Not that I want to do any vituperative and childish name-calling, but The Hunched Cornish, the purported author of this piece,
who also forces himself INTO it, O, Intrepid and Greatly Valued Reader,
gonzo-style (“gone so shit-aisle”, nyuk, nyug… ‘cause, seriously, who does that these days: Andrew Plum?! I mean, you’ve got to have a real immature mindset for it; you know, putting yourself into the story, as though everything revolves around you. Or, worse – to delusionally consider yourself… “a WRITER”… HAAAAA!!! Just i-MA-gine!)
is (The Hunched Cornish, that is)
a big, ugly (gruesome; difficult to behold; takes some getting used to, actually), evil lummox, with major issues we won’t get into just now – except he’s wanted a kid for a couple thousand years, made on top of a real, live, human woman, but hasn’t gotten it to happen, that we know of.
Oh, sure, sure, he can get laid,
through the usual raping of his victim,
but no child made.
Maybe it’s a chromosomal thing,
Daddio, can you dig?
When, between two, in forced-entry fling
The difference can’t be split
Resulting in no baby-paid
No Hunchy-Mankind hybrid kid into place can fit,
Large, or small; small or big…
We do believe, however, there’s much more that Daddio CAN dig up precisely on this issue, somewhere in Dirk Dickerson’s notebooks, but we need some real sneaky ass to try to get those; at least for long enough so’s we could get them copied out, somehow, using technology. And then put them back where we found them, before he ever finds out. We do have special people for that. A unit, actually. We should use them. Instead, they sit around all day, doing nothing, collecting pay.