“Stop singing and brush your teeth, you ugly piece of Irish Protoplasma!”

There once was a Jelinek, a great climbing master he lived in the Alps, on his head a mighty Rasta. Spending all his time in a pink camping van cause this guy was one lonely wolf of a man.

“Only in seclusion I can find happiness!”
the world really couldn´t care less.
“People stink and are basically boring, I rather be by myself and jerk off to Alonzo Mourning”

(No! Gay he was not. That was for sure, this writer just rhymes like a drunken whore.)

The only face Jelinek liked to see, was the one of a beautiful banshee. The Irish ghost, an harbinger of death, liked to drink warm beer and they also shared bread.

“You know, you gonna die soon” she whispered like a ghoul, her breath smelled like the ass of an sexually confused mule.
“As if, you crazy ghost! No one can hurt a man, who just lives by himself and is his greatest fan.”

But one day, Jelinek just smoked a lot of pot, he fell over, the reason surely a communist plot. Jelinek broke both his legs and also his liver, bringing this genius to crying a river.

“Help me, help me. I can´t reach the phone”,
his shouts only fell on deaf mountain stone. The Banshee appeared, a dark angel of hope, was she destiny´s saving rope?

“Please, You were right. I was a fool. Me dying would be rather uncool. Other people are neat, other people are important. I still want to bone Natalie Portman.”

The phantom walked over him and opened the fridge, didn’t say a word, that strange, hollow bitch. She took a beer and smiled at the man,
“Fuck you, Jelinek! I just want a can!”

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.