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by Muse
Rated: 18+ · Monologue · Satire · #1179245
I criticized the government at no one's convenience but my own. Uncle Samantha pointed at me with her chastising finger because she thought I was in the wrong. She said she wanted ME to help our country as she stared at me with those intense eyes. I told her that I'd get to it when she didn't need me anymore, as she had so often told me before.

Homeless Homosexuals from Hiroshima told me that I was doing a fair job with the Department of Defenselessness; they said they'll finally need microwaves in two more years. Unless, of course, we plan on giving them a fine Texas-sized x-ray machine, should we think the radiation much healthier for them.

I learned about the birds and the bees from the trees in the park on which were inscribed messages by horny teenagers with nothing to do but keep a record of their sexual conquests. I thought maybe I'd be better off learning through experience, but that was lost on me when I got a better sense of things. Besides, it was much sweeter when I discovered that my hands could be used for more than force-feeding myself with day-to-day living.

I met Cannibal Hector on my way to the butcher's shop. He told me that he was on his way to his cousin's house for the very same thing. I would've joined him for dinner, but I'd not've been able to digest anything but the human heart (as I have been doing for years). He told me to suit myself, for what it was worth, despite the fact that I always did prefer dining in the nude.

I met a statesman the other day while eating blueberry corn muffins on the side of the Freeway to Purgatory. He spoke his name at me while purple blueberry-stained crumbs fell from my mouth and I picked them up to save for the better half of the world (you know, the bottom-dwellers and anorexic drug addictions). I was slightly more observant than usual, so when the name poured from his lips, it is frivolous to say that I hadn’t caught it.

Between studying the contours of his face’s ape-like structure and the substance between his teeth that very well could have been mold or a piece of lunch, I was led to guess his name based on what I didn’t hear of it. Porgy Bushvick? No, too sophisticated. George Bush was the name I adhered to him; it seemed more fitting. He said he was a man of the country, but I disagreed. He was a Man of the World (it's a shame about his brains).

So how's that war going, anyway? Peanut butter and Jelly sandwiches were pelted across the lunch room, and there was spaghetti in my pants as I launched a soggy rutabaga at GOD. Graham Orion Daniels retaliated with a smile as he blew me away with a kiss. All in all, I'd say that the war was going quite smoothly. Now, if you please, help me rip the hardened gum out of my hair.

Rosie the Riveter, Susie the Welder, and Harry the Lush joined me for the evening tea at Betty Crocker's house. I brought a stack of babies' ribs but my company didn't seem much appreciative, as they insisted upon talking about the baby-backs. I didn't much understand their talk of rump roast or cow tongue, either, as that had nothing to do with the succulent infants' ribs. So I tried to change the subject to something lighter, but when I mentioned the feud between the allies and the fiends, I caused them some offense. Apparently, it was uncouth of me to discuss such things as death when divulging in the tender meat of a human infant's chest.

I visited some relatives in Britain for the sake of lacking in integrity to pick up the phone and call father. Admittedly, I’ll have to admit to also lacking a whim to visit there again. The scenery was lovely and I had a swell time of it, but conversation was dry. All they ever talked about was Cheerios, birds, and teddy-boys (although, I think they have their terminology a bit muddled, as it really ought to be teddy-bears, presumably). If it wasn’t for the sake of the pram in which I was being carted, I’d have taken my thumb out of my mouth to divulge in some of those Cheerios of which words were spoken.

I was standing on the borderline of Iraq with my secretary, counting the number of American formalties (because death is oh so sophisticated). When things heated up to a climax, I allowed the moment to carry me away and screamed "Tally, ho!" When the moment was done and over with, I asked my secretary what he thought of the war. As brigades of seven-year-old naked girls ran from within the deserts, covered with a substance that was eating them alive, he told me that it was going quite well, as the American Formalties were only at two. They were screaming something, but leave it to me not to have made out what, exactly, it was.

"Napoleon!" No, no...

"Naples!" Still not right.

"Nipple Palms!" Yes, yes that was it. Nipple Palms. Perhaps it was a game that they were playing, but who is to know for sure?

So how is that war going, anyway? There was a smile waiting on my doorstep when I pulled the pin from my water-balloon grenade; a hole through which honey bled. We took the struggle to Terra Genesis and an army of ants came marching one by one; originating from Chair Noble as I tried frantically to scrape the lint from between my teeth and the fuzz on my tongue; too much second hand smoke. A fog was created by the countless pots burning over the stove as my enemies, once again, clued me in to nothing but the way I could take to defeat them.
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