Saturday, June 9, 2018

"Getting Gunned Down and Liking It" by Newamba Flamingo

The house was for sale
Assorted couples, some with
smells of children
assorted couples
straggled in/out

Home Alone
Burglars on monkey bars
Home Alone
in/out, in/out

real estate agents
opioid white, comfortably numb
smelling of hamburger
kicked and kicked
at the cellar door
in/out, in/out

The day was humid, sunny,
95 degree heat index
sound of cicadas
honeysuckle mildew
Tourette’s sufferers
self-mutilating multi-purpose
emos on dog leashes
slobbering, snickering
in/out, in/out

the cats
fear of children
basement purgatory,
sucker shit starvation…

the fresh cut grass
out front of
The old Victorian,
site of senior citizen slap fights,
domestic disputes
abusive PTA swinger sessions,
HIV conspiracies
Stolen bike sleepover studies of Nero
Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtle Tupperware
Silverfish eating crack smoking British animals

The old Victorian,
its Grecian columns
Its Pot plants, cocaine, teenage sex
its girl blood graffiti


Hovering balls of night
hair metal
good fences…

walls had been painted
roses had been planted
lawns had been manicured
leaky pipes had been fixed

past, present perfect…

Throwing stones
The faggot running home with one shoe
Throwing stones
The faggot with a black eye and cracked glasses
The faggot, weeping, snot-nosed
seeking Jamaican gardeners
seeking gravel driveway sanctuary

The faggot
hears an explosion,
boom boom boom
From that failed shopping center
Where stepsisters fucked in elevators
Where stepbrothers tripped acid in bushes
The Iranian deli and its cigarettes
gone in a fire red mushroom cloud…

1-Armed attackers
Unleashed from snack bars
Beating poets and bears with baseball bats

1-Armed attackers,
potbelly fanny packs,
New Balance shoes
pinkish trench coats

1-Armed attackers
walkie-talkies, gang signs
abortion crocodile farms
airboats from a shithole
Turbo charged colon cameras

coyotes dropping from the sky

1-Armed attackers
jogging down suburban streets
in wedding gowns
AR-15 blazing,
soccer moms getting gunned down and liking it

Police, swat teams, bullets whizzing by
Corpses, real or imagined, trash and treasure
Dream therapy, food truck hearses
Quack Quack
Candle lit stock market ceremonies
Macaroni and cheese making America
Orange slice metaphorical weather pattern
Bomb cyclone, shouting at the derecho and liking it

The news had been broadcast
Gunmen’s silhouettes
Gunmen’s faces and stories

The air was humid
The house was for sale

Friday, March 9, 2018

"Manila Massacre" by Newamba Flamingo

Calling Mr. Carlos
ROOM 510

Up the ante
squeeze your trigger

Camaraderie goes “bang”

Mr. Carlos,
pay the taxi


Mr. Carlos,
no chauffeur,
to the Roar of jet engines
Planes at the hangar
Jetpacks, nooses and shoelaces
Security goes silk…
Blood blister intercoms
Spit shine sidewalks,
fanny packs, finger bombs
breaking news

Mr. Carlos, our rendezvous,
Mr. Carlos…
you pink panther,
all fur and claws,
such maneuvers…

That ain’t working,
This is how we do it…

with Jeepney routes
wild suicidal tendencies
with secretaries closing the séance
Séances in shackles, surgical masks…
Immolate, Mr. Carlos
your witch burnings on webcam
bitch bitch bitching
your IOU(s)
snitch snitch snitching
your last resorts,
your retorts, by the Belmont -
chlorine in the pool
Bushmaster action flicks
smallish dicks and Flocks at the barrio
Bashing baby skulls, secret snipers
Satellites! Satellites! Satellites!
Stomping children’s testicles
into neon sunsets
Art Deco orange
transitioning, undercover bukkake priests,
are 21 savages in a conga line,
their CIA card games and
Cockfights and tax returns, indispensable,
GOTTDAMN their shrill voices!
GOTTDAMN their squeaky shoes!
Grimy, grimy, GRIMY!

The stairwell!
The stairwell, Mr. Carlos!
… and a punch to the neck
… and an itinerary of fuck,
Muck, license of maggots
Koreans drinking your piss
Auto-erotic asphyxiation in lavatories
Flipping roulette tables, to the
Gold Rush
Go Go gasoline
Diesel, diesel, diesel!

