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Ocelot, Issue # Nine

~Fuck Ran to Hell or Compton and his fucking little excuses about the fucking pointless nature of having a fucking title which actually fucking coincides with whatever fucking shit is in the fucking piece~

A rather long title today, I suppose. Well, perhaps it's all in an effort to shove shit directly within Ran's goggle-mouthed, pre-pubescent, tentacle-fucking, nubile-sucking, lesbian school-child's mouth. Then again, maybe not. As I write this now...I listen to the futile chimings of his IMs...the wracking has grown worse, I must digress. Yes, I too have pondered the idea of raping little school-children. I too have often donned cotton-laced panties of the edible nature. I too have wasted away over many beers and nights of explaining to parents that that nice little girl was not a prostitute. But, dammit, I'd never fuck Gilligan or the Skipper on some deserted fucking island. Let's look to the facts...first off, how the Hell did I get to this deserted island? And though homoerotocism often ensues upon such embarkments, I'd clearly never lower my puss to such natures and tendencies. Indeed, Ran would like to make you think that I enjoy the occassional mingle with hot ass (which in part is true. I find Tom Cruise's ass to be a god of sorts, the likes of which I'd wake up every day, say my prayers, praise, and wonder why the Hell Ran comments about using paranthesis which are far too long when I, in fact, can top such a feet by including an entire paragraph in the ass-wrenching things. Is this pointless I ask?!! YES! But hot-damn, it feels so great to purge the demons that exist in Ran's remnants of a soul). The fact of the matter is, Ran's jealous. He's always been jealous. Ever since his brothers and sisters were taken out back for the family romp whilst he was left behind to whittle away at the fleshy remains of his withered penis. He hates the fact that I was oh -so-clever enough to devise a title of sorts for each and every morsel of my rants. Added to the fact that I lack a criminal record. As it is, I've composed a poem. Roses are Red Violets are blue Ran's a big fat bulbous piece of prick-shit who can't help himself with small girls. Ya see? This is what happens when one ends up writing about such a futile topic. I can't think of much to say, so I'll simply comment that the Blair Witch Project's ending is too abru

(see Ran's Response to this rant)