Today, I saw a girl in a leg cast. I wanted to kick it.
When people speed up on the highway to prevent me from passing them because they have some deluded fantasy that the Ghost of Dale Earnhardt’s mustache is somehow engulfing their Subaru in an invincibility cloak, I often pray that a semi full of orphans jackknifes in front of them.
When people tell jokes about clown rapists, I laugh. Hard. Unless it’s the clown from Stephen King’s “It”.
I have a dream. It involves winning the lottery, buying the jet pack from “The Rocketeer”, wearing Daisy Dukes, flying above smiling masses at a carnival, and shitting my pants on live TV. This dream was inspired by a previous dream in which a pegasus with diarrhea soars above a medieval village during a festival of merriment whilst maidens bit potatoes as if they were apples and young, virile stable boys simonized each other’s pre-battle hard ons as if each tug would make them King of England.
I believe in magic. I believe in you.
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