Colossal failure, Mr. Carlos!
Chips are in, Mr. Carlos!
100,000 pesos, Mr. Carlos!


Pre-millennial garbage/bag
Pre-millennial lizard/man
… and those Crisis Actors – the ones to
make the everything a dilemma…

Mr. Carlos,
You getting pussy in Pasay?
Perpetrator, perpetrator, perpetrator!
Mr. Carlos,
You tuck yourself in nice and tight?
Perpetrator, perpetrator, perpetrator!
Mr. Carlos,
You see the flat earth?
You having disco ball dreams?
Mr. Carlos,
You think it’s a moon heist?

Mr. Carlos,
Who really got fucked?

Monday, October 9, 2017

"ESL Guangzhou: Dawn of the Nong" by Newamba Flamingo

It was dawn. A committed insomniac and early riser, Happy Sacks stretched out on his balcony overlooking VPN Road, Shamian Island.

“This was once the only place in Guangzhou laowai could live…”

Today the smog had lifted. A purplish sunrise yielded to baby blue skies.

Happy admired the island’s colonial style buildings, the European architecture, stone pillars.

A 50ish Cantonese man pushed his teenage son’s wheelchair past the Starbucks.

“Mainlanders only do two things with their handicapped. Hide them or exploit them.”

Happy drank a morning beer, smoked a bowl of opium, popped his Prozac and ate a hearty breakfast of fried chicken feet and cockroaches and watched car crash videos on the morning news.

He dressed up in standard China TEFL uniform, a clown costume, with requisite white face paint, big red nose, and spit-shined, pumped up kicks.

An obese shushu from Guizhou was his ride to school and waited on all fours outside.

Happy mounted the shushu like a horse, put a cigarette to the shushu’s lips, and they were off, galloping through the humanity, jumping every queue….

Happy convened class. No AC in the steamy, crumbling classroom and silver slivers of sweat streamed down his forehead, armpits, asscrack.

Happy tried a simple ESL game, but the students paid no mind. They talked over him, played on phones, watched movies on tablets, or lay face first on desks, sleeping.

A petite caramel girl sat atop a desk in the front row. Her parted legs revealed a bare vagina underneath her dress, and she stared lustily at Happy, performing fellatio on a Popsicle…

“Age of consent in China is 14…”

A commotion outside. Happy opened the door to the hallway and saw a deranged janitor running amok, with a meat clever, singing Michael Jackson songs in a horrible falsetto as he was hacking at students, staff at random…

Happy closed the door tightly and saw all his students lay bloodied, dead on the floor.

He dialed 112. No answer. Line was busy. He ended the call and realized he was in the WC.

It smelled strongly of piss, shit, vinegar, and secondhand smoke.

Wumao Laoshi with a flesh wound, stood calmly at the mirror, smoking, downloading a suicide app.

Panicked, Happy tried to talk with him.


Happy’s stomach began to rumble. He’d been in China long enough and knew the progression of laduzi.

All the stalls were occupied so he kicked in one’s door and found a dentist pulling teeth from a princeling in a Pol Pot hat.

He kicked in another and yanked out a squatting, cell phone playing Chinese Urkel, and flung the fucker to the floor.

Happy dropped trou and loosed his bowels.

He realized he didn’t have toilet paper and knew his only choices: hands, socks or underwear...

As he levitated his fat, hairy, honky white ass over the toilet, he heard a chugging train sound and felt a cold wind blowing below.

A hand clawed from the toilet’s mouth and a man in a panda suit crawled out of it.

Panda Suit Man yelled: “This for the feelings of the Chinese people!” and Happy’s Guns N’ Roses ringtone suddenly went off.

Panda Suit Man then shoved his hand up Happy’s ass, dug around, and pulled out Happy’s prostate.

“So many butthurt!” laughed and pointed Chinese Urkel.

Panda Suit Man dove back down into the toilet. Happy flicked off Chinese Urkel and followed Panda Suit Man down the hole.

“It’s always darkest before it becomes totally black...”

They emerged in Nongjing, at Tingbudong Square.

Panda Suit Man was dashing through a crowd of dancing ayis.

Happy chased after him, but more and more ayis surged forth, blocking his way.

