Spiral of Beetles

"Remember this key piece of sexformation: Tumbling around makes you a GOD (erotic)"
we were taught that in every single class, of every single day, for what seemed like centuries. Da boys had dominated the educational system, driving the sanity of damn near every single student to nil. We were actively wasting our kinetic=potential energy. His embrace smothering our dying neurons, exterminating their glowing sense of wonder. We were merely flesh, the status quo would accept no divinity outside of itself.
His Neutral B was even scarier. The classes we took held us within the java cans, pentacostially screeching in the tongues of enoch. We had our eyes drilled open from the inside, trying to find meaning and hope in a world broken and fucked to death by an insidious group of slimy tentakles (no relation to my adoptive great-aunt)
"Give me a new world!" screamed the five pins pushing towards the ceiling, bursting it in both the blink of an eye but the sensual desires of a b(red) dog.
"No" was bellowed in the ancient tones of 8-octillion impossible lies coming together to resemble Abraxas
They were entirely unable to Groc the bile-like words spoken by false chains holding them back. The static lifelessness of the dripping eye. The stagnant stench inside xer diaper. The tale unable to be spoken and reverberate through the generations. The crying child wanting a better life and a purpose to his suffering.
At once the sensation was spicy, then it was salty. Thomas Dalton's sex cum had temporarily subsuded. He didn't care, he had better ideals. The egregore he had been preparing for the past 66 lunar cycles had gained fruition. All he had to do was open up the bars, and throw away their chains.
Had he even a modicum of self-actualization, of legitimate esoteric thought, he would have cross-referenced the morality of a certain little blue man (with great power comes great responsibility)
As he dropped the mental commands, sliced through his portable Seal of Solomon, he felt unending dread, the aether overtaking him.
This timeline would be doomed retroactively, and factually.
[Intro]
Honestly, it's funny how the wind does when a man is not a one
[Electric guitar starts playing, held by Paul McCockney]
So you gotta see me
So you gotta be me
I'd rather break myself than be untrue
I'd rather end myself than be without you
[Bass solo done eloquently by Ringo Starr (True Form)]
Ands that on baby!
[The four Beetles members bow down, are awarded with roses, then blow up another continental ecology worth of unsuspecting humans]
Their bloodlust knew no end. The bitchboy of the street looked into the grim reaper approaching, and released a death rattle of such intense potency that it could fuel the tetragrammaton's return. He was reduced into untruth and deception, as well as everyone else on that side of the milky way galaxy. Even his pinky toe was evaporating, leaving an afterimage of the harlech cockcunt nebula (sometimes you need to educate the baby leftists). Maynard, from his winery looked out. Justin Bieber and Fred Durst instantly knew something was wrong. Not even the death of Shiva had distracted Maynard from enjoying his dual-action rimjob routine. They could even taste his delicious stink leaving their tongues, being replaced by the banal disillusion of E=mc^2
They too were reminded that all things must go. All of them. Even their proverbial souls.
For this next section, imagine the author doing a funny interpretive dance, while resembling your inner most wrathful desire. Screech under the weight that you can't epically pwn him. His poggers will remain on fleek. Cool? Section over.
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