The Ghost of The Return of Pillsbort's Ghost Returns (feat. Tordon Gordon)

Behold! An amazing animal with bad grammar spreads an incredible swath of lurid settlement with nuggets of gooooooooold! Classy chassis motors intimated with s**t. They stared at my glorious ham sandwich. It done got rambunctious so there’s that. Waggling dog tails waggle ad infinitum. Impenitent buggers unite in my secret armpit, betwixt possible danger! Leprechauns stymied the election, vicious votes tallied, no one wins.

            “Democratic schmemocratic, I just want the lizards to stop ruining Easter!”

            Miscellaneous detritus hoodlums panic? Tordon Gordon, the hero of deep cuts, bled for b-sides.

            “Mama, make daddy a round of sliders or else I’ll piss in a really large tuba,” said Fox.

Mildew, blanches hombres.

“Madre rios,” squeals Fox’s Lego He-Man.

Sugared persimmons induced a coma in the b-hole. Karma does hard hitting right in your jowls, ya scallywag! Jumpin’ Jerry’s good-time kazoo with primordial flaps, entertained orangutans during the inauguration of emperor Snoogly-Blipzz, lord of Frigglin Froodleboopz.

“Attack Scrob-doddly Snoddleglarnz, and steal the Shlangshlordillin Plarpadaglorp!”

The gibberish was appropriate. The orangutans hardly bothered to cheer, preferring instead singing like Carmen “Cheeks” McPoon. Rob Thomas caressed Carlos Santana who hummed Chuck Mangione. Human Behavior, which was a cover of Bjork.

“Let’s be smooth as sandpaper, girl, and my loins will will,” he stuttered, “Tordon Gordon will will die.”

On the willed winkies of the blood stained fists was the title of a book written by a robot. Tordon Gordon, robot chef, prepared a delicious motor oil pudding. Customers died. However, tissues were preserved, being soaked within jars of Tordon Gordon’s squeaky clean knee pit juice. Tordon Gordon named his accordion “Fartbox,” after Fartbox Druer, earl of the druids.

“Thpppppppppbbbt!” debuted the instrument.

Dulcet melodies echoing throughout the hallways of Tordon Gordon’s filthy bus.

“I gotta fever for the flavor and favor of a dead Tordon Gordon.”

“Robots should be destroyed,” said Obidiah.

“Clearly,” said the antagonist, “me, a common pig. Pork is clearly just sinful. Tordon Gordon will surely flourish until we next decide fine dining establishments.”

GO FORTH, piglets and wreak starving dips within waxed asses. Follicular blubblez popped, oozing noodles from grand Dandy’s doodles.

“Help! I need somebody! Hell! Not just any devil! Beelzebozo! I need a satanic clown to drink blood for money.”

Alas, the Donald Fagan memorial baby is losing his sense of smooth balls due to the onslaught of puberty.

“Shave ‘em,” said John Lennon, who wrote love songs for his ball-satchel league team mates: Lefty Sanchez, Two Thumbs Thornton, Jerusalem Palestine, Gary, and the catcher, Cuba Gooding Junior, Jr.

Practice John, the orphan boy, their coach, confidante, and hula national champion of Nairobi, threw a terrible tantrum, crying, “I WANT MY HORSE TO RUN FOR PRESIDENT OF THE MOTOR HEAD KILMISTERS.”

His horse, Virgil, had sweaty bacon eyes. These hand cramps are crampy enough, I crave more herpes! Gambling is destroying, nay, buttjamming every guitar jubilee across Bandit Town. Tordon Gordon sprung a coil, erupting oily joy robot jizz inside Virgil’s secret salty computer liver. Romance captivates my giggling gremlins grind the mind, but what’s the point? Success! Failure! All these attempts break orgasms wore fuckly gutted JNCOs. Loose s***s, cool beans, fast tits, slow jeans, these are a few of our favorite memes.

“Dogs hate robot everything,” robots said.

Emperor Snoogly-Blipzz and Tordon Gordon are in CAHOOTS at the Ol’ Den of Sidewinder’s Bar & Grill & Delicatessen. They plan to eradicate savory cheezesteakz.

“Tordon, make poodles devour tarantula legs dunked in juice.”

Which made Tordan, Tordon’s creator, tordified. Retorded torrents. Retorts flooded tortoise tornadoes against towers while torturing gnomes. Titular sideburns often learn where them treats be at. Snacks are good, snacks buddy, SNACKSSSSSSSSSSSSS, does a body pancake.

