Private Parts to the Gods Are We, They Play with Us for Their Sport, Part 2
TWITCH, Mighty Fetus, Cruel Tyrant, Crusher of Bladders, Destroyer of Worlds.
Actually, Shiva is the Destroyer of Worlds.
Fetuses (Fetii?) cost a lot of money. Babies even more so. Why then, when I tell people that I need a job and can't find one, do they always say (wait for it):
--Smiling "You'll be okay, just have patience." Sparkling sunbeams emerge from behind gleaming teeth
In a perfect world, that is, a world run by Me, this would follow:
--Smiling "Really?" Gleaming teeth emerge from behind tightly grimacing lips
--Cannibal holocaust ensues
--Raspberry Iced Tea Snapple washes down unsatisfying meal of motard
--Smiling "You know what, I do feel better." ERA detergent used to wash clothes, because protein gets out protein
I want a job, not empty platitudes. Just being this cool is exhausting, let alone all of My other reponsibilities. I don't have the energy it takes to keep on plowing through Motard Optimism with an unchanged demeanor.
In the Real(ly pathetic) World, this will have to do:
--Smiling "You'll be okay, just have patience." Sparkling sunbeams emerge from behind gleaming teeth
--"Thank you. I'm sure it will. I have to go now, swallowing this much bile is enough to sicken even My iron constitution."
2 comments:
It sucks. I know, it just sucks ass. No gleaming rays are emerging from my teeth.
Try this: "I appreciate your hollow reassurance, but as I'm not sure what medication you're on at present, I don't know what to request at the pharmacy. Oh wait. That's right. I can't afford drugs to make me blithely happy because I CAN'T FIND A JOB!" Then do whatever action you find your limbs inclined to do.
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