I wake up full of hate every morning.
What has that Gartland cocksucker been up to?
He loves nothing better than a blowout, 'first ketamine, gets you breathing, then some ya ba, gives the gin and tonic a kick, then an ecstasy tablet up the ass, nothing like a bit of love where I love the boys to plug me most.'
I love the smell of John Gartland in the morning.
I have a very successful podcast.
I asked the fucker at least three times if he wanted to be on it.
Three times, he ignored me.
But the moment I said I needed him to edit ten of my books, he was all over me.
All fucking over me like his Boyz Town fuck boys.
There's something sick, demented, dank, and rank about this guy.
He thinks he is Aleister Crowley.
He admires Charles Manson.
And he hates his wife.
I once called him on his mobile from Oz, and he was fighting with his wife.
'My business is my business.'
Well fuck a duck.
Was he asserting himself again?
Not sure, but I'm stretching my fingers a little bit to get out these evening dispatches.
'So what do you think people will think of you posting these character assassinations?' a friend thoughtfully asked.
I said my posts were accurate reflections of a narcissistic occultist who couldn't cook up porridge in a cauldron, let alone some elixir of life. Besides, I needed to get my $500 worth.
'So what do you think you are up to now, in terms of getting your money's worth.'
Another thoughtful question I said.
'About ten bucks,' I said, thoughtfully trying to answer his question, ' so that means there's still another $490 to go before we are even close to even.'
