One year ago today, I was… a Testicle. Now before you crucify me for living as such an abomination, allow me to explain my ascent to enlightenment and how the approving Native American is involved.
‘Twas a dark and stormy night, and all the Arizonans were tucked in there beds all tight. Mexicans in Twinkie trucks crossed the border, and IHOP was still open for your midnight order.
A lonely owl hooted a broken tune (it had enough rat in its throat to clog a bassoon) while crackheads shared a trash-can feast with a not-too-rabid raccoon.
Well I don’t give two shits about immigrants, owls, bassoons, or even raccoons, cuz I live in North Carolina. So why am I telling you a story about Arizona? Because that is the very place my blind stereotyped mind pictures a Native American reservation to be.
So why all this nitty-gritty depressing imagery? And why am I asking you questions, when I’m going to answer them myself anyway?
Well that’s because everyone likes IHOP. Especially a wandering Native American who has decided to leave the fenced-in reservation because all the close-minded Testicles (a “Testicle” is any one person who wishes to be a lump in a sack of flesh that hangs beneath a human male’s genitals and then proceeds to be a total asshole in life) have been getting him down and he just needs to escape before the madness of being trapped consumes him entirely and the only thing that lifts his dwindling spirits from falling into a void of evils forbidden that I promised that I will NEVER DO–
Is an IHOP. Open at midnight, as always. Its bountiful supply of nocturnal pancakes are enough to cheer up the poor Native American, and that’s all he needs to approve of you.
So give me some pancakes.
Free, True, Love, bby.