All What's Worth To Know About The Pentagon And The Calvary CorpsWall, mites, as for the Pentagon, that's a live organ of envy -- envy for the devil to pay -- it consists of five or six agonizing corners giving each other, with such a hair-raising toothy grinning is a wonder to behold, the bad eye over which of them will finally prevail in spite of the thankless travail -- the witches know it well, and its infallible powers of raising the hornèd one -- the witches, dear mothers, have been using the Pentagon for ages on end, they employ it in order to make appear and congregate and congress with the devil herself -- the devil deviless nothing debile, you bet, she with the twenty-one tits and her crimson painted nails.
As for the Calvary Corps, we've been from pestiferous scenario to the next, and dare you stygmatize us and you're immediately in a state of utter disrepair, isn't that right, mites?...
I 'member (for my mind's fresh, my mind's as a child's) once when I drove too far, so that I had to dump my vehicle and all, and coming back by foot (we weren't properly behorsèd then,) through jungle and such, I met an nigra old woman who sold death's-heads, her own head looking very much like a dead head, a how you call 'em?, a skull, a genuine jolly Roggey Joller, if you please. She was trembling with fear. I said: Hey, how much? She croaked: Five cents. I said: Wall, mite, not to worry. I'm with the Calvary Corps, you know. I'll bring thee thousands for a cent a piece, a piece of what, I mean, a head. Thou'll make a profit of four for each! But she only looked more frightened still... Fancy such an old broad with a fear of death! Afraid of death, I said, tarty bitch, get thee to hell! And I faltered on with a groan of disgust and a nervous gnaw or two at my retractable tail. I 'member, mites, that then a nasty whirlwind rose with such a disreputable might that its hideous vulva threatened to erase my very memory -- with a chuckle swallowed, I said, no way. And yet, how well I remember my return to the garrison! With the peppy steps of a dromedary, I appeared at the hallowed doors of the fort. Unfortunately, there was nobody there to greet me. Every one of the chums inside had been previously killed...
Wall, mites, that wasn't the worst, for the worst came afterwards. The hell art thou then doing here, I told in infuriating tones one of the natives still tarrying behind after their prowess. He heeded me not, for he had turned almost into a carrion (did you see that film Carrions Of Fire? I loved the scene where the last of the carrions to arrive for supper, when everyone else had supped to its heart's content, vouched to the debouched that his revenge would indeed be sweet as the dessert it didn't get. And then waxes still sallower. Sallowest like famèd Pale Death -- "Pale, Pale Death (I says,) I like thee best the least as a whore thou lookest,") and then to the native I obtemperate: "Pull thyself together, man. A full-fledged 'merican soljer, he don't go for such shenanigans as pretending to be stinking dead because he's afraid of death." But he was, and his head, alas, just worth a cent (if the old crone would ever accept it!) Anyway, moribundity's fun, ain't it?
But now let's return to fathom the relationship 'tween the Pentagram and the Cavalry Corps... Went once to the Pentagon to get worm-stuck with a medal or two. You've gotta traverse layers and layers of pamby-wimbies, windy-nambies, wimpy-wombies, and such. Even fucking females trying to boss one around. Hey, I said, nobody tinkers with the guts of a Cavalry Man. Brutish rank-worshippers, I eloped like a dog lapdogging the laps. Back to my Corps, and my corpses. From one to the next the iiii... of a slip. And, from alive that thou wert, thou art dead. Friendly Fire Is Our Friend.
No, but wait, that's the spirit. Our Esprit de Corpse -- we love 'em -- soon as we see one our cocks cry to heavens -- tears of jizzm -- "all together now -- shoot to the clouds!" -- that's why always the sky's cloudier in the field of battle. Sun Roetgen and his rays deigns to shine but for the jizzomy clouds the sucker can't. Ok?
Just a second before I go -- for I've been holding it for a while. I want to congratulate Commander Putain and his killing of plenty of children, that's the ticket boy. Thou art never the terrorist, the terrorist is always 'em. His armies, as our Commander's, deserve the glories due to the glorious armies of yore!
Wall, mites, Defenders of the Universe, what the fuck, a cheer for them and for us, and a snippet of our song: Cavalierly chivalric, cavalric, cadaverous and cordial we kill! Boom-boom!... And so on.
Life's a shockingly short affair -- short affair with death. A hellish squanderous scandalous affair, as Vulcan, no, as Vicus, no, as Lucan affirms, better abridged by suicide (advise to all soldiers, baby, be eupractic in your malapropisms and take the abbreviating plunge,) by marrying the Pale Whore! It may sound sophrosinic (not sophomoric, mind you,) but what the hell, a sound advise's sound.