Flipper
Generic Flipper

THE REVIEW

How the fuck can you... HOW THE FUCK CAN YOU!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAA; plain yogurt, plain yogurt, for scrotum skin compresses. Besides peeing in the sink, I pee in my mouth every morning; urine therapy wasn't exactly my choice. The side effect of the libation is the tendency to wash my hair in the toilet, flushing. Be sure to get your vitamins, acquire them, prepare yourselves, obey the poisoning. If I go out, the best thing that happens is that a vase falls on my head and I die. What kind of childhood did you have? How many times were you "vaccinated"? AAAAAAAAAAAAA*

When I wake up, I never remember my dreams, I never dream, or do the cynical and cowardly aliens steal those too? If I go to the sea, I naturally drown! And if not, there's always that "shark" ready. And of course, I roll over in the car if I go on a day trip. It's the fault of the wildflowers that got mad when I pointed out they smell like a cemetery. You must understand that we're the type who, if we're dying of thirst in the desert and there are two of us, we open our wrists and drink each other's blood, imagine when hunger arrives! AAAAAAAAAAA•

Do you wash your face in vomit every morning? Try, try it, and you'll see that some lousy picky psychic vampire will get off your back. What the fuck should I tell you, do you think we make music? Come to our barber, come, come. Do you really like what we play? AAAAAAAAAAAA™

We're surrounded, we're surrounded. You know what I'm talking about, right? Then go get screwed with those stories of marginalization, of maladjustment you pin on us, think about health. We're fine like this. We're living 'a tale, our tale, besides riding the wave, we're on the vein. You need to give a part of your anatomy with no return to understand: cherries, what beautiful cherries, OH! what beautiful cherries! There's that fucking gut of meat with an eye that spies on me, isn't there? AAAAAAAAAAAA®.

It's not self-destruction that's our martyrdom but your closeness!!! Fucking "normal" people, consider our existence, this persisting in believing in free will is mind-blowing. You're curious about the trip, right? Make yourself comfortable... Bleeding is our daily yearning, after all, "love rhymes with heart." Do you always have a hammer at hand? You know, for those ticks of parasitic astral entities that think in our place, as soon as one relaxes a bit and appears, bang, a hammer blow. AAAAAAAAAAAAA.

We bust their balls with our music, we track them down, we unearth them, we uproot them, we crush them, overflowing with anal fisting for their broken asses, we give back a bit of the pain begrudgingly endured by our dilated sphincter, we express the prolapse of the banging we've suffered to this day unbeknownst to us. "There's someone who decides everything I do, and it's not me": now the gravy train is over, in the mirror, our anus throbs in place of the Cardio when we decide, we're really in shape. It's time for everyone to experience the whistling diarrhea instead of a shower, the post-vomit squirt wheeze to serve as an alarm for the assembly of falsities. There's no going or returning here, a nice gift, don't you think? AAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

It's a LOVE screamed at an impersonal pride that has busted the way to screw the continuous bullshit surrounding us, endorsed with tacit approval by that fake-ism of being "citizens," which drops the balls of those who want to mind their own business... With its soul level at ground floor, here's the wonderful democratic society immersed in lies, all in the hands of the low astral. And then it happens that someone does something others don't, and it’s over for our reproductive tanks: what do you do? why do you do it? how come? and why like this? and why don't you do it like that? and why don't I do it instead of you? The less we consider, the more they tear our nerves apart. We've acquired the patience of saints, we thank and bless with foul invective strikes wherever I hit... AAAAAAAAAAAA!!!

Very current in this period of carnivalesque paroxysm, they invite us to put the mask in front of the asshole, since it is now mathematical that humanity has its brain near its ass. They diversify disgust to avoid having rational, coherent, modern, punctual, magnificent, lousy humanity shit on their cock by taking the second pigeon in discouraging proselytism and epigones by not giving a shit about the "goodness" of the masters who think of our well-being: "I’m coming too, no you're not," automatically, with a built-in "fuck off" liberating everyone, Bombolo teaches.

They preempt the ultimate frequency to cauterize the enslavement of the family tree that drags us into feeding invisible realities around us that do not belong to us. But this is the game, this is the gym that passes through these paradisaical sounds (yes, thank God) because the deception also passes in believing that dumbfound peace reigns in Paradise. Not a chance, up there they play "foosball" with an eternal tendency to tilt it, and in this bloody cherubic air instead of "no smoking" we read "mandatory spitting": the Archangels are blessed heads of assholes who mock as much as they want.

And the cynical musical performance of the Californians stems from the cosmic hoboism of the "initiated" and with a noise corkscrew uncorks the sophist diarrhea of the surroundings and escorts into the sewer the sight of uncovered vanities of pseudo-alternative positions, offering the other hip of a genuinely hairy and stinky upper-floor ass: I know you "mask"... Come on, let’s get out of the sun and make room for the young!

And finally, finally, finally, finally, finally, finally, finally: AAAAAAAAAA SHE'S A SEX BOMB MY BABY, YEAH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!