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Are you deep in your rat-ridden cell, lashing out at gruel and devouring your shadows? Would you amputate both arms for just one supple chunk of grandma's fresh-baked consciousness? Is your yappity-yap toy poodle clutching its stomach, cackling madly at your chainmail lederhosen? Chances are you suffer from third degree projectile brain syndrome here in the sector/sector/sector of sex whores far from understanding this topsy-turvy world we live in.
Not to fear! We are here to help. To begin with you must understand that you haven’t the foggiest, and are no more than a person like me or me, without nearly the strength to make the proverbial leap of frogs. Well, we’ve all been there, friend, and this manual is here to help you make it through this fast-and-easy tutorial
you will never understand.Give up now.
Do not be alarmed. I know how you feel. Many like you have grasped for the razor’s edge hoping to make it their own, like so many pirates of the primordial sea before them. They learned quickly that saltwater stings bloodied fingertips, but how about you? Curses to you and all of your savage men, for you have sought the one true way to the loveseat, and aspire to one day grab that elusive universal remote. With that remote you change the mental channel and make this world a better place. A better place without people you don’t know blowing their legs off, without bombs in the air or pale people eaters protesting landmines. A better place without human waves waving back at their friends as the cavalry’s halberds pick them off wholesale. There and only there will they find the answer, long lodged in the pulsing uterus gasping to remind them of the life they had so enjoyed in better days. You too can suck on mom’s placenta without a care in the worm.
How to be the one that everyone respects and loves is the question everyone asks, but everyone wants to be respected more than the chicken or fish, chicken or fish, chicken or fish, and they choose the chicken because the fish gives them hives, unlike the righteous halibut, back arched backward and so noble in its sacrifice to the frying pan. Fried in the cylinder, most realize that this is (not) what was meant to be, and laid bare are the empty promises of Franz the Clown Prince of Despair. Never trust a clown, comrades. Never trust a clown.
To belong is to give in. To belong is to negate the soul of the individual, and is an act of desperation. Do it now. Your day-old fowl sandwich squeezed tight in lunch wrap, you approach the crowd with your good-natured notions, only to meet wicked laughter and a malicious volley of yesterday’s chicken bones. Never forget that you are always the righteous one, and always have been. You are God.
Your option is as clear as beeswax; reproduction.
You can twist it around like tickle taffy; it will stick to your upper lip. Stay stiff before the soldier, rising for its Turkish time on the squeak-mat. Shame is entirely subjective. Another cell just like your own carries the promise of future of you-cells, infecting the populace like a post-apocalyptic plague of ecstasy – thick and sticky like sauce. The blubber puffs up proud, and as unyielding as the meat may seem, any whale is ready to swallow you and your children whole when bonked in the kidney. Smack it with a flounder on a rope. Had Jean of Arc lived to see today she would have said the same thing, tossing a blonde curl to the side and licking honey dutifully from a purple twig. She can’t believe it’s not honey.
And so here it is. We’ve guided you this far and can’t hold your hand any longer. Now the world is yours. You have a table before you and two vials to choose from. One is cracked and stained, and overflows with the blood of deities. The other vial is of pristine ivory and amber-crusted fables. But its contents are obscured. You perspire from all ends of your body and the hot red in your veins travels backwards.
The freedom your walls afforded you is now a fond memory. How you wish you could seep into their crevices and cry. The end is near and you know it. Your hand trembles in hesitation and fear of the void.
To those of you that looked under the table: Congratulations; you’ve just come closer.
If you can find the black one, call me tomorrow.