Motherfuckers Forget About Me, Eh? By Ben Carson

I accidentally ate a manila folder this morning.

Oh shit, look who decided to pop back up. It’s me, motherfuckers, Ben Carson. Yeah I bet you haven’t heard that name in months. Too busy with your Bannons and your Conways and Kushners and Scaramucci’s. Yeah y’all had fun with that last one. How’d that work out? In and out like a five-buck hooker. Reality check bitch: I’m here to stay.

You probably forgot how crazy I am. Remember that shit about the Pyramids storing grain? That’s the least of what I believe now. Guess what dumb fucks: I think the statues on Easter Island are rocket ships to Heaven. I think the Louve is a sex dungeon and the Washington Monument is made of nickels and fuck it, I think camels are lame. Dumb cloven-hooved cocksuckers. Shit: Ben Carson is back baby.

Don’t sleep on Benny C. Just ’cause I don’t go on CNN every day means I’ve gotten “normal?” I’m a Christian, baby: I’ll beat you to death with a golden cross and piss on your grave. Then I’ll take your mom out for tuna fish sandwiches on a Friday afternoon. I’ll tap that ass out of the Age of Aquarius.

I’m a little sick boy. I’ve spent the last month personally hanging unfilled stock picture frames in every single public housing building in America. Un-fucking-filled. I’m absolutely nuts motherfuckers. Don’t you forget.

I’ll slap Oprah Winfrey. Fucking try me. I’m a sleepy little menace with access to paper clips. But Ben, what could you possible do at the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development? I’ll steal your kids, that’s what.

I’m Ben Carson, baby. I’m a crazy. Don’t you forget it.