Tuesday, December 20, 2005

A Pennsylvanian's guide to staying alive for the foreseeable future

I live in Pennsylvania. I am a resident of the state that today banished God and everything that is lovely and good and decent out of the lives of it's citizens. I am a resident of the state that said NO to Intelligent Design.

We all know what is going to happen in the next few days. And the mere thought of it makes me quake in my shoes. Have you seen "The Day after Tomorrow"? Did you like it? Yeah me too, the special effects were pretty good, especially when the wave ... but fuck it, I'm not here to talk about the day after tomorrow. Well, yeah, I am, but not the movie. This is what's gonna happen the day after tomorrow.

The sky will gradually turn a darker shade of winter. The laughing maw of Satan will appear within the menacing folds of cloud cover sagging over your doomed town like a tired old crack whore's wizened teats. The clouds will open up releasing a million demonic bats that will fly through your home devouring all your Chinese food leftovers and raping your cat. The laughing face will then begin to resemble Pat Robertson's visage. He will weep for your sins, his tears falling down on earth in the form of destitute Hurricane Katrina victims who will clutch at your shirt sleeves while drowning in a pool of their own blood, all the while berating you for following a homosexual lifestyle.

Cars will crash into each other. New York transit employees will go on strike. The entire cast of "Friends" will descend on your town and run amok drinking coffee and whining about failed love affairs. Your faucets will drip, your television picture will blur, you will suffer from a violent attack of diarrhea and run out of toilet paper. Your clothes won't fit you right, your food will taste like semen and you will enjoy how it tastes. Circumcisions will go horribly awry. A million mothers will give birth to two million ugly twins. Penis envy will replace anorexia as the dominant female mental dysfunction and the streets will run red with the blood of innumerable male genitalia hacked down in their prime by machette wielding demi-goddesses.

Soon, you will die a horrible agonizing death and as you gaze up from your deathbed, you will see psychedelic visions of Pat Robertson madly sodomizing Charles Darwin's inert corpse. Your final tortured gasp of life will coincide with Robertson letting loose a wild orgasmic shriek as he comes and comes again inside that heretic pseudo-scientist's torn sphincter.

There is only one way to avoid this fate. Flee, fool. Flee to Kansas where the air is still pure and where the word of God remains all-powerful.

Or you could flee to India, as I will be doing this weekend. Cheers.

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