A couple days of deep cummunion with the Bovine Divine in Private Parts Unknown, USA shall return a more enlightened Kum the Klown, thought Kum the Klown, as we headed out on cuntry roads, blackbird thunderheads alighting the path between roadkills: here a dog, there a squirrel, everywhere an oh puss ‘em. But oh, how the blackbirds were abundant and alive! Four and twenty red-wingèd blackbirds, a symbol of abundance in themselves, baked in a national piebald lampoontang… The auspicious path is not without casualties, just as Arkansas is not without roadkills stinking to Elysium, thought Kum the Klown, as we drove the cum cow-drawn cuckwagon westward.
This series of clanging associations begins a rambling non-story of how Kum the Klown ran away to the woods, stayed a spell in a treehouse on 50-foot stilts for some glamping, forest bathing, and deep meditation in the land of miracle spring water, where the OG OGs once communed with the Bovine Divine in their own special way, back in the gambling boom, when the spring waters still meant something, the booze meant even more, and the pussy meant most of all…at the Hot Springs Madam’s shakti temple—Al Capone, Owney Madden, Lucky Luciano, John Dillinger—you name ‘em, they went a-peepin’ in Maxine’s seafood store, the Mansion at Benton and Palm, now an Embassy Suites parking lot.
That’s right! One of Kum the Klown’s top-five vacation destinations is the same Ozarkian hidey-hole frequented by the gangsters of golden-era American crime, the same getaway in which our nation’s founding mobsters, those seminal underworld figures, sought refuge while scheming between crimes, wetting their whistles on the lam, slickening their donkeys on the ham, and pumping out progeny paste on the candied yams almost as fast as they pumped rounds from their submachine guns into any and all disloyal, disrespectful parties. Forgive them, Bovine Divine, for they were only trying to build the only things worth respecting in This Great Nation, subverting its authority and conventions in an underworld above the law, those tossed salad days when the underworld had the law by the balls and underworld figures weren’t mere goon(er)s working for Agent Orange. Now it’s all just scrambled eggs, and those blue balls are callin’ again…
Kum the Klown, Gangster Museum of America
Anywho, on our way into town, K the K stopped at a watering hole, formerly a bathhouse whose thermal waters were believed to cure virtually everything from hydrophobia to hysteria, rheumatism to rattlesnake bites, baldness to bullet wounds, scurvy to syphilis, and that’s not all! Shocking, often highly contagious conditions—even death itself, that most corrupted of humors—were just a scotch-douche, wrist drop, or heavy metal leaching away from being washed away in the hot baths, the miracle spring waters in those clawfoot tubs where one might stop for regulated soaking for a doctor-prescribed number of minutes under the supervision of attendants, hands of Dr. Kundalini Kellogg, surely—now a tourist-baity bar and grill serving beer by the pint and flight, brewed with the same miracle spring waters that still gently cascade through this region, in homage to the glory days.
It was on this historically significant site that K the K broke our seven-month teetotaling bender for a snort of supposedly-medicinal ale. And of all things that could fill the air in such a moment, the most holiest of hymns began to play:
To the window (to the window)
To the wall (to the wall)
‘Til sweat drop down my balls (my balls)
‘Til all these bitches crawl (crawl)
‘Til all skeet-skeet, motherfucker (motherfucker)
‘Til all skeet-skeet, goddamn (a-goddamn)
Making it the fifth instance in just a week’s time that Kum the Klown happened upon this time-honored, generation-defining millennial bop in the wild, and so we hereby decree: “Get Low” by Lil Jon & The East Side Boyz is the Holy Spirit of Cum Punk. “Get Low” by Lil Jon & The East Side Boyz is Psalm 69 in the Book of the Bovine Divine. Get into it, or get Kelsey Grammar checked and forcibly unalived by that Great Frasier Crane Game in the sky! (Goddess save Poohroboros! Long live franken-plushies!)
All skeet skeet, indeed! We’re just about ready to peter pop OFF when we tell you: the hot springs that produce the miracle healing waters are the Great Mommy Milk from the Great Mommy Milkers of Bovine Divine kindness and infinite productivity. We have a Great Mother wound, and we have a Great Mommy kink. Pussy power, from pre-Abrahamic temples of the sacred women to the Hot Springs Madam’s house of the rising sun, was always meant to heal the world but can only heal the world when approached with cumpleat surrender to absorption into absorptive cum pleats. Only when control is yielded in favor of sensitivity and receptivity can pure pussy power, the Sophia, do the work of healing, then and only then can pure pussy power be the ShamWow that it can be. Philosophers from ancient to cumtemporary have been standing boot-to-cheek, “bite the curb” style on the very thing they’ve most searched for, that coveted holy grail, low-key holy pussy, but all except Boehme and maybe Hegel overthought themselves out of feeling their way into that warm, moist, darksome truth from whence their own big stupid heads once emerged, and so they never knew wholeness, and so they never knew love, and so the Logos is broken and ain’t-shit forever.