Happy pushed and shoved away the ayis, but, increasingly frustrated, he punched and kicked through them, UFC style, dropping cunt punts and slugging their wrinkly faces and saggy tits with vicious hooks, jabs, and uppercuts.

He finally picked a portly one up and used her as a battering ram to bludgeon his path to the tail end of the masses.

Throwing the battering ram ayi to the ground, and giving her one last kick for good measure, he looked to the sky and saw Panda Suit Man scaling the Great Firewall, with suction cups.

Panda Suit Man zip-lined to Chairman Pumpkinhead’s portrait and used Happy’s bloody prostate to smear Cantonese characters on it.

A gong sounded. It was then the tanks moved in.

Soldiers shooting indiscriminately at pedestrians, ayis; motorcycles running motherfuckers over… Wild lions and baboons falling from low flying helicopters… Gutter oil, stinky tofu, propane canisters from catapults, loud explosions, harmony…

Happy was mowed down by machine gun fire…

Happy awoke on the floor of a hallway in a hospital. The floor was filthy with bloody Q-tips and used maxi pads everywhere. Bobby Shmurda’s “Hot N*gga” boomed from the public address system.

Happy rose to his feet. Mankini-clad middle age Chinese men all around, staring and surrounding him, smoking cigarettes, holding sonograms, making hacking spitting sounds.

At the end of the hallway was Panda Suit Man, behind him, a ball of light.

Panda Suit Man was waving Happy in like a third base coach, and Happy took off running in Panda Suit Man’s direction.

The spitting/smoking mob locked arms, cursed Happy and gave chase.

As Happy got closer to the light, there appeared a beautiful young Chinese girl in a skintight onesie miniskirt, standing in front of a sauna. The girl was smiling, shaking her fist…

Happy ran faster and faster and felt the hot stinky breath and slimy spit of the nong throngs behind him.

Wheezing, gasping for air, he dove towards the beautiful Chinese girl in the sauna, and everything went

Thursday, October 5, 2017

"Johnny Buckets in Bergen" by Newamba Flamingo

Johnny Buckets wore a Spider-Man sweat suit.

He hung upside down from the ceiling of the first class carriage, in the fast train from Oslo to Bergen.

Cracking open an Aass beer, he gazed out the window into the green, brown, and white Norwegian countryside.

Someone in the row behind him said how you ain't seen nothing until you’ve seen a middle aged Polish woman speaking Chinese and that those glaciers would soon be gone because of global warming.

Johnny downloaded an “InfoWars” podcast. He gritted his teeth as he sucked down the Scandinavian suds.

“Can’t I get a fucking Budweiser in this country?!” he erupted. “Fucking faggots!”

A sharply dressed man in the seat facing him grimaced, crossed his legs, checked his watch and looked away…

Johnny Buckets hiked up his pants and hit Bergen “like a fucking asteroid.”

The weather was damp and rainy. The mountains hugging the city were molars.

In the driverless Uber Johnny Buckets laughed and did impressions of the language in onomatopoeia…

“Hey, where the fuck can a nigga get some bacon cheeseburgers and shit?” he inquired at the front desk.

None of the staff seemed impressed by his “Make America Great Again” hat or his Joe Pesci t-shirt...

Tourists snapped selfies with architecture, but Johnny Buckets pushed past them on his way to the “Roll & Rock Bar and Diner” on Skostredet 14.

He spit out his first bite.

“This is real beef?!” “Bacon soggy like used toilet paper!” “FUCKING SOCCER BALL KICKING, MANBUN EUROFAGS!”

Johnny Buckets dug out his phone from his fanny pack, got online, gave the diner a shitty review on TripAdvisor and trolled a "libtard" on a fantasy football site.

Then he stuck in his ear buds and listened to the soothing musical stylings of DMX, and Black Rob’s “Whoa.”

Whilst eating the tolerable freedom fries, he drank a coke. It was then decided. That night he was going full retard.

He left no tips, went back to the hotel and shaved his head in the bathroom mirror….

Johnny Buckets got to the club dressed as Freddy Krueger.

A robotic DJ fistpumped and thumped dubstep remixes of Deadmau5. All in automation.

Johnny Buckets slammed a series of shots of Finnish vodka. The spinning room smelled of cinnamon.

“Damn Norwegian bitches look like transvestites!” he lamented. “And not the hot Thai type of transvestites neither!”

