So hopefully that answers any questions as to where my priorities truly do lay.
Because looking after some high-pitched bed-wetter doesn't quite fulfill
my intellectual demands in the same way.
As watching Raven, Cinnamon, Diamond, and Sparkle twirl around
the pole does.
Commanding every look and happily depleting lonely old horndogs
like myself of their dollars.
A lap dance beats a kick to the shin and a Tonka truck to the dome, while listening
to some brat cry just because you left him tied up in the closet so you could enjoy
a good booze snooze.
Yet I'll gladly sit for hours contributing to some nice lady's college fund
at least that's the bullshit she's been selling for the past twelve years,
as if you truly give a fuck.
Because the truth is, we're all using one another until it's time to step off
this plane of existence. At least I'll do so happy, because saints are
fucking boring, and sinners always have better stories.
I hate kids, pets, and most human beings
unless they offer a beautiful view
and the occasional discount for a returning customer.
I ain't never claimed to be good at anything.
But at being bad, I am forever a perfectionist.
Fuck Mr. Rogers. Mr. Robbins is always
a guaranteed good time.
Salute.
John Patrick Robbins, is Asgard's Poet Laureate. He enjoys unprotected sex and pissing on his asshole neighbor's lawn.
He is a 15-time Grammy Award-winning producer who has worked with such names as The Cookie Monster, Sabrina Carpenter, Satan, The Flaming Turds of Gastonia, Ragnar Lothbrok, and Madonna but enough about his love of death metal.
When he's not pissing off the lit scene by refusing to die, he's raiding their kingdoms and depleting their winter supply of ramen noodles.
He enjoys practicing black magic and serial killing while producing wine in his vineyard and touring with his all-def jazz band.
He recently won the John Patrick Robbins for Poetry because, duh, dumbfuck, he created it.
He hosts poetry readings at gunpoint because how else are you going to get non-poets to listen to poetry?
Don't be jealous. He's a trailblazer.
He will forever haunt poets' nightmares, much like Freddy Krueger.
He was recently cast in a movie to play himself. It will be a historic film-slash-musical about the plague, set in outer space, featuring the AI cast of Star Wars and The Dukes of Hazzard.
It won't make a lick of sense, much like those fucking stupid Marvel movies you dorks cherish so deeply.
He is your friend. He just doesn't ever want to meet you in person or have a conversation with you, but he will gladly take your money because he likes alcohol and boobies.
He once spoke to Kevin M. Hibshman, and Kevin is now good for at least seventeen more years.
He trains jiu-jitsu with famed martial artist Billy Ray Cyrus.
He is the greatest bio writer in history because he says so.
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