Life begins right now. Nothing has led me up to this point. I materialized where I sit and was confronted with these words on this screen. There are no events leading up to now. Now. Now. Now. Only now, never then, always now. I was never there, I was never that, I was never then. I was always this, I was always here, and I was always NOW. N-O-W. Notice Our World. Not Only We. Near Our Womb. What? I don’t know. This almost seemed philosophical or “deep.” I assure you it’s not. Who are you anyway? Who are you? Who? Who? Who? Who?
So what to do with this newfound nowness. Well, for one thing, we can do whatever we’re doing and be happy about it, because theres nothing else but that, so how can you compare it? Ok, I’m done with that.
So, how bout them Yankees?
Yeah? What about them?
I don’t know…I’ve never been confronted with that retort before, usually the person I’m asking takes the reins after that.
Well, you should have thought about that before you asked. Let me tell you something, and you better listen good–the Yankees are having a really great season. My only complaint is that they’re not very good against the teams that they’ll probably face in the postseason.
Yeah, I know what you mean-don’t get me wrong-I think it’s great that they have the best record in baseball and all.
But…as you said, who really cares who has the best regular season record, when it comes to the postseason you’re starting from scratch basically.
And it’s true, they are poor against the teams that they’ll probably play, but hey, let’s just see what happens, nothing’s set in stone. Remember – there’s a reason why they play the games; the matchups on paper aren’t the future foretold.
Ayy, my testicles went up into my colon, you make me feel all hot and gooey inside, talk confidently some more about hypothetical sports musings papi.
You get the fuck away from me you sick piece of shit. I loathe you, I banana nut bread loaf you, you weasly punk nosed shit faced cum guzzling, grizzly bear hugging anti-bacterial hand sanitizer McFlurry ShitStorm. I hate everything about you and everything you stand for, you make me soil my pants. My good pants. It’s always my good pants. Why can’t you make me shit my pajamas? Here I am, in a Tuxedo, a tuxedo crust. You see, the pants of my tuxedo are like the crust of the earth, and the shit, (that is filling my underpants to the point where the elastic band is cutting into my waist and cutting off circulation to my legs), is the hot molten layer beneath the crust, I believe it’s called the – – – “MANTLE”. I have a shit mantle, and where is my core? Huh? Can you answer that? Maybe it’s my crab infested testicle. That’s right, testicle, no S at the end. Oh, I know how you’d love for me to add an S so as to add a testicle. But, yeah, this is real life baby, and I have one ball, and if that was good enough for Moses, it was good enough for me.
How do you know Moses had one ball?
You’d have to have one ball to be crazy enough to talk to God. I’m a theologian, and no, that is not the study of Theo Huxtable, although I do study the Cosby Show, this is different. Much, much different mon petit cherie amour. Oh, how I long for your sick twisted caress, how I count the days for your hand to stir the shit stew of my underwear pot. Here’s a little carrot floating in there, and one boiled egg. You see, those were references to my little cock and ball floating in my shit-filled pants. Goodnight Folks. God Bless You All. And God Bless Dairy Farmers.
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