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The Ballad Of Paul Riddell

by Keith Blanchard

The evil Troll Bots waggle their wargles enticingly towards Planet Mufto.
Lobotomized Deities, blazing impotently, boil away the voluptuous void in
tattered clouds of spare ribs.
Screaming her frustration, the Prom Queen vibrates her slippers
serupticiously.
Enraged, the Garage Prince gives himself over to battle, hurling himself
weightlessly forward into null-space.

Vibrotron entrances.
Vitrulspore enhances.
Vacuuvoid "Egahds"es.
And Nixon Advances.

Disemboweled zombies devour fanboys in festering delectability.
Baby seals club the insensible legions of Roddenbery heretics.
Jules Verne masturbates languidly within his grave.
Paul Riddell preaches of the Evil Dead, the Inbred, and the Addictive Power
of Bad Cinema.

"What of time?" historians rage.
"What are your odds?" the betters wage.
"What are your meanings?" philosophers sage.
"You're low on fuel," the meters gauge.

Hell is full, and Nixon walks the earth.