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Mass Fiction is a long running collaborative fiction effort.

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Hockey is for faggots.

Faggots who are fascinated by feces and fellatio. In other words, the contributors to Mass Fiction.

You shitstains wish you lived in such a nice trailer!!!! "nice trailer" ?

WTF!

You really should learn to not reveal your diminished station in life. I smell underachieving white trash. I smell someone drinking diarrhea. I smell blood from a fence wound. I smell crap in someone's pants. I smell death. THE END

I smell gravy. I smell Thanksgiving Ham. I smell an old subway sandwich. I smell a new car. I smell a lot. Because I never take a bath.

My "nice trailer" doesn't have a bathtub. None of them do. I use lots of perfume so I smell funny like all the other old really fat ladies that can't quite reach those special areas anymore.

I'm also very angry over how the press is ruining this wonderful country and trying to destroy our president. I'm now going to turn mass fiction into my own personal "Support President Donald Trump Site". Of course it will appear that I'm still only venting my personal mental sewage here.

I voted for Trump! It's Trump Trump Trump Trump Trump. Trump will make America great again. Who really was Barry Soreto anyway? In no time at all he will be forgotten and stricken from history just like Lying Hillary. Trump is supported out here by many of my fellow transgender conflicted souls who don't really know who or what we are.

I've heard that Hitler had a son in France after WW1. Any one with info on that?

For the love of God, Gene, pull the fucking plug!

I heard Hitler had a whole assortment of illegal children with different maids, prostitutes, midwives, and married women. I heard Hitler was succeeded by at least 20 sons/daughters, who are alive and well to this day. They all have that "genocide" Gene in them, and they are all good cooks with ovens in their houses, and a year's supply of zyklon-B.

Bernie Nicholls was an adept marksman for several National Hockey League squads in the nineteen-eighties, most notably for th LA KIngs. He teamed up with Marcel Dionne and Dave Taylor to form the fearsome Triple Crown Line. One year he had seventy (70) goals! That's amazing, even in the "Live Puck " era. Don Rickles used to call people hockey pucks and I suppose that was Molly amusing the first four hundred (400) times he said it, but, as with most of Rickles humor, it wore thin very quickly. I do not know whether Don Rickles was an ice hockey fan, but I doubt it as he was largely associated with Las Vegas, the city that put gonorrhea on the map. Mike Myers is a tremendously unfunny comedian who attempts to make "clever" references to ice hockey in his abyssmal movies. These references are never funny and do a disservice to The Game.

Frank Ste Marsaille plied his ice for the St Louis Blues in the 1970's (nineteen-seventies), but I cannot comment further as I know little of this gallant player. I wish him well and hope he is happy and prosperous. Thanks for the ockey, Frank!!!!

Hockey is for faggots.

Faggots such as Jean Béliveau.

Or Béliveau. Whatever.

Beauregard woke up in an instant. He knew he was on a bus. Looking around, his worse fears were confirmed. He was ten years old again, and still on the short bus. A slurred voice from a drooling mouth spoke from behind him "guh mornen bobo!"

"MY NAMES NOT BOBO!" yelled Beauregard, but as he stood up he realized it was all a dream. He was still just a ten year old retard on the way to school. He looked to his right, and across the aisle was Spencer, rubbing his crotch while reading a hockey magazine. Gene will never pull the plug.

Tranny for Trump: is your name Dana? Better than being a shithead for Sanders. Go suck a hockey puck, Bernie. Thanks to our public library system for enabling the feeble shitstains to post here and feel something, anything, as if relevant and connected.

Now back to collecting cans and sifting through trash cans. And drinking tall glasses of diarrhea. And impaling oneself on a fence. And crapping one's pants. And dying.THE END

Now back to repeating comfort phrases mindlessly. And drinking cups of mud. And floating on a cloud. And fresh air. And mindless. THE END.

Or was it?

I existed because I was alive in this moment enough to type this tedious bullshit.

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