch
Witch-Bitch
Witch-Bitch Witch-Bitch
Witch-Bitch
Witch-Bitch Witch-Bitch
Witch-Bitch
Witch-Bitch Witch-Bitch
Witch-Bitch
Witch-Bitch Witch-Bitch
Witch-Bitch
Witch-Bitch Witch-Bitch
Witch-Bitch
Witch-Bitch Witch-Bitch
Witch-Bitch
Witch-Bitch Witch-Bitch
Witch-Bitch
Witch-Bitch Witch-Bitch
Witch-Bitch
Witch-Bitch Witch-Bitch
Witch-Bitch
Witch-Bitch Witch-Bitch
Witch-Bitch
Witch-Bitch Witch-Bitch
Witch-Bitch
JaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJane!!!!
AHA-AHA-AHA-AHA-AHA-AHA-AHA
MMCN.
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I
know you won't mother fucking cunt chewing believe me, but my word
document is now reading 'page
eleven of eleven'; so each side; because of this cunt
lapping mother fucking November Eleven date; is showing four ones,
for a cunt sniffing total now of eight mother fucking ones. Only
dying and going to cunt chewing fucking HELL back on 8-15-1986,
can possibly mother fuckiGN rationally explain all of this, all these
mother fucking asshole dam years now, and it never ever stops and it
won't dick licking ever fucking end for me, not EVER NEVER NEVER
FUCKING EVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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Donna
said, it will be all right, in the morning light, old ex-partner, but
she was part of some real wild mother fucking shit, right down to a
series of coincidences one day while we were operational with SPR.
Right shy a few months of when we cut that Harner garbage album over
at Philly's Fresh Tracks Sound Studio, I got into a nasty fucking
automobile accident, right outside of the Berlin, New Jersey Circle
Shopping center as it was called then. As we both know, the circle
ain't fuckiGN there no-mo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! W—O—W Mister
Macy-Pass Savings. BUT, this accident was right on Route 561, and I
was heading up to Billy Harner's Barber Shop on Haddon Avenue to try
and talk him into doing that bullshit with us. While on my way over
top see this artist, BANG, the car in front of me stops real fucking
abruptly. In it, is Donna and her kid, on the way up to the old
Russel Music Store on Beidamin Avenue near the old defunct Garden
State Race Track. I crash into one artist, on my way over to see
another artist. So in all honesty, sir PPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP; I ask you,
kind sir. JUST WHAT WERE THE FUCKING ODDS OF THIS??????????????????
Holy mother fucking MO, without the emulation of 1972 chases and 2008
October flashback dream-memories!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Yes,
my monthly figure is at rock bottom, and pretty soon, I will be dead
and gone on-line, as well as off-line!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Celebrate
PPPPPPP, you always wanted me to fail since the fuckiGN day I handed
you the keys to your whittle kingdom that you named, THE
SONG SHOP, and Sally Starr knew this all along. Why she turned
on me is anyone's guess. I have recently merely named it Hyperspace
Equation Nightmare Mechanics, you know, as in Incollingo's and cup
cakes, and illegal unregistered vehicles, and various tasty fucking
berries, and on and on and on. I told you, I believe, Mizz Karen
Simons, nearly two fuckiGN decades back, and I quote, “I seem to
be a universe-hopper”. Oh well, I suppose it beats being a
universe-pooper, but I suppose if all honesty is included in the
fucking deal, that would merely be all thrown into the same package.
WEEEEEEEEE!
UP-UP-UP-UP,
FOREVER!d
So
just when is the right time, in SATAN'S BOOK, for hurting MARK WAYNE
MOHR, as well as completely destroying him and his miserable fuckiGN
life forever and ever? If such an instructional manual were ever to
be discovered hidden in this world, you know, like the Dead Sea
Scrolls were; it would say turn to the next page, and each page would
end with that same sentence, but before you get to the end, it would
read as follows:
THAT
is when you can kick the bastard in the balls about eight to twelve
times.
Jesus
fucking Christ Almighty, YO!!!!!!!!!! Coincidence
should be my middle name; huh old pal and sportscaster, sir,
Mister Harry Callas? That's
always a dam possibility in the mix of interactive life! Well
folks, I sure as shit don't need Hollywood-Hyperspace to help me out
here with any fucking cute ass ideas, SHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEIT!!!!!!!
“I
WILL kick you in the balls, and think nothing of it”. I
sure as shit sure as shit WILL
kick you in the balls!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
THIS
PARTICULAR WRITING TERMINATES HERE.
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