El Carnal de las estrellas de HAUSSMANN 🎩 in reel 🎥 time.

🎶 Forces of evil in a boNzo nightmare…

It’s another edition of “Miss Heard’s Lyrics” from The Mothership.

“Cut it…”,  it’s an “off-the-record” mouvement.

Soy sauce, it’s like an army without a compass. So, for all intents and purposes, right now it’s Primetime in Hilo, Hawaii, and 2011 in Famaºgusta, Chipre, and my 16 hundred horses have been delayed on their way to Havre, the same port from which Alexis Tocqueville, de Francia set sail from on it’s way to claim Democracy for General Phillipe Petin, or something along them stitches 🪡.

🥢 🥡 🥢

And, the chilaquiles just don’t care… because El sope está enºtoºmatadoº, pass La Valentina³

³~. So, in the times of “las lágrimas de perro” por pillo, Clemente 🐔 Jacques industrialized a salsa 🌶️ that those French motherfucker’s from the Great State of Delaware-sur-Potomac, baptized as Salsa 🕺🏽 Búfalo… it had a shelf-life, so by the Time that EL GATT 😼 entró en México, and all of the nuclear engineers emigrated to Los Ángeles, California, to become taxi drivers, or Robert Downey Junior’s, gardeners, there was only one thing that Sean Penn (that motherfucker) could do, The Stark Coffee Company diversified onto Clemente’s territory and introduced la salsa Valentina, it’s like Siriachia with no shelf-life, legend has it that OPPENHEIMER stole the recipe from a burrito vendor on the SET of {Fat Man} and {Little Boy} in San José de Las Panochas, Durango.

It’s been done before.

In Local Twitter® news:

Hear Ye’ — hear Ye’, the French Ambassador to México, the Excelentísimo señor Jean-Pierre Asvasadourian, or his Twitt Monkees, have muted my CONºVERSºATION tamaulipeca from his pretty-little Mexican 🌮 PROºPAºGanda 🥐.

What’s the matter, mister Excmo., are you like French, or just a little CUNT?

If only the Paris Tourism Board
had the fucking Imagination.

Context? Ewe can’t handle the context*.

📯

Not unlike the moral right in the Trapeze of Jason Mott³, a British cunt who claims that he wrote “A Hell of A Book” but that nigger doesn’t even know what trou tacos taste like, let alone what a Mexican Peso is worth, he inherited cotton but never had to pick the bol’ :

Page 58…

I STEP OFF THE PLANE LOOKING LIKE A MILLION EUROS AND FEEL-ing like about two pesos.

³~. Hell of a book, by Jason Mott, a British cunt in my faction.

Outshined? C’mon now Minnesota, North Carolina, the two Virginia’s and CaCa’laki (South Carolina) ain’t got nothing on Tabasco, the original, not that acid vinegar from New Orleans.

Book it! The entire FICTION Phucks. And here is why, on the same motherfucking page, and the one before (nº 57, if youse keeping count of them cunts) because it is obvious that the jury panel either skipped the Angry Husband on a hot airplane landing or those sons-of-bitches don’t know what “So it goes” is supposed to mean, and if Mott was being “ironic” like a Pearl Jam³ fan, then he clearly’s never been to DRESDEN EN TIEM-pos de hambre en Saint-Germain-des-Prés.

³~. Or fans of Serge Gainsbourg who come to the Ol’ Alice Cooper nightmare shack to search for the precise word, which of course in-and-of itself is always a “con” and not a SANS.

Page 57/58:

Hell of a Book tour takes me out of the Midwest—with it’s flat earth and angry husbands— and deposits me somewhere on the West Coast this time, yada, yada, yada…

¶ … yada, yada, … In Florida—I remember sweaty armpits and air humid enough to drink— {kinky⁸}…

The plane landing out west is a little bumpier than expected. Yada, yada, yada… —from the fuselage to fun-sized pretzel bag— is shaking, So naturally, I assume we’re in a free fall and death 

End of page 57.

Meanwhile at The Toledo…

Start of page 58:

is imminent. I reach out and grab the hand of the man sitting next to me and tell him I love him, I’m proud of him, and that I hope there are Nic Cage movie marathons in the afterlife.

Then the announcement comes that we’ve landed wherever we are and everything between me and the gentleman next to me feels odd and out of place all of a sudden.

So it goes. 🛬

Tabasco. Birth place of the current Mexican President, just south of La Louisiana, and in this section the student will remember that salsa 🌶️  has no correlation to merengues 🥐. This is your cue to ignore the CAUCES in translation.

As Promised… una de Mel Brookz.
— So, mister “Beck”, it says here that, « In the time of chimpanzees » you was a monkey. How do you explain, la Scientology, you son-of-a-bitch?

After the break, it’s a Closer Look.