Brain Poops

Sometimes I daydream that I’ll go in for an interview at some random place and Bob Barker would jump out with his twizzlerdick microphone and exclaim “That’s right! You WON! How does it feel to be my dicksweater, bitch?”

And I usually imagine looking rather confused as he approaches me, weilding his microphone like a battleax of the ages.

It isn’t untill the first swatting hit from Bob’s microphone that I realise shit just got real. With a poorly executed sweep kick, I twist my ankle and go down on one knee. Bob lands on his adamantium hip and suffers only a “really quite nasty bruise I got there, right? Blurple, I think.”

But Bob can’t get up. He is old and riddled with miniscule microphone grip arthritis (MMGA - a condition characterized by extreme pain within the grip area. Incurable, untreatable, excruciatingly painful). With his eyes welling up with old-man tears, he comes to grip with the cycle of life and it’s inevitable process, finally finding peace with the world and his part in it…

Just as I land a crushing, well-placed kick to the groin with the enthusiasm and speed of a Brazillian soccer player and the burning desire to see if I can split a man in two via that damned sensitive region. And, in a run-on sentence, I might add.

Yeah… Sometimes I daydream.

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