I'm like a scientist who was reclining in a lawn chair and reading a textbook in the desert when a nuclear bomb fell and exploded right next to me, but I was not killed by the blast; instead, I acquired super powers: Now, every time something annoying happens that makes me angry (say I bump my head on the door frame when getting out of my automobile, or I read in the newspaper that my favorite iceberg melted), I don't just grumble to myself and mutter curses under my breath like a normal person, no: I physically expand in bulk because of my madness: my muscles grow so large that my lab coat and collared shirt get ripped right off; and my purple pants tear at the knees and resemble swimming trunks; plus my skin changes hue: it's now toxic-green, and my hair is messy.
I also am like the superhero named Superman, because I am a woman of incredible strength. My attire is eye-catching, and I can lift up a bus. I spend my days performing charitable acts. I can see thru blouses and skirts with my X-ray vision (but I can't see thru underwear). I keep my hair combed, too. My hair is dark and shiny.
I'm like a secretary who wears spectacles and is in love with my own alter ego. I'm extremely attractive.
I'm like the superhero Wonder Woman, because I carry a rope that I use as a lasso. I own an invisible jet that I drive to all business meetings. When I arrive, I shake everyone's hand: even the evil competitors from the law firm that my corporation is in the process of merging with. I have blond hair.
I'm like a fairy or angel, because my shoulder blades erupt out into nonfunctional wings. Therefore I flutter into offices and help co-workers fulfill tasks. For instance: If your coffee spills on a sales report that you had just finished tweaking and were ready to hand to your boss, I will step forward from out of the shadows and use an applicator to dab white liquid over parts of your report: this substance that I have applied is a fast-drying correction-fluid, which is employed to augment the numbers so that your company appears (on paper, at least) more profitable than it actually is. This will please the shareholders.
I'm the woman of your dreams, because my body and face resemble Miss America. My flesh is hot to the touch. I bed you willingly, and I do not sue you afterwards. I will NOT ask for child support. My ultra-gorgeous physicality will eventually sag and wrinkle up in the grave. Our kids will replace us.
This brings me to my next point: Children are the future. Do not kick them down the staircase. NEVER dispose of them improperly. And do not shove them against a wall. HOWEVER, if the tables turn so that they eventually shove YOU against the same wall, even if it causes damage to the gypsum-board, do not punish your children: simply allow them to conquer you. Perhaps offer them an equity fund, or a fixed-income fund. — Wait; on second thought, I change my mind: Make them work for their fortune. Hard, back-breaking labor. Let your children learn the value of suffering: cause them to undergo lifelong torment. (What would Christ do?) Shower them in lies by telling them that you love them, but be tough and withhold your REAL love from them until they improve their credit score.
Pass the baton to the next generation. Look to the superheroes Batman and Robin, for moral support, and for an example of the best way to pretend that you are alive. You see, Batman sired Robin upon Catwoman, and the lad was sent to the most expensive college. All the land west of the Mississippi became deeded to this songbird. God blessed him, and he struck gold.
One winged shoe of Mercury also speeds prayers up. It makes moviemaking possible. If it weren't for the honorable Star Wars, we might still abuse Mercury. But now we must settle for abusing Santa. Such is life: it is obliged to continue bunny-ing forward.
And nightclub singers are also a fairly good spectacle. You can position them in your living room. Make some space by sweeping clutter into a dustpan. Use large rugs or storage bins. The back of your garage is also a clever place to hide cigarettes. I found it much easier to attain financial aid when engaged in the act of lying.
But let us leave no child behind. Anyone with loads of cash can become a TV producer. Develop a multipart screenplay based on a familiar situation, and then pack every episode with laughs. Hire a writer or two to eat snacks while you pose at a distance holding a horsewhip.
Charge double, when applicable. Even triple, if invincible. Master trope, when undeniable. Break math, in case of emergency.
Buy some free help and offer it during Bribe Time. Feed my people: heal them thoroughly. Then make a go of it. Toss them at everyone. Folks will love you. You will become the talk of the town. Muffle historians with statuary.
The problem that most worlds make, however, is that they engage in Civil War before they're ready. You need to COMMIT. Ask your doctor about anything answerable. And you should think long and hard about what you want to do with your childhood, in case you grow up. If possible, continue thinking about it until you're on your deathbed, and then admit: "I fully regret this." But you must act fast: for all deals expire before you can seize them.
I met Sigmund Freud in college, and he was like "Hello Bryan Ray! You look large. Did you happen to bang your head on the door frame when they shoved you into the cop car? I like your bathing suit." And I said "Hi Sigismund. No, I drive my own cop car and bang my head accidentally on its frame daily, sorta half on purpose, whenever I arrive here at school. Nice to see you. You look great too. I'm glad our schedules are identical, because we enrolled in all the same classes."
Then Freud and I engage in a contest to see who can dream faster. (Time's almost up.)
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