“Let’s be aware of my accolades: First place in the ham race, honorable mention longest class detention, runner up smelliest hiccup.”

These jokers, prestigious in their achievements, are totally unprepared for the clam toss finals. Goddamn Drops McGee fooled us by making cakes shaped just like a clam.

“Mommy, why can I see your dead boyfriend, Bill?”

At the clam toss finals, Dead Bill tossed 247 paper wrapped clams resulting in flawless victory at the smellympics. The other events: the shrimpjump, one handed baby spinning, citrus sniff, blind fantasy football, and Uno. Sven Schopple, Bill’s killer, and the world champ of shrimpjumpin’, killing, and Uno, and some other stuff, sat in Topeka. He pondered about Ponderosa baked potatoes and what a pond would be doing on Saturn. Dead Bill from Topeka rolled a fat, fattie fat, you know, burrito. Delicious, but dangerous.

“Whoa, what kinda s**t-a*s, dick-stank, tadpole, mariachi band arrangements, sittin in a port-a-john, munchin on a dang whole pack of gum crappola is going on?” axed Jerry from the ‘hood.

‘Tis the reason fer da fucken Russians, those commie summmmbitches, fiddlin’ with each other, reminds me of dat one war between spandex queens and Zanx Xanax, space hippie. Nowadays, Zanx is sledding up Mount Jeebusafax coughing souls into the void. Planking forever causes desperation. Silently, Sven Schopple and Old Porkums docked penises. In other words they went steady for 3 years until marriage ruined taxidermist chemical dick tattoos. Naturally Doritos cure full-on Full House addiction. It processed his relationship status downloading disapproving nuns while a wombat combats homosexual bonobo accusations against Flipwrist Waveygrin. The court ruled Tordon Gordon’s software groovy beyond BeGees was infected by a fever. Tordon Gordon declared total war upon Jamaica. Marley McPotson leader of the BeGees, and Flipwrist Waveygrin’s special technique counter-declared “Hold yer dang butt whistlebritches.”

Tordon Gordon understood statistics, he has the best lemonade AND investment portfolio. The war was fought around tremendous bongs, couches, and the ashes of dead characters. Tordon threw Marley, the dog, and Marley McPotson across the Rio Grande lunch buffet at The Rio Grande. Meanwhile, Treasure Chester and Leather Vester were crushed by the loss of their heads.

“Chester, best grab dat pussaaay, then mosey over to the mortuary for preparation H-infused H-bomb diarrhea.”

Vester died quickly because war, man…war. War never bakes a mustard cake for great Uncle Frangela’s retirement party disco night jam extravaganza. Marley McPotson furiously toked up while fat dripped slowly.

“Drip, drip drippity, my whip whippity skips flips and honey-dips just the tips.”

Magma ConAgra wept like he was on the top of Boo-Hoo Sissy Mountain. His tears like, flew from The Valley of The Horned Horses. Maneuvering catapults cream goblin beavers upon buttery popcorn. Your toes. Battle intensified between Tordon’s forces and The Earl of Manwich. The Earl used meaty swords taken from brawny ducklings to force accidental marriages between robosexuals. Tordon Gordon got hard. Harder than a titanium dowel rod with diamond pincers and an adamantium rivets. We felt hammered, but Slint slithered his way down the slide. Schweaty flakes cascading off ruthless dingerz hit by a wombat first-baseman from the New York Fuggedaboutits.

“TOODALOO my dear, I’m disintegrating into heart shaped fart bubbles!”

Perhaps we made an error staying on the island. Why did geese laugh at my collection of coconuts? Because it is s****y. Elsewhere laughing dolls watched the bouncing n*****s whirligig and cats emulating Master P, The Ice Cream Man, Boy George, hijacked the S.S. Captain Crunch.

“Ahoy! I’ve snuggled countless pine trees, covered in bees, while munchin on scenery,” said Tordon Gordon.

Today the moon squeals in delight at the sight of carbon monoxide infested ghosts terrorizing emotions without solid crumbles of morality goat cheese. A vat of slurm oozed insidiously over our brainz giving off tyranny vibez. Camping in a cabin near a pile of PT Cruisers laced with teenage naiveté, Tordon Gordon made a stunning debut on TV’s #1 hit show: Jowls: Miami. It was beloved by one elderly Jewish bulldog. Tordon Gordon, rumpled and messed, sat on the can, groveled and pushed out maximum files, Rockford Files.

