To get half off my IHOP pancakes I don't even bother to eat.
So I can attend the house parties up in the Hollywood Hills.
Pissing off a balcony to hopefully hit the gardener who I caught a ride here with.
To feast upon small children and drink vintage bottles of cheap wine.
And get hand jobs from A-list celebrities who secretly believe I'm a D-list producer.
Snorting cocaine I cannot afford off model's tits whose names I cannot pronounce.
And secretly plotting the world's bad choices as I invest in bitcoin and collect human organs off the deep web.
I joined to feel a part of something more screwed up and deranged than myself.
As I write this, knowing soon they will be at my door.
Disguised as a Domino’s delivery dude who's clearly been sent to take my life.
Crystal meth is awesome when you make it at home. I just love crafting!
What? Did you think I was going to knit you a fucking sweater?
Wow, you’re more fucked up than I ever imagined you to be.
Hey, you single?
Where did you go?
Another one vanished; it appears those Illuminati have struck again.
John Patrick Robbins holds the record of holding his breath out of water and lives in a series of tunnels that lead to the center of the earth.
He can speak fifteen different languages and is fluent in idiot, which makes him great at running E-zines.
He runs a writer's retreat in Hell where all are welcome. Just please sign the guest list and remember: you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave.
He is currently the curator for the Great Tits of History Museum in Vatican City.
He has been published in the Yellow Pages and is currently starring in a documentary about his life called:
Who Gives A Fuck? The Life & Times Of A Non-Ballet Dancer.
He enjoys collecting corpses from the cemetery, which he will bring back to life to forge his Viking zombie army to fight the Disney Corporation to gain control of their vaults and see the rare film Daisy Duck Does Scooby-Doo.
He currently is not on any prescription medication.
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