*note: this is an very old one, from back when I called myself, “The Musical Mind-Rapist”. Now, I say “The Musical Mind-Surgeon”. It is less rapey.
I cannot wait until I am home from this job that I hate. I cannot wait to see today’s episode of “Scowling, frustrated women talking fast and frantic at patient, sensitive social-eunuchs (who have strong jaws and weak eyes)”.
I want that ole, black-face minstrel-show, with an all-new menstruation-friendly flow. I want prime-time t.v.
I want shiny, painted vaginas, wearing this season’s finest wigs. I want loud, random explosions that are big.
Prime-time t.v., envelop me, in that ole distracting glow – infuse in me self-indulgent apathy.
I pledge allegiance to my preferences, and to the socially engineered impulses that govern those preferences.
“Up next, on Prime-Time t.v.: painted vaginas, followed by big explosions, followed by tragic deaths, followed by intriguing deaths, followed by further distraction.”