In Terror Gate, home of the Cuddle Bunniez, darkness consumed Fluffernutter, the bunnies’ leader. Her fluffy ears perked up at the sound of Slayer, but her tail, sadly, doubled in size. Her legions of bunnies, armed with smaller bunnies, for tossin’, built out of Ford trucks, slumbered on beds made of reinforced steel. The forcefield of dreams guarded Fluffernutter’s treasure, hundreds of wet DIAPERZ and dank mac n’ cheese.  Worms glide like porpoises, traversing caverns filled with blood. Tordon Gordon starved, he wept, then sang hymns. Rapture seeks new sheets woven from looms operated by clandestine Satans.

Velvet Revolver disbanded piglets yeah, babe. The army of bunnies manufactured Tordon Gordon’s signature HOMI-SLIDE, a piece of equipment intended for efficiently power-murdering of lame-o’s. Those damn pieces were a b***h to assemble. But giving hand jibbers increased dexterity for wrist action, so kiss those urgent massages buh-bye. What can one robot say about life that hasn’t already been beeped and bleeped? But bloops are only as good as the actions, and bleeps blorp blop badabing! Translating to Malay, “Fist me rotten Rodney!”

The robot was turning slightly kinky and very self-aware. His penetrator, what he calls his main circuit board, pulsed.

“So?” shrugged Miss Ann Thrope, “Can those babies find me ripe inside?”

Apples inform worms that occupancy requires a philosophy of fertilized tungsten digestion. Yummy.

“Barclay! Hoist those gizzards to my nostrils, so I may jam the aroma milk betwixt my quivering knees,” said Barclay’s grandma, Gertrude.

Chubby Checker’s fictitional tale of waffles infesting interesting pianos captivated auto-erotic horsey clams in the mouth holes. Tordon Gordon imported fish from the past by way of time canoes into existence. The fish caressed their gills until they expressed exotic flavors and requested a comeuppance from the Parliament of Funkadelic. Bootsy Cosby, the bass-rapist, raped wrapped basses in kimchi spaceships for the audience of galactic pirates.

“How ripe are your rinds, bruh?” exclaimed Bootsy Cosby, “Sweet Bajeeba, Tordon! Praise Ghost Face Killah! Spit in my ideas and call Fuzzy Biz Juice ™ copyright infringement lawyers.”

The juize squared that hammer and shamed the shogun reeds screaming, “Mullets 90s huzzah!”

Robbing, looting, gun shooting, butt pooting, and whistle tooting, is not frowned upon…ever. However, according to 1 in 10 doctors, pants made of old folks irritate your grandparents. Once there is substantial widening among waistlines, granny and gramps provide ample amplification for the rock band Slippin Jimmies who only play the song “Don’t Trend On Me” until the audience dies. Dying turds, for my toilet nerds! Shave carefully, else you will nick the special bits and ruin da mattress. Ouch.

“Camdy Cameltoe,” she introduced herself, “wonderful jeggings today,  ladies. Good work!”

And then, a pair of stuffed labia burst onto the scene, swiping the narrative only to break through preconceived notions of childbirth. 100% of toads agreed, warm swarms harm marms and scar RATT MYAN.

“Touchdown,” yelled RATT but was she really just talking to goat mother Jessie, champion of Jupiter?

“I just want to say good luck, we’re all counting on you,” he jokingly joked.

Loud mufflers pooted soot colored popcorn gnomes. The far yeast grew the fertile croissant and provided cannoli buckets, but only on tugboats. Flaccid javelins tapped to ruin the hologram holy land Olympic games, sponsored by Gogurt Blasters: XXX-TREEEEEME SNAXXX! Tordon Gordon and Miss Ann Thrope wrangle ogue raffle tickets, searching through the bottom towards a dim-witted halfwit named Handsome Ransom. Handsome Ransom was Tordon Gordon’s duck dealer hornswaggled in salt gravy.

“Maggots writhing all over Branden are pregnant with huge turds of undigested Betty White clones!”

If we wear pork shorts we can poop Betty Whites until the bowels roar uncle! Tordon Gordon revealed tricks for doing dishes now that the horns of morning blared dicks for chicks propaganda. Sickening babies, a plan concocted by the American Academy of Pediatrics, relapsed when widespread Chlamydia navigated this sentence into dark territory. Meanwhile, Pilsbort’s alternate reality representation disintegrated into Tordon Gordon’s evil clone: Gardan Tardan. Mysterious frost monsters grew from the last sweaty membrane of a giant, undulating amoeba.

