Poets are musicians who can't sing. Not a single soul cares about your heartfelt feelings, your tearful regrets, anything. No one cares. It's like this place is an outhouse for feelings and spelling errors.

I am hijacking this board as of now in the name of bad taste over worse taste. If it were an animal I would have slit its throat as a mercy years ago, but it will continue to linger in the air like the stench of old people.

And so I begin.

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This is a story about Skralgar, the Invincibly Insane. Mere words cannot contain the insanity or invincibility that is Skralgar. I am but a humble writer and have been dining on plates of shattered glass and live fire ants in anticipation of this day. In my final delirious state I wrote this story in my own blood. It was a grim task, but this too is a grim story.

I of course did not survive.

Long ago, lost in the ether of time before there were asses, there was Skralgar. He was not known as the invincibly insane at this point, just Skralgar. He was frustrated, for he knew not what this thing was that boiled inside of him; merely that it boiled. Besides the hot bubbling pitch that occasionally jetted forth from his mouth, but something deeper, angrier.

"Violence is important, but I need something I can kick!" exclaimed Skralgar. "Something round, firm and connected to a person. Something that is both painful and shameful when struck by my boot," he said, musing to himself as he stroked his beard made entirely of bees.

"Perhaps it is called an ass, sir?" asked Pete the weak and dim.

"An ass it shall be!" roared Skralgar, and kicked Pete so hard that his backside split in twain where before it was merely a single cheek. The first ass smarted from the first kicking. As it should be.

Skralgar let out a deep belly laugh and found others, far and wide did he travel splitting people in twain just below their lower back and above their legs. It was a terrible thing to behold and terrible was his wrath.

From the mightiest to the lowest people had been damaged, for now in each and every person there was a flaw. In the vernacular they might call it a crack. They banded together, sore and angry, and plotted Skralgar's destruction.

"We put the boots to him. Number four style!" screamed one man.

"Nay, we should feed him to the giant man-eating clams!" exclaimed another. It was a good idea and it had most others nodding with the man, who had not one, but four asses from failed retaliations.

"No!" said Pete. "No, he has divided our bodies, but do not let him divide us. We must work together in order to bring down this insane, near invincible man." Though Pete was known as the weak and the dim, his words made sense to the crowd and they raised their implements of destruction high into the air in support. Far and wide their war whoops were heard.

They came from the mountains. They came from the hills. They came from the plains, the deserts and cities. All to give back a measure of pain to Skralgar, the invincibly insane and perhaps, just maybe, split his own ass in twain.

Perhaps it was an oversight of the crowd to listen to a man named Pete, famed for his weakness and stupidity, or perhaps you shouldn't mess with a man whose beard is made of live bees and his stomach a repository for bubbling pitch. In any case, though many a lance was shattered and plenty of big toes broken, neither steel nor magick nor foot kicked out in anger could split Skralgar's ass in twain. And though he received many wounds he would not die. After the battle he looked around, men and women, beaten, and broken. Recipients of a score of asskickings each. His only wound was self-inflicted, cut into his chin with a long, sharp blade as a reminder of that glorious day.

So if you ever meet a man with no butt and a cleft chin, run for your life. He may just kick your ass.

Penned by my hand on the 12th of Aequitas, in the year 29 AM.