meat manager is in #8/9

the only way to consume art is involuntarily, with a tire jack and a fucking snow shovel. like glass shards limply shredding your gums from a week old dip lip. thoughts and tastes eroding into indifference like urinal cakes under a dehydrated piss stream at a newly opened fuckable arcade bar. art should be smothered in a lubricated glaze like an airport Cinnabon and slid into agape holes without thought or consideration. collapsing like aortas in an obscenely overstuffed chair to the sound of a monster truck jamboree sponsored by o’reilly auto-parts. passive absorption is key. that’s why we’ve painstakingly ground a fuck ton of indiscerinble animal parts and gas station sex pills into a wholly digestible and fully flavorless suppository paste. built to euthanize feeling or connection, filling holes for the sake of filling. randomized and piledrived so you don’t have to think. these chub packs are packed to the brim with art that you’ll cherish forever or evacuate with yesterday’s bloomin onion into pants already brimming with shit. grab the goddamn lever and pull until climax is achieved.