The Shit Is Bananas.

Um, yeah. I'll have a number five, plain, super-sized, with an unsweet ass tea. Do I care for a McRib? No, thanks, I choose life.

What do you want for America's favorite generic consumer holiday? Some real get-down shit? Sorry, all I gots to give is second-hand chain smoke and mirrors coughed in a dead noble fir's general direction. Definitely, this is the wrong place to be because its dark getting darker, and we ain't doin' nothin' but droppin' every g we see, cookin' shit up and airin' it out, knowin' only enough to wing it by the skins of bloody noses not our own, dancin' in the long shadows cast by our glow-in-the-dark slime, and makin' money off of broken brains basting in cyanide syrup, like easter eggs; today's a good day to dye. Universal emptiness, sectarian vehemence. Zeal, zest, zing. More grams than Teddy make this rock roll. Spin. Spun. Quash. Wince. Repeat.

Wish (taken for) granted.