Kum the Klown, Hot Tub, Private Parts Unknown, USA
At which point in this reverie, K the K, emotionally erect, fiery femcel fury activated, phantom foreskin in hand, ejaculated: I personally want to be swallowed whole by the kundalini shakti at the open gaping mouth of the Great Mommy holy mountain, esoteric code for “fattest pussy in tarnation,” even fatter than Mary Magdalene’s pussy before she almost-died on the botch table and had to downsize. And you’re just a-stompin’ and a-trompin’ and a-chompin’ and a-litterin’ and a-shitterin’ and a-ain’t-shitterin’ on it all day, ain’t ya?
Time was, men visited hole for the love of it, for its power not only to heal but to teach the art of love, of being a good lover, a good fuck and a good man, to flower the wand. Now, pussy is visited not at all but domesticated, mastered, and controlled. Pussy is colonized, and pussy is gentrified, and pussy is disenfranchised. Pussy is consumed, and pussy is destroyed. We cannot work in these conditions. This is why sex workers hate their jobs and retire before 30 and you can’t find anyone to fuck you outside of raping them. We cannot live in these conditions. This is why we can’t bear arms else risk blowing out our own brains before we can even murder-suicide you. We can’t parade our cum cows around in a convertible cuckwagon with the top down and dig the scene with a gangster lean in these conditions!
“The sexual perversion of Christianity becomes obvious when it is realized that ‘The Holy Ghost’ (The Sophia) is feminine” (Jack Parsons, rocket engineer, sex clown, and goddess stan, historical hunny and honorary cum cow). Philosophy is philos sophia, love of wisdom, but if the Sophia is pussy, which it is, then philosophy is pussy love, so get with it, you Immanuel Kunt-reading woke misogynists and Kelsey Grammar snobs! Time for the dicks to be the listeners, the shock absorbers, the receivers. Time is: Philosophilia. Let us be the stray. Let us be the strange. Don’t make it your idea. Let it be our idea. Let us be the Logos. Let us be the intelligent pathos of sound, feeling with the mind, thinking with the pussy-heart. Let pussy do the thinking. Let pussy do the talking.
Yes indeed, I personally want to be swallowed whole by the kundalini shakti at the open gaping mouth of the fattest pussy in tarnation, thought Kum the Klown, but I, too, fear love. This I know, for my internalized misogyny tells me so. Male death energy, whose erotics is fear of love, is the new syphilis being spread asexually by incels, and sex is the new dying, and that’s why I’m a femcel apart from the fact that literally no one under the male death sun wants to fuck me.
Kum the Klown, Al Capone’s Prison Cell, Eastern State Penitentiary
But never mind that now. Dig, if you will, a picture: Kum the Klown in a private hot tub, the fake plastic version of a hot spring, our laptop walking a tightrope on the deck railing—50 foot drop on one side, gurgling jizzpool on the other—and who but Joslyn James, the mother of all cum cows, on the screen, K the K doing the half-back float, Piss Christ pose, loose-as-a-goose piebald-eagle ICP symbiotically suctioned to the middlemost jet, Joker eyes to the open sky but also on the laptop screen to get a load of those mommy milkers—Just get a LOAD of them! thought Kum the Klown, looking like Michael Douglas falling down in the movie Falling Down…into the Pacific ocean blues of cum cow-festooned Santa Monica, as we all skeet skeeted into the luscious deep-lidded Jessica Rabbit heavens, and the Embassy Suites parking lot at Palm and Benton was once again Maxine’s fishy diamond sea.
Jesus Piss Christ! I daresay the dead man’s float never felt more alive! exclaimed Kum the Klown, in the afterbirth of our rebirth. I felt a great sense of oneness, between the gurgling jizzpool, the mommy milkers, and the heavens above, sky-clad as I was. First, the broad daylight; then, the broad moonlight; finally, the broad itself: the dame, if you will: the old ball’n’chain: the divine hag: the celestial sow: the Great Mother whose milk cum mineral spring water’s fire, brilliance, and scintillation could heal the world if only we would allow it, if we do not refuse it, if we do not doubt it.
There’s a song called “Arkansas” by Charles Manson about all of this.
There’s a poem called “Charles Manson’s Sex Toilets” by The Dick Inside Kum V about the rest of it.
TDLR: K the K cured our syphilis intimacy phobia in Hot Springs, Arkansas, and so can you! No need to go the way of Scarface or even Nietzsche! No ecce homo, bro! Fear love no more! Pledge your freeze-dried progeny paste in any volume today and receive your ketchup/mayo/mustard/chicken fil a/soy sauce/duck sauce/cuck sauce/horny hobby horsey packet of miracle spring water forthwith and posthaste!
In the name of the Bovine Divine
and Baubo the Divine Sex Clown
and Psalm 69.
Forever drippy, forever slimy, forever yours.
All skeet skeet,
Kum the Klown
Kum the Klown, Treehouse, Private Parts Unknown, USA