Though after a few more shots, the tall, broad shouldered “Nordic pussy” began to look slightly more enticing.

“Gonna go rape and plunder some of this Viking boo-tay!!” he exclaimed and proceeded to be shot down by every single girl in the club.

“Now I understand Anders Breivik!” yelled Johnny Buckets as he was ejected cold into the night by security.

Back at the hotel, he felt like jerking off, but was bored of PornTube, Kardashians, and artificial vaginas, so he hit up an international escort site to find himself a slapper.

On it, he found one in his area; tall, Russian, high cheekbones, looked like Melania.

“Fucking right… Russian va-jay-jay… Bet she takes it in the fartbox...” he clicked “like” and paid in Bitcoin.

An hour later, he was nearly passed out on his bed, streaming a prison documentary on YouTube, when his door spoke in musical claps.

He stumbled up, let in the light, and saw Melania, looking just like her picture from the website, though even taller than expected, at least six inches higher than him.

He smiled. She smiled back.

Then, from behind her, a couple tattoo faced, big, burly Russian lizard dudes stormed into the room.

Johnny Buckets' smile was eaten back by a blizzard of fists.

He fell to the floor and curled into a fetal ball as they punched, kicked, and cursed at him in Russian and broken English.

Melania rummaged through his room, filling Johnny Buckets’ Versace backpack with his laptop, phone, wallet, passport, prescription pills, and folder full of tickets to Hobart, Auschwitz, Orlando, Newtown, Babi Yar, Beijing, Blacksburg, Killeen and Las Vegas.

“Bitch even took my sunscreen.”

Melania then peered into his room’s safe, but it was open and empty. She nodded to the Russians who relented their assault. The three began to exit the room.

One of the Russians snatched Johnny Buckets' red cap from the coat rack, put it on, and whispered “Donald Trump” as he chuckled and pulled the door closed.

Sunday, October 1, 2017

"ESL Wuhan" by Newamba Flamingo

The bullet train arrived to Wuhan on a cold winter’s day.

Smog and construction cranes were all one could see.

Chabudi, the Monkey Queen, had a large drone implanted in her backside and collected me from the platform with a toilet plunger and flew me from the train station to my new apartment.

The unit was on the 44th floor of an 88-storey building shaped like a squat toilet…

We swooped down, landed on a balcony. A red trapdoor had facial recognition technology and opened automatically, vacuuming us inside.

There were large star shaped windows everywhere. The place was practically a glass box, with sweeping city views of smog, square concrete structures and what seemed to be a river, its dark water like molasses. Cars and motorbikes crisscrossed a bridge running over it.

Chabudi wore a curvy qipao. Quite the cougar, she glided, air walking me through a tour of the unit. I stole quick peeks of all her floral patterns. She had a small jumpman tattoo near her right ankle.

It was freezing cold in the apartment and grayish breath swirled out of Chabudi’s tiny mouth as she spoke. Her lipstick was black, as were her fingernails, and she wore her hair in a tidy little bun with chopsticks. I caught a whiff of halitosis.

Chabudi had Migos' “Slippery” as her cell phone ringtone, and there was another tattoo on her right hand that looked like a dragon or maybe a cobra…

In the living room was a wooden couch. On it sat a stout, middle aged Chinese man. He was in tighty whities and a stained wife beater that was rolled up to his chest, revealing an exposed beer belly. He was chain smoking.

I asked Chabudi who the man on the couch was. She ignored the question, threw the keys at me and strapped on a surgical mask with a cute bear on it.

She hovered to the balcony and clapped her hands. It sounded like a burst of firecrackers as the door slid open and she flew away, fading into the smog.

I asked the man what he was doing in my apartment. He didn’t answer. So I asked him again, this time in Mandarin. He again didn’t answer.

He took a swig of baijiu, belched and made a guttural “en” sound. I decided to go out for noodles and a hand massage. When I came back, he was gone.

When I awoke the next morning, he was back. This time he wasn’t wearing a shirt. There were dark circles under his eyes. He looked like a panda.

He was smoking a cigarette backwards, filter first.

Again, I spoke Mandarin to him. Again he only replied with the same guttural sound. I sat next to him and turned on XXTV News…

Shu Shu Xin Xiang was visiting a village in Nongzhou, Henan. A beaming pig farmer walked with him arm in arm. Shu Shu’s upper lip never moved...

