Bow Down To The King

Bow down to the King

I originally planned to discuss some random thoughts that have been swirling around in my fucked up head today, but as you all well know that is a dangerous proposition. Chances are, I'd start talking about Dominic Raiola and I would end up gibbering about werewolf sex or writing really fucked up Back to the Future fan-fic again or describing the size and texture of a walrus penis and there are some things you just can't erase from your mind, you know? Oh hell, who am I kidding? We all know that I would probably just end up harpooning poor Drew Stanton again while my eyes went all glassy and foam began to seep from the corners of my mouth. And so, to spare you all another trip down the rabbit hole of insanity that is . . . well, whatever the fuck this is (Ty told me I should rename the blog Wonderland's Basement, which, uh, is actually kind of perfect.), and because it is the holiday season and everyone is just sort of half-assing their way into the new year, I have decided once again to turn things over to Matt S., who once again has graced us with these words of wisdom from The King of the Lions Fans. My inbox overfloweth with creative genius and thou hast saved mine ass yet again, noble Matt. Anyway, here it is, and as usual, it is pretty damn great:


DE-FROST THY NETHER-HOLES, YOU SHIVERING KNAVES!

FOR THE KING IS A'PLUNDERING, AND HE WILL TOLERATE NO ICE UPON HIS PURPLE PLOW!

FIRST AND FOREMOST, the King would like to declare this day, Eight-and-Twenty of December, to be a day of feast and dance for time immemorial! HUZZAH! May every hearth have a spiral ham, and every gullet a flagon of Rock N' Rye! This is to be done in remembrance of the King's brave hordes of crack-heads, hundreds of whom gave their lives to dig out the King's chariot this morn. One after another, they piled atop the snowy dune that entrapped the King's 1975 Buick LeSabre, using the last of their meager body heat to melt the snow, centimeter by centimeter, until Jack Frost gave up his death-grip upon those two-tons of hardened De-Troit Steel.

And another HUZZAH! for the second wave of crack-heads that were tasked with removing the bodies of the first, for they too were woefully under-shrouded, and met a similarly frozen end. If only they had access to the King's vast array of fleeced sweat-pants, so that they could have spared their ashen legs the vicious bite of...Lo, what am I saying. It would take a dozen crack-heads to fill the King's trousers. They died as they lived--huddled under my chariot wheels.

AS I WAS SAYING! Were it not for these wretched bum-cicles, the King would still be snow-bound within his castle, watching his blue-cheese vats deplete at rate that can be described only as "alarming". Their sacrifice will not be forgotten, nor shall this past Lord's day, which saw the King's armies hoist the gnarled ham-bones of victory for an unprecedented third consecutive campaign!

DOWN into the swampy depths of equatorial hell did venture the King's immortal legions! DOWN into the trenches did they march, with spears sharpened and shields glistening! DOWN into the taut, water-slicked blowholes of those turquoise-clad mermen did they thrust their barbed loin-rods, rending flesh and blubber alike with equal disregard for the laws of man and nature!

GATHER ROUND, MY FROST-CLAD SUBJECTS, FOR I HAVE A QUERY!

Who among you would stand between a thundering herd of jungle cats and a freshly-laid spread of buffaloed wings?

None?

Well HUZZAH for you, for in staying your hand you have shown more sense than the King's last three conquests. Why do these fools insist on battling the King? What are they teaching in the schools of Green-Bay, if not Studies in Self-Immolation? What constitutes a normal Sun-day morning in the Bay of Tampa, if not vigorous ass-love with a broken bottle of E&J? What goes through the mind of the mucus-slicked porpoise-men of Miami, if not a paralyzing desire to be flayed and served raw with a side of creamed horse-radish? Why do they rush to die? If these hapless whelps continue to draw swords with the King's men, one can only gasp in horror at the twisted impulses that drive them.

HARK, on this frozen 'morn in the gilded realms of De-Troit, there exists not a soul who isn't clothed in the robes of victory. The symbolic robes of victory, of course. There are actually quite a few leprous curs within mine borders who haven't felt the warming embrace of clothing in many a harvest. But spare them not a thought, and certainly not a pair of fuzzy socks, for they would only use them as kindling 'neath their glass pipes. Indeed, the celebration shall penetrate long and deep into the virginal night! The King's armies are unvanquishable, and in half a fortnight's time, the bearded ass-pillagers of Minnetonka shall come a-knocking! And when they do, the King shall extend to them his customary greeting--a frozen sword driven right through their purple hearts.

All hail the King.