Circle A Ranch Now Recruiting Underage Runaways

The collective is sure, sustainable. It has all the amenities...of the last century: water from a tap, but nothing that flushes. No hot means you don't shower as much on cold days. But then you don't perspire as much anyway, so it's pretty much between you and the animal you sleep with. I like women. Except in the morning. But I generally prefer them for lovers. Over farm animals definitely.

What do we grow? What do we do? We grow grapes. Lord Bacchus must be served. And Dion can come. But that elitist jerkoff Apollo who rents us his truck? Nah.

Potheads can grow their shit here, but don't smoke it anywhere but the backwoods. Otherwise it just looks like another stupid habit, something you should do everyday. And it smells bad. You think skunk farts smell good you inbred fucking Dead fan? Nay there, brah.

We have bands: Six almost dead punkers that all play guitar fighting over the Telecaster. Fun shit: throw 'em a pick and say 'Oi!' Like that premillenial joke about throwing Jews a coin. I can't remember.

Get it yet? It's the Capital A Circle A muthahfocking ranch. Where I do what I do and you do whatever the fuck you want but just do it over there. And make it quick. Five-Ohs and shit. And make it a double.

And mind-deafening pussy for days. We got that. Runamay home for underage chix. We rehabilitate them. Get 'em back on pharmies. Crack. Ecstasy. Whatever they want. Meth lab's by the 7-11. Satan in a jar-o. Run from your daddy-o. Go fool. Just go. We're waiting for you, jackass fool. Merde. Hendrix posters burning like that stupid ass guitar Monterey thing.

I walk in beauty like the night. And fuck you, Lenny Bruce died for my right to say that. Onstage, under the limelights. So, in His name, fuck you. You cock-hiding slag. Blast your venomous death-rays and mild innuendoes. Impale you on the rod of justice. Fuck poetry.

How do you tell someone who asks you, hey how was your weekend? Well, I avoided suicide. They're taken aback. They simply are. I was between making a molotov for the bank and stealing some bread when it came to me. She came to me. My hard-on was bouncing off my trousers like a dog I wouldn't let in. And I'm like 'no'. No. Just no. You that li'l girl Serene who 'oh no'. Li'l mulatta cute as fuck niece/sister whatever the fuck of my connex? Oh no stop knocking on my door. Stop knocking. Serious as that heart attack you give out. You want a penis buttend sandwich? Get lost girl and when you do come come of age. I won't be here. Go to the Circle A ranch. They'll take you in.

I'm gonna rent a sawzall , take it into the BofA and start chopping up their marble counter tops with my pants down so I can be defecting as I do so. Then, to the airport to hijack a plane to Rio. Always wanted to blow up that big fucking Jesus. And with a plane in my hands I can just fly, I mean program to fly cuz I'm not going down in that bird. Fuck that noise. Ain't no jihaadist shit. Just another random anarchist trying not to get out of this life without achieving a grandiose, for the record books, manifestation of the flying eagle middle-finger double-fisted 'fuck you' that society truly deserves. I think the Vatican has a lot of guards, so...Rio.