fridgepunk

I woke up this morning to find my note pad, onto which random plot ideas and story concepts have been finding their way, covered with a picture of a person striding, and branching off of this figure is the phrase "homeless people - ideal advertising boards?" and on the next page I've scrawled, in almost illegible writing: "Is fucking a headless chicken neccesarily wrong? Not a dead chicken but one that was still running about like"

wtf was I doing last night!?

So take these two images in the spirit of a brain that is clearly collapsing in upon itself from fic writing or midget sniffing or Something:

My conjection as to The Bastard Fucking Palmer's daft thought processes when planning her new and most douchbaggy of albums:

( Cut for possibly offensive spider diagrams, and an image )
As a personal rule, I consider anything that is looked back on as "One Of The Reasons Why The 19th Century Was Horrible And Things Have Gotten Better Since Because People Don't Do That Sort Of Thing Anymore" something to never ever be repeated, this includes freakshows, bear baiting and turning mental hospitals into Museums Of The Insane.

Oh right, it's not a real freakshow, it's only a simulated Thing That Makes The Whole Human Race Slightly Less Well Off. Go fuck a headless chicken Palmer.

( Cut for image width and liefeldian bosoms in the number 5 )