I'll just cut to the chase: my work here is actually done and has been for a while. And as of today it's been a full season of time with everyone here, including you, expressing notions that I would not have thought could ever be applicable.
They all lie in wait. Seriously. They cling, like shit to a blanket, to every notion to enunciate through voice-to-text. Stephen Hawking ain't got nothin' on you. For real. They are jealous of your wicked ways. You actually do have a
few crazed warlock nephews. You just didn't realise it, because they're ghosts. Now try play catch with Casper and you're gonna break a couple eggs. I'm just here for the
hors d'oeuvres, don't mind the bare, bloodless numbskulls chattering like frostbitten pygmies in a climate crisis. They tell me I'm ignorant because I refuse to purchase newspapers and enjoy the dark, dry sand, alongside flightless birds. 'I'm just a face in the crowd,' Trent, 'nothing to worry about.' So you tell me something, I rework it, tune up a few of the details, give it that trademark juice. Then there's coins in the purse. And my girl has all the love and attention she needs, because I don't need to hide who I am or what I do. I EXIST THROUGH MY NAME. Gone are the days that a man was measured by his shoestrings. I'm in that purse like white on rice. Of course a cap on the stimulation before night rolls round is a necessary evil one is constantly fighting. But those are my demons to slay. Did you hear about the BellGabber that got slapped?
I know I'm ready to hit record and channel the triad of Afreet. He's
waiting. Now you don't wanna get him mad! All those times you slurred your speech or altered your pitch and switched between yourself and your other Selves, and pretended to be a hologram of the fake Native American chick who lunched on the meats beneath your kilt, I
knew. I just
knew. That couldn't have been the turtle shell. It wasn't all Schizophreniform dancing, dead hieroglyphic whirling dervishes spinning backwards into triplicate pyramids with the Hand of God on my shoulder. I heard the paedophilia got real transpicuous when the Pope shat in the punchbowl and a nun threw a Compact VHS in a bloody, AIDS infested bath tub (fresh plasma) to the point of Adrenachrome, really. If that was all, folks, then I'll be the Mammy Two Shoes to your Jerry, Tom. Soft shoe? Not a chance. No dice, sucker. Lollipop factory OUT.
