Palamades Publishing: Get your fix of poetry, ghosts, and soon…giant robots. That’s right: Giant robots motha duckas!

Douche-bros have taken over the world.  They’ve destroyed all culture and replaced it with content-devoid thinking—all high-fives, ape-hoots, and thinly disguised tribalism in the vein of musical/sports team preferences.  I’m huddled in the woods with some other free-thinkers, planning our next move on how to combat this menace, when a platoon of Douche-masters crash into our encampment.  They’re waving assault rifles, and surprise suprise—dressed in an idiotic mish-mash of popped collars, flat-billed caps, tank-tops, and shirts with trollish, juvenile phrases written on them.  They begin yelling variations of “Get on the ground, brah!”  I hug the dirt, carefully keeping them in my line of sight.  They’re debating the merits of executing us versus “re-education,”  (which would apparently entail learning bro-speak, getting black-out drunk, and constantly trying to fart in each others’ faces).  My fellow anti-Douchers are begging our captors to kill us right then and there, when I throw my head back and scream, “PALAMEDES PUBLISHING!”  A bolt of lightning crashes down from the skies, and suddenly, the Ultimate Living Weapon is standing before us:  Gary Busey in short shorts, headband, and Richard Simmons style tank-top.  He returns everyone’s shocked looked with a steady gaze, and begins doing squats.  The Bro commander tries to rally the troops:  “GET BACK!  THERE’S NOTHING DEADLIER THAN GARY BUSEY DOING SQUATS!”  He begins running but it’s too late:  Visible strands of grodyness—they look like green strings of swamp gas—snake out from Gary’s body, drifting under the noses of the Bros.  One sniff and their eyes roll back in their skulls.  They collapse to the ground, their rifles tumbling away from their cold, dead hands.  Gary Busey closes his eyes, raises his hands in a Tai Chi centering move, then brings them down to his waist while slowly straightening his legs.  The utter disgustingness of his stench seeps back into his pores.  He exhales and opens his eyes.  He gives us a Kung-Fu bow—left palm against right fist—and gravely utters one word:  “Aloha.”  Then he vanishes.  What a weirdo.  But thank God he’s learned to weaponize his stench and (more importantly) thank God he’s on our side.

When your enemies have chased you to the ends of the earth and you stand a real chance of being brainwashed by their Mongoloid ways, call on the Ultimate Living Weapon:  Gary Busey doing squats.  (You don’t have to smell him to know that it’s bad).  Palamedes publishing.  Check out their revolutionary Responsive Books software here:  Responsive Books.  Check out their poetry here:  Manhattan  They will soon offer Echo Volume 1 in paperback.  For now, get Echo Vol. 1 on Kindle here:  Vol. 1 on Kindle.  Vol. 2 on Kindle here:  Vol.2 on Kindle  Vol. 3 on Kindle here:  Vol. 3 on Kindle

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