The three individuals above have been trying to kill me for years. They are killing me softly with their songs, where their songs are addictive fat and chemicals fiendishly disguised as lab-created, quasi-food constructions, dripping with irresistable flavor and shame. I am helpless against their collective will. Like the lab monkey who has been conditioned to push the lever continuously to obtain an unending supply of cocaine, hookers and fire trucks, I, too, declare myself a victim of prudential inadequacy. These three menacing characters have cleverly exploited my years and years of training as a lazy, fat American to coerce me into returning again and again to their everlasting fountains of blood pressure and cholesterol raising agents, which have been fiendishly disguised as lab-created, quasi-food constructions, dripping with irresistable flavor and shame. Even the post-consumption sensation of feeling like an overfilled bag of melted cheddar cheese, re-hardened and slightly warmed over by the friction of methane scraping across an overworked sphincter muscle does little to foil their murderous scheme.
I have accepted this affliction. It’s not so bad. And the milk shakes are delicious! But what torments my soul is "why?". Why are these three seemingly innocuous mascots trying to kill me?
Upon further examination of this triumvirate, the motivation behind two of the members is obvious. One of them is a king. A despot. A crown wearing freak. Don’t ever trust a person who would wear a crown, unless it’s xe’s birthday. Do you know who wears crowns? That’s right, royalty. And what do royal people do? That’s right, they kill the masses for their own personal gain. That is why we had to get rid of most of them in the world. In less than a year we’ll be getting rid of another one. Well, he thinks he’s one, and he only wears his crown, which is made out of Crunch Berries, by the way, when alone in the oval office when he thinks nobody is looking. Then he stands on his desk, holds a Swifter Duster as a scepter, tucks his pant legs into his socks, pulls his shirt tail out of his zipper, and decrees anti-cuteness edicts to his collection of Precious Moments figurines.
The other is a clown. As we all know, John Wayne Gacy set the standard for clowns. There is no way of getting into that union without showing a penchant for death. Enough said.
But the third is a sweet little girl with gravity defying pigtails. Why would a sweet little girl want to kill me? Usually, when a woman wants to inflict a man with a slow, excruciating death, she’ll just marry him (sing with me, "chestnuts roasting over an old stale joke..."). I guess this adorable she-devil determined it is impractical to marry everybody she wanted to kill. Instead, she created the Spicy Baconator™. That gives me a good idea for the next time I propose marriage to somebody: “Honey, would you make me the happiest man in the world and do me the honor of becoming my Spicy Baconator™?” “With this ring I take (insert name here)
OK, this wasn’t supposed to be a marriage bashing commentary. Somehow, I ended up there. Just like with my own marriage, once I got there, I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. So I’ll shut up now.
Before I go, one other thing about the three dastardly merchants of death: notice they all have red hair. As a member of the ruddy mane persuasion, I am offended and litigiously demand something I don’t deserve.