Drinking chai tea after Tai Chi, Tordon Gordon glared at Gardan Tardan with loving rage. They secreted away to necrotic crotches, clutching brochures for crutches featuring silicone legs and dirt. The manager was a cat. Toonces was his name.

“No, that’s dumb,” thought no one.

Except all humans that had dead souls and unhappy hearts. Not. The cat had no name, but everyone called her Toonces. They were not active. Dogs, however, are known pawsome ambassadogs to the community of dead batteries. Throughout herstory cats and dogs warned one day a gigantic green weed would love for us to vacuum our minds.

Cautiously, Tordon Gordon implemented marshall law but sweet sweet Sassy A*s-Nasty naysayed the end.

“Here comes cargo rabbit hoppin’ Swishy Watson playing the stock market’s bottle spins?” asked Ramblin’ Jambles.

“Please don’t do that advantageous dance until my children are presented with knobs of bitter justice!” lambasted Knobby Nelson while sipping gravy from a goat skull.

The Mexican gravy oozed deep from Tordon’s flaming cavity. Rotten gravy teeth widen into tombstones not unlike the Epiphany, nay the Epipenphany. Drugs and a deckle of beef make for the best anniversary. Tordon Gordon called out “BRANDADS MADE ME CRACK THE CODE. NOW BEHOLD, THE DOME OF HOOSIER!”

Disappointed, everyone burned Caribbean ganj, and sang “For He’s A Jolly-Good Fellow” to Com Trean who led nobody.  That f****r saves goals for Jeebus. Whammy!

I slap salamanders with baseball bats and feel slander has occurred as I chase mall rats, believe me. Ladies know Lady Snow melts belt buckles with felt suckles upon a lawn treated with dead cicadas. Belligerent detergent coated the lips of pipsqueaks and puppies. Tordon Gordon cackled and challenged Guss Graglehofner to a deep web corpse haul, traditional among netizens of the electro-nougat.

Those niece’s knees lean codeine against half-assed brochefs. Stone Cold Steve Austin never uses pseudo-nymphs to advance his agenda of scanning barcodes on miniature flippy demon wiggle s***s. Tordon Gordon still crushes life cereal. “CINNAMON EYES!” and wipes a rental powerwasher down without the required knobs infused with colloidal silver as indicated.

Lady Snow hid knobs in the brochef’s honeyhole. Upon entry, Emperor Snoogly-Blipzz tumbled forth, and fifth, and fifty seventh ranked and spanked professional Yu-Gi-Oh players.

James Ben Branden Jeremy Sam Dexter Bob Rone Josh and Sater knew the story wasn’t over yet. Returning next hour with good sacks lacking facts cuz cousins fax, Pillsbort The Resurrected sawed off chicken late on a Sunday night all because Paytown Manners used up all his lawyers’ chocolate butts. But whenever melodramatic marshmallow knives slash yetis, confetti flies and then you’re dead.

Pillsbort died, anyway.

Irrevocably.

Seeping from nowhere, riches unfathomable poured down onto the living Pillsbort. Repetitive story arcs continue always and forever. The end. Praise be. Except no. Of course luck be a daisy tonight. Oh my!

Cankles Hoblemins, curator at the dense megalopolis, enjoyed Walton Goggins’ noggin spores. With 24 days left, Pillsbort hurried kitchen elves into shams until…”HOW are there already 1600 comments?!” Kraitee Queston rudely interrupted. Interjecting commentary into board meetings attended by grandpas from Iceland.

Mylanta cocktails sloshed on herpetic asteroids as Miss Metroid meddles with mud. Lists and rules, all suck at creating finely tuned bullshit inhibitors, but are excellent and fun at nothing except grammarians participles. Costco has tremendous participles and easily reachable mayonnaise pockets, but not this.

Bloody objects, interior defense minister, plague test kits, free sandlewood from Bulgaria, and password-protected reactors. Do not clip plankton after Easter breakfast. Only wear ham on your face during the big one. Smell moonshine before entering Granny’s darkness.

“Can’t let ‘em hornswaggle us rhinophyma sufferers!” said Crazy Carl, sipping on Carl juice. Carl juice contains auntie’s oxidants, ham, cinnabon crumbles, baked beans, yabba-dabs, slippy-whips, phosphorous calidifate, wisecracks, and statistics. Turn a dead eye lid upside-down to charm nasty dumplings into tasty diapers.

“We do filthy bebop baby. Come over and shake something l we’re overtly cucked.” said Carl.

