(Yes, that’s what our guest contributor Phro did. He listened to Buried Inside’s Chronoclast album, and not for the first time. And as he did, what apparently went through his fevered mind was this . . .)

Tiny pieces of glass and broken gears scatter across my face like an accidental orgasm in the middle of a porno shoot.  Reaching up, I dejectedly swipe at the pieces, and the annoying flow stops.  And then I hear it…the heavy, trundling march of an unstoppablity.  Fighting the cobwebs still hanging in my head from a night wrapped in the silky arms of an armadillo, I feel my eyes focus on…terror.

It was the bastard Time.  I saw him in all his elephantine glory.  A face not even a blind, drunk whore of a mother could love.  His long, gangly arms hung like limp, worthless mule cocks, and his fat rubbery legs quivered like a hippopotamus gang bang.  His ugly, distorted mouth formed words, but all I hear is the war cry of an ugly dominatrix.  Fuck you, Time.  You ain’t getting my balls today.

So, I stand.  I run.  My lungs burn and sweat stings my eyes.  My thighs are red from rubbing against my jeans, and my balls swell from bouncing against my legs.

Then, Time’s evil whore the Clock rises up from the shadows and punches me right in the dick and I fall to the ground. (more after the jump . . .) Continue reading »