Dear licorice Jelly Bellys,
You are disgusting and you ruin everything.
Especially when you show up in a handfull of your brothers in a dark movie theater.
Why do you exist? Who likes the tase of used tires and Windex?
You are the sleeper cells of Jelly Bellys, and god is sorry he made you.
Dear person writing a check in the supermarket line:
It is with great sorrow that I write to inform you that everyone you have ever known or loved has died from exposure to the passing of time while you slept in your fucking steam-powered hibernation chamber.
Other shit you missed: the Renaissance happened, Mike Tyson eventually got knocked out, and people still get leprosy if you can believe that shit, except that guy Jesus who was in town when you went down for your nap isn’t around anymore to give them a hand.
One last bit of housekeeping here before I let you continue fumbling through the future with your ancient bullshit: PEOPLE DON’T FUCKING WRITE CHECKS ANYMORE.
I understand that there are outlaws about, and that carrying your fucking gold bullion around is a terrible idea, but check this shit out: we have these little plastic bits of sorcery called “debit cards”. You give it to the fella at the prairie general store and HOLY FUCKING SHIT THE CARD TALKS TO YOUR BANKER AND LITTLE FUCKING MAGIC PARTICLES BRING YOUR MONEY OVER SO YOU CAN BUY YOUR FUCKING HARD CANDY AND TV GUIDE. I KNOW. NO MORE SEALING WAX BURNS. Talking magic cards are some scary next-level shit. But you’ll stop shitting yourself eventually, I swear. Maybe.
Have I got it all wrong? Are you some historical actor who gave up that mainstream Gettysburg shit and is now dedicated to recreating 1984? Where are your British Knights, motherfucker? You’re not from 1984. You’re from nineteen eighty fuck you. Hang up your pilgrim outfit and find a job more appropriate for your natural GETTING IN MY FUCKING WAY talents. Maybe you can lay in a parking lot and be a fucking speed bump.
Maybe you just wanted to show off those sweet fucking custom checks you ordered from the back of the fucking weekly coupon mailer. WELL I’LL JUST GO AHEAD AND BE GODDAMNED IF THOSE AREN’T THE CUTEST FUCKING PUPPIES I HAVE EVER SEEN GRACE A MEDIEVAL CURRENCY EXCHANGE SCROLL. No fucking bank logos for your fancy ass. You paid good money to pay good money WITH FUCKING FURRY LITTLE HUGGABLE PIZAZZ HOLY SHIT ARE YOU A ROCKEFELLER? CAN YOU BUY ME THE MOON BECAUSE I JUST WANT TO TELL PEOPLE I MET A FUCKING GENIE IN THE EXPRESS LANE WHO HAD ACCESS TO INFINITE WEALTH AND COULD SPEND IT IN A REALLY FUN WAY AND BOUGHT ME THE GODDAMNED FUCKING MOON WITH A PICTURE OF A FUCKING PUPPY CHEWING ON ANOTHER FUCKING PUPPY’S EAR. THAT PICTURE IS SO FUCKING CUTE IT’S WORTH ALL THE MONEY EVERYWHERE SO JUST GO AHEAD AND LEAVE IT BLANK AND GIVE IT TO ME I HAVE TO HAVE IT.
And don’t you worry your solid gold ass about me or the line around the fucking equator that’s waiting for you to fill in the memo space to remind yourself that this wasn’t for a new longsword or passage on the fucking Titanic. You go on and keep your records in order, Pharaoh. We’ll just be here decaying and wishing we were still allowed to throw rocks at you until you die.
Image from here.
Just look at this.
Just go right on and take a good long look at this fucking holy terror of a thing that is real.
Look at what humans have done.
Listen. When the plants come back to take what is theirs, I’m laying out a fucking welcome mat, some ice water, soft jazz cds (they fucking love soft jazz), and some piles of cow shit. Because they deserve it.
We lost the plot, and I’m pretty fucking sure we stopped looking for it the second we started dressing our baby girls like elderly hookers.
I’m sorry, elderly hookers. You don’t deserve to be compared to these glittery hellspawns.
I’m sorry, glittery hellspawns.
Don’t get me wrong, as a matter of fact, get me very fucking right when I say I don’t blame these girls for the nuclear blast of candied shit that leveled what chance they had of ever using their faces like a normal person, and made their lives a fucking… this.
I blame all humans everywhere. I blame myself. For still using the plants’ space.
Sleep tight, fellow meat mistakes.