“Depth charges deployed!” affirmed Carl. Ominous wonders aloud, exclaimed property has strange hands. Perhaps burlap chaps with chimichurri satiated hungry teenage rage beasts high on propane attacking political pundits would vote.

Hissy Fitz serviced automobiles down by the creek until a gorgeous telephone washed ashore covered in cowboy maggots. That festive gun brought calamity clams to our table. Derisive spies groused imminent tuberculosis noses while goals kicked won’t win a trip to Titsburg, Titsylvania!

You blew it, Sam. “Fuuuuuuuuuuck” sighed someone else.

Surprise you’re dead. Hey uncool thighbone, McJagger. Leave this all on the dresser, baby. House fire blazed chron don a tad bit weepy but indoor horse neighed. Nippled wallpaper spurted lemony wisps among the Garfield vs Heathcliff conspirators, shouting “Why drip chip goo glops on clumpy lumps when Mr. Cellmate spreads fresh creamed basil yogurts.”

A rumbling bowel prolapse is nothing but a spark plug diatribe funkwater honky tonk. These cigars are making everything magically smoke-damaged! Deep in dance with flannel pants, check for ants until you slip and slide into a lobster trance. Dogs dream specifically about eating infinite c**k rockets. The images liquefy and stain the shirt of Henry Rollins just before Christmas.

“Remember Tordon?” wondered Pillsbort’s ghost. “That guy had it all, chicken wings, turkey legs, an albino robot, and stamina. But what can kill love?”

Down, the band. Nah, bro.

Fire on the f****n Mouth Horse is my jam. Total collapse perhaps might be cannibalism of a certain species of were-aardvark whose counting crows ‘round here. Too soon. Pillsbort lives!! Cried Smoosh Magoosh.

Pain rules the lower half, but alas, the deep half stings so good. Head on down for the biggest , grumpiest mattress salesman this side of the west side of the far side of Kittle’s Home Furnishing Annex. Contrary to tasting styles, it begs constantly for non-grumpy memes. Thieves bake leaves three ways: brickhouse, brick shithouse, and s**t brickhouse.

Wood burns, burning into the night. “Smells like turds roasting over cinnamon piss!” caroled Woodyard Woodsniffer, heir to The Woodchucking Cuck Club.

Only 4 days left until oozing flu babies vacate downtown offices for the block party of doom. Mania not Pania nor Insania flowed like weight gania in the buttamia. A ruptured hamper full of cat boxers stained with lung butter will be displayed throughout the museum of Jesus. Amen.

Call your mother occasionally, or prepare for ticks. The fox f***s every faux fur faking fig fragments forgetting fealty to Lord Fraggle. Fraggle waggles his ham hocks around the maypole while Lady Toilet Trauma chomped ferociously on a stick of licorice. Rice popped and locked to SLAYER singing, “Papa was Satan” and Daddy ate hair from the beard of Gary Coleman.

The campground was deserted of all nut illuminati biscuits and egg milk did wonders for the ole knee caps. Jermaine Dupri with the Ferrari shoes screaming “Get wet, bro! We be dangling like heyyyyyyyyyy Welcome to Atlanta, sipping on Mylanta, wanna stop but I canta, poopin’ out my pantsa, b***h.”

Exterior: pants!

Pan out: Hulk Hogan

Sound: tiny

In the distance cowboy eagles shout “Look out!” as pods of lumberjack orcas quietly submerge thinking, "my innards imploding.” A beacon clanged, it was amazing. Bedtime bosom buddies but secret doorbusters in the morning, it’s typically racist.

“My friend please take order! You no should shake a*s for Cookie Monster!” bleated Beetlejuice.

My guy at the docks sells cans chock-full of chalk to underworld cats who groom bats hit Brandangelina Jolene.

“Whhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” screamed the screaming thing.

On this day Jim Jamz loads the final VIDEO GAMEZ up in his computer.

First level: magic t*****s.

Second level: super balls.

Grab your parachutes fuckerz we’re scootin and tootin all over the back of a real dinger. Wouldn’t peanuts chafe the hell out of his nutsack, bro? Yeah prolly.

Mini-Boss Level: The Communist Acrobat high on nilla wafers and crushed up drywall. His special ability: Double Butt Twin Spinz.

You know toenails aren’t sentient anymore now that nature huffs dog farts.

Bonus level: get the s**t with 100 MINUTES LEFT!

Your mom has decided that since Jim isn’t paying attention, this story is now officially over.

The end.