Today is Monday the twenty-ninth day of September in 2014 A.D.
Woke up at 3 AM with some fag punching me in the face. I now look like I finished a title bout with Tyson, literally. I have the customary twelve-round gash at the corner of the eye and the classic twelve-round gash on the top of the cheekbone, in addition to the shiner on the inside of the eye--not the entire eye, just the inside is blackened. Classic. That's because my face is so hard. Has nothing to do with how the fag hit me; has to do with where the bones are, like stretching a balloon over a carved bust and watching it tear on the edges. My fingertips aren't bruised, my fingernails aren't broken, my knockles aren't scraped, my clothes aren't torn: I had no part of the fight. As usual, as I have written about in the past, when the faggitt couldn't get into a full contact full grappling fight (I wasn't going to abandon my belongings so I just stood there while he punched at me) then, obviously, he started reaching for and tearing at my belongings--picking up this bag and that bag and whatever he could get his hands on and throwing it around the area. Nothing but faggitts.
Hit me again. Did it make your voice drop? No. Your voice didn't drop. You aren't any bigger man, you are still the faggitt.
Hit me again, faggitt. C'mon, get mad about it. Did I say something to make you mad? Do you feel angry and bad about f*cking animals and eating excremental feces for your money? Get mad about it, hit me again. There, are you able to keep your heels up when you walk? No? See, you're still the faggitt.
C'mon faggitt. Hit me again. Are you going to go f*ck another beast for your money? See. You're still the faggitt.
I wake up in a sense of "What the hell?" Oh, I know... I get it. I know what this is about. This is about you people f*cking your animals for your money, isn't it? Well, hit me again. See. You're still the faggitt.
Oh, I know. This is about your "right" to follow people around, to profile them, to stalk them, to wait in timed gangs around all the corners to come marching out on somebody. Two by two, one by one, three by three, to take your shots, shout at their head, step in their way, cut them off. This is your "game", isn't it? This is the way you make people "mad", the way you get them to yell and holler, so that you can call the police and say you don't know anything? This is your "right", your "way", isn't it? Well, hit me again faggitt. Get mad about it. See, you're the one getting mad, you're still the faggitt.
I've been telling the police for years that the problem is the faggitts and their animals. What happened at the beginning of the summer? The police took *me* to jail, booking me for "illegal lodging" and then settling me for "disturbing the peace". What happened last night? I got jumped in my sleep and beat up by one of the faggitts again. No credible threat to make it a stalking? Well, hit me again faggitt.
Too bad. Too many of the police, especially here in California, are themselves members of the doggie-f*cking faggitt club.
This is your way, huh? This is the way you beat your kids up and make them go "do it"? When you beat one of your little kids up like this then they give in and go f*ck the dog like you do for your money? You must feel really big beating up little kids less than half your height and making them have sex with animals and eat dogsh*t like you do for your money. Well, hit me again faggitt. See, you're still the faggitt. I guess your "way" doesn't work on a full-sized adult. Which you're not, because you're the faggitt.
Did your voice drop? It doesn't work like that. You don't make your voice drop by punching me. Punch me in the face all you like, faggitt, you're still going to hell. You are still the faggitt.
Chase me around the town. Follow me all night long. Sing your opposition to my dick. Pound your fist and insist that everybody "get nothing!!!" until they "go do it!". Get you and all your people together. Hide in the condos, hide in your cars, hide in the parking lots and around all the corners. Flood the area and case me around the block. Make people mad, get people upset, point the finger and blame at me.
See this blood on my face? This is your game. You're still the faggitt. Hit me again, faggitt. Get some more of your health club boys to stake me out all night long and come up and start punching me at 3 AM. You're still the faggitts. You're all big and bad f*cking animals and beating your children into it, but you can't even walk a few miles to save your own ass from getting pounded out by a reanimated set of cast-off sewing parts.
_YOU_ are still the faggitt.