I turned to what I figured was my roommate. He was drinking from a canister of gasoline and his two parallel tufts of hair were on fire. I ran into the kitchen to grab the extinguisher, but, when I returned, my roommate had dissolved into ash. The odor of cigarettes remained.

That afternoon I met a neighbor downstairs named Rainey. She had a two year old boy on a silk leash. There was an open slit in the back of the child’s Minion pajamas and his buttocks hung out.

The boy pointed at me, yelled out “waiguoren”, and ran into the corner of the hall, squatted and defecated, smiling gleefully as he did so.

Rainey asked me into which apartment I’d moved. I told her. She nervously laughed, scooped up the boy and took off running.

I texted Chabudi, asking if there was anything I should know about the apartment. She replied with “no why”.

So I Baidued the apartment and found a news article on 1344 dot com dot cn and copied it into my Pleco app’s clip reader…

It was about a man named Sha who’d discovered his wife was having an affair. When he confronted her, she admitted it and said she’d be divorcing him and taking their son.

He then choked her to death with a plastic bag and poured gasoline all over the apartment, set it alight, and chained the front door shut. His mother in law and his wife’s aunt were napping in an adjacent room. Both burned. His son was away at boarding school.

An archive picture showed dancing ayis that night pausing to watch their comrades join the haze.

The police found Sha later at a massage parlor. He confessed and shortly after was executed via a bullet to the back of the head. His kidneys were donated to a boy with cancer…

That was four years ago.

That evening, in the elevator, I met a neighbor named Rocket. He had suction cups for feet and prosthetic legs.

He said no locals had lived there in ages and that the place had been rented out to a series of foreigners, mostly English teachers.

They all tended to move out quickly. One died from gas inhalation.

Tuesday, September 26, 2017

"Superman in Isaan" by Newamba Flamingo

They met on a dating site.

He was 51. She 22.

Him: Failed marriage, 0 kids.
Decent job, car, savings, pension.

Her: One 1 year old.
Stays with the folks in Isaan while she works hospitality in Pattaya.

They’d Skype at night his time, morning/afternoon her time.

He called her “Sugarlips.” She called him “Superman,” his hair so curly, glasses always askew.
“Superman so handsome man!” she’d say in breathy nasal coos.

Superman had been sending Western Unions for Sugarlips’ mom’s operation on the English word he couldn’t understand her pronounce.

Soon enough he proposed and she gleefully accepted and he put on his tights and cape and flew out to Bangkok on a foggy day.

The immigration officers at Suvarnabhumi almost didn’t let him in, what with the cape and all, but his wallet full of rainbows ensured his passport got stamped.

The down payment on the house in Jomtien had been made. Superman thought about furniture as he made his way to the taxi line through smoke, ghosts, and horns, laughs and photobombs.

In the minibus he chatted with a ladyboy, using his Pimsleur Thai. Superman learned Laotian words for papaya and blowjobs.

Jet-lagged, but running on adrenalized fumes, Superman reached Jomtien Beach around dusk. Navy waves lapped at foot-stained sands. The Gulf was drinking what remained of a saffron sun.

Superman got to the bar, but Sugarlips wasn’t there. A tuk tuk driver stopped and pointed him in a direction.

Superman checked into the guesthouse.

His room was humid and smelled something of sex. It had a crude renderings of cockroaches and Shania Twain stenciled onto the ceiling near the fan. A half burned copy of Bangkok Tattoo lay by the bathroom door.

On his bed was a live rooster with a note duct taped to its right wing.

Superman, with considerable physical exertion, chased the animal around the room and was finally able to pin it down and peel off the note, which’d been rolled into a cone.

The note read: “You go Isaan. Roi Et.” An address in Thai.

Superman flew Nok Air the next day. He didn’t see any humor at all in the duck bill painted on the plane’s nose…

Superman had a mild case of diarrhea at the airport.

Beside him at the gate was a geriatric Brit with blackened teeth and beer breath who mumbled about Cambodia being better.

In the plane Superman was in the aisle seat next to two elderly monks, silently staring and smiling for the entirety of the journey.

Mild turbulence made Superman pass gas loudly, not once but twice.

Deplaning, he felt comfort in a leggy flight attendant’s mouth full of braces and graceful wai. His stomach suddenly felt better.

