Even Moreondarocks Bites Off a Lot of Roast

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Hey it’s ya boy Even Moreondarocks. You know, when I was threatening to punch agingangel76 in the ribs, it was a bit! Just a gag, a touch of fun. Everyone gets it, no need to worry. When I’m performing my investigations, really delving into things, really staying in my apartment and really getting to the heart of the matter, Seymour Wurst-style, it’s more of a roast.

I’m roasting bits, ladies and germs. Welcome to the malternative space.

Of course, the accountability is what’s important. That’s why I’m calling you out, yes, you joe sixpack, jill pair of sevens, all you sword swallowers who take my bulletshit up the sewerpipes. You don’t just want me: you need me. You don’t have time to read or think, so you like every engagement yank like a thirteen-year-old at a pony show or the AVNs. So, I’m what you get. Yep, I’m ya boy, here for the meta, the chedda, on you like canuck fire weather.

So chill out with the criticism, as I am a sensitive, all-class, all-purpose song and dance gent, the greatest, the most, the real Chad, the dunk in the punk, the drunk in the trunk. I’m incorporated, a real corporealization. When I tell the grandmothers on twitter to put a sock in it, I’m tellin’ it like it is. Sock puppies, you know: sensitive.

No time for that! This is the show, the Entertainment, the Content, the zippy parkdust baggy dial I knob up and down. This is Spaces and we are in space, for real, man, and I’m shitstaining it to vegas like a slick sick waterpipe and tellin you like it is. Lotsa terrible opinions out there! Don’t bore me. You can’t sleep, you’re looking for content, so I’m out here, a pro, investigating, finding shit out, spreading all of Durrr’s most brilliant ideas. Emergency pandemic ambu-lancing and the real mark-up breakdown turnaround stuff.

Where’s General Ross’ socks, where’s my Marshall’s plan jacket? Two arms!

But what happened? Are they abandoning me, their boy Even? Are they hatin? Where’s the Legion? Where are those brave stewards of Gondor? Why are you playing poker when you could be in space with us? See you at the Rio, Lon! Like legionnaires, let’s march, let’s merch, let’s get our man Douchebag Mike on the line for some red meat, let’s eat that thirteen-year-old pony ass. Is there cheating? Illicit meetings? Wife beatings? Do we need an emergency pod? It’s special what we do, we men of meta, indesoluable, through the roof burden-of-truth-proof.

Where is everyone? Where’s Coco Waterbug and the Rawdog Beat-It Bears? Is that a poker table? I’m here, touching felt.

It’s time. Lights. Cue the badass bird music for the AVNs. I need a beat, something pragressive. Nothing an AI or a child could do, something with real notes, in order, like wow. Killing it. It’s a beat, a bit, a-beat-a-bit, an impossible chicken sausage roast. Songs with too many metaphors don’t work, too many notes for the human ear. Hurts my earables, my mandibles, touches me right in the edibles.

I can’t apologize, no, where’s that dipshit spirit? Who will crawl to the Aria? Where are the numbers? I have entertained unto the low four-figures, disciples; don’t let me down, don’t bore me, and uh, think of some way to monetize this. Please. I mean, yeah. Soon. Now now now.

I don’t have time for apologigities, because I need monetizologies, but how how how?

(We’re here with Allen Kessler, AK-57, running the shivering shaft of my finger along his cold sweating skull ridge. Pow pow pow!)

I’m tryin, Limon, how do you do it? Joey, cuz, tell me, how did you do it? No, tell me while I talk at you, ’cause I’m working it, cooking it. The complaints are weak, watery and wasted on my potential; all these say hi IQ ring kissers tell me all about it. They’re super high, high on the queue yeah, these are my mensches on the benches in the bleachers of a beery Series.

The sun is out, life is good, fame is sweet. Fans and acolytes mob me like thirsty strippers. So much potential, so many pool parties, so many foot-long margarita dongs. I’m buying and selling all of it because I believe everything I think and more. The doubters, well, they just need a few shots to the ribs, right Papi? You see, I’ve put in the work – yeah, I’ve studied conference calling for decades, gotcha losers- but the GOAT still has to eat. Somewhere in this shithole there must be a payday, something more than this odd game, something more than the bit, and I’m gonna need it a little bit quick, so maybe I’ll suck your

Welcome to poker, the malternative space.

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