Evil! Evil! Evil, buttfucking Evil!

Eggs and rotten tomatoes. Rotten eggs and apples. How do you like them?

Them apples be bee’s apples spelling, innit? Stop the Islamisation of Norway asked the borough of Tøyen, Oslo, “How ya like them muzzies, ya townies?” Them townies them, replied a loud, blunt and resolute “nazi bastards gettur outtour our town!” With trumpets, reggae beats, drumming boys, fog horns, music, some dancing, some pumping fists, the odd third finger raised, and a grand finale of throwing of the ole eggs and ‘maters.

How ya like them apples that be fruit called veggies?

Bubbles be fruit. The fruit of our air runs through the air like you and sound. Shush it with more? No just hush, they all said “My turn, no YOU shut up”

Red they be, like the rage of Mohammed towards the white man, had the SIAN crowd shouted through megaphones, deafeningly silent in the cacaophony of loud, that was the crowd of Tøyen.

The words of Muzzie Crotchborn, rang silent to listening ears, pooring their hearts out to the crowd not willing to engage in the old, noble art of dialouge.

“Dialouge, you say? With these scums? Why?” one young teen asked yours truly. “They have no interest in nothing but hatred and islam this, islam that. Fuck’em!” he continued.

One implied and suggested, half seriously, one quarter left brow and corner of ye ole lip in direction of each and other, the last, completing quarter of the whole, completing it all in a smile of “Kid, have you tried?”

“Yes, fuck off!” he politely retorted.

Bubbles and cream. Rules the air. The snare-drum kicked off and loud flares in the background lit up the glare of the bubbles popped not. The heads hidden in the front be not that kid, but another one and mom. Powerpuff puff, blew bubbles and the bub in the front was too lit from the background bumps of the jockey of disc.

One suggested the entire crowd sit down. All of them, the lot. All of you just sit down, stfu the whole two hours spewing of rant, and just sit there, until question time. Make the protesting of protest into a forced dialouge meeting, let that be the protest of protesting the protest of being protested against by those with no right to fucking protest us!

“Damn it, moron, what’s wrong with you?” the kid’s eyes yelled at moi – as a not aging, yet adult enough hippie to be not an OG hippie, walked by and smiled as if “ah you kids” – which an aging heart of an eternal kid never growing up in this neverland of lands never being my land is your land, having landed the land in landing of the flight of nazi’s landing in the nest of Oslo’s likely most immigrant populated area.

The words of Ozzie Osbourne was the only element of universal agreement, it seems. They all yelled, not in Ozzie’s words, but quite quaintly and quotably notably noteworthy of unnoted notes to be taken of the notes being sang, rang, drummed, hummed and beated in the background: “EVIL! EVIL! EVIL BUTTFUCKING EVIL!” as the bubbles flew through the air and refused to pop.

Bubbles. Like the powerpuff. The girls and lads of Tøyen did their huffle puffs of puff you, we don’t want you here, as the intruders and invaders of Norskie Muzziland ate their clocks until their tounges turned blue, and Nazified Corvax said unto them “I am veeeeery clever” – time ran out, and the eggs cracked. Chickens chuckled, b-ba-bock, as clocks ticked and ticks flew rocks red gone pop on an umbrella of deflecting the tomato flying in like ringing ice in the cultured, well mannered man serving words to the birds creaming the ground with the same thing the man was trying to say, as the way he saw the brown, that be man’s the same thing be same same but different as cultures clashed and definition of it all was walked by and passed.

A bubble as lens to look through. Pop it and pop the dream, let the dream guide you. Guided by refract and act, act towards dialouge or let the banter of hate lead to jokes of “haha, check mate” with mates not mates. Ships of ‘caps and yarr, hindi roar of Europe be synonym for bro and friend. Not muslim, though. Befriend that one, lest ye know not, what faith he adhere to, ask his yar: bhai y u no ask me if I like Maradonna before Mohammed, and what beats before what book? The bubble just flew.

This ass! This ass! Mohammed is a spaniard, why don’t you ask! Ask the millenial enviormentalist the mental men of Norway need not pass! They shall not! He yelled and screamed, as Sancho Panza walked in.

“Puta madre, esse. Waht is dis? The muzzies and traitors are silencing us with sounds, we cannot win? What is contructivity if we stand here just to say what these birds, are dropping on the walkers by of us, as the same of man, brown he is, the thing we are said to spew, is it new? Have they heard? Will anyone do?

As the cat with the gat and the bat with teeth, grinning slew a ‘mater in and tossed up a duece. “Love for all mankind, also the Nazi’s please” the speakers rang out loud, as a brown man threw up a deuce and said with a thumbs up “Yeah breh, let’s love them all!”

And the nazified lady ran in, with a camera at hand to get and see to it that the sight and sounds of the sound and sight of seeing peace and love, being offered out loud in a meeting of hate and gloom.

The bloom of the offer was a smiling man, brown he was. Waiting to listen and talk, to deluded sane men and gals, let’s be pals for fifteen minutes and see if it will last for more than those? Just a rose of no spraying cold hose water in our blood and bones? Yo, chica and friend, friend called him clown, as of offering of advanced smorgous and tomato cream, Pizza be the offer of love and dialouge that somehow did not come in.

Did come out, fed to birds. As the turds of words was silenced down by a crowd too loud to accept that hate, be the seed of love in the town they dwell and want to keep clean and safe.

Safe it was, and the media focused on the ‘maters and eggs, the conflict before the peace and music that was chosen to protest hate.

The violence done, eggs and fruit, veggies called by all, the tree it grew from was a seed, and the seed grown to a fruit by one lonely mainstream newscast on one channel was what remained, of peace and love. The focus of all but one was conflict and hate, one small scene drowned out the drowning out of words seething with tame attempts and seeding hate.

Hate won in all channels, headlines and angles and cases.

Except for one sigle broadcaster who focused on the focus of those wanting hate to just go away.

The focus you make, makes the focus focused for those who were not there to see it themselves, and those who were there always say “hey that was not the case. I mean, it was, but really not at all, and here we stay. To say hey no way, we didnt do that, those four did and they got arrested anyway. We bumped beats. Blew horns and drums. Hummed to the sounds of the silencing megaphones with mega love for hate being no more than a silent sound. Not being heard, as we bumbed beats. They bumbed butts. Not heads with us.

What’s wrong with you, you media fucks?

The bigger lens, of big big bub, the bubber and bub of no-friend friend. Befriended a friend and the friend of the friend said “haha clown be fun, no brownie for me, the cake of the cream be lol haha, no not you no way, then she see: the bubble popped. The brown was beige, the white was off. The wall was still flat and so was the ground they both walked on. And so they walked on. To the beat bub beat, the bubber beat it home and saw the news and grinned.

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