On the way to the village, Superman drove by a Buddhist funeral. Teenage girls and boys, in traditional Thai clothing and heavy makeup danced to soft music in front of a coffin awaiting cremation.

Onlookers in black and white clothes held paper flowers, chatted, and laughed. The wat nearby had intricate golden spires twinkling in the scorching midday sun. An elderly man in an AC/DC shirt sold cold drinks and ice cream out front.

The Grab driver deposited him. All Superman could smell was diesel fumes. Roosters screamed in the distance.

Superman faced a traditional Thai wooden house.

A skinny, heavily tattooed Thai man emerged from the house’s front porch, which had children’s toys strewn about.

The man had a dark cloth wrapped around his head and face. Sort of like a ski mask.

The man approached, speaking something of an Isaan tongue. All Superman could understand was “ไก่.“

The man then offered a pipe stuffed with an orange substance… “ไม่เป็นไรขอบคุณ.“

The man burst into a cackling, hyena like laughter, went back to the house, and, in near perfect English pronunciation, yelled out “buffalo” before slamming the door.

Superman summoned another Grab driver via telepathy and washed down a handful of Xanax with 100 ml of Hong Thong.

Then he went back to the airport, where he burned his rainbows and flew back to the fog.

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

Read or I Punch your Face - The Epileptic Vampire Anthology - Poems, Prose, Short Stories - Newamba Flamingo 2008-2017

I’ve written occasionally my whole life, mostly just for school or work, and didn’t really get into it seriously (subjectively speaking) until I came back from Britain to Florida in 2008 and used writing as therapy to deal with some personal issues I’d been facing.

While taking an English course at Manatee Community College, I was exposed to Ginsberg, Plath, and Tim Dorsey for the first time, and they inspired me to start writing poetry and stories, or at least something resembling that.

Then I found, Myspace blogs, and Literotica, and posted a few pieces for the fuck of it, and things snowballed from there.

I met other writers from all over the world and was subsequently encouraged to submit to literary mags, some of which actually published me, and I had over 300 subscribers to my blogs at one point and would end up getting over a million page hits and thousands of comments, emails, and even some threats of physical violence from humans, vampires, Canadians, and aliens from other galaxies.

The most fun I had was probably getting into BTR online radio shows with 10K poets, Yossarian Hunter, Nick and Dan, Murphy Clamrod, Hijack Flash, Sigerson, Pantifesto, and, most of all, probably the best friend I made throughout the whole thing, Frankie Metro.

Around late 2010, as Myspace and Everypoet started to die, and my hatred of Facebook grew (oh, its sterility and conformity!) I decided to step back from social media and writing and got the fuck out of my gulf-side apartment where I’d been taking too many prescription meds and drinking too much and masturbating and being on the computer too much and decided to go travel the world more before I die, the earth dies, or we all blow up.

I’ve sporadically written since then, posting shit occasionally to the blog “The Meth Lab” I ran for a while with Mr. Metro and every so often sending out a harassing submission to some lit mag or another.

It recently came to my attention that Myspace removed their blog function in favor of shitty music pages no one looks at and that Everypoet also got rid of their blogs, effectively wiping much of my archive off the internet.

While I’m sure this makes some people happy, I feel it’s my duty to still harass, annoy, disappoint and amuse whomever might be goggling subjects like aliens, baboons, and buttsex, so I decided, for the fuck of it, and 7 or 8 years entirely too late, to put together a simple E-Book compilation of all my best (or worst) known pieces, re-edit some, add a few pics, and have it all one place.

In this compilation is stuff from 2008-2017, divided into categories of description, with a few unreleased pieces (that were wisely rejected by editors- the best rejection I got being from Jersey Devil Press, reminding me their submission guidelines outlaw stories involving rape, even that of cats! Touché!). I’ve also included one new and a couple fairly new pieces.

I doubt anybody is going to read or give a shit at this point, but, if you do, please download this, read it and like it, share with friends, your blog, on Torrents or wherever.

And THANK YOU for checking this out, for reading my blogs, publications and for finding my spot on the net. Out of the petabytes of info out there in the abyss of the net, I’m honored you came across mine.

And for those who don’t like it, it’s free, so go fuck yourselves! But thanks for reading anyway. Seriously.

Much love to everyone, my cat, the aliens, and all the hookers. RESPECT!