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Parasite.
phatcougar | 27 Aug 2008

 

Parasite.
phatcougar


Laughing hysterically in the face of misery can cure depression. Laugh until your guts hurt. Laugh until your eyes tear. Laugh.
            Side effects may include turning into a famous serial killer, but you won’t be depressed. You might kill a few endangered whales and pandas, but you won’t be depressed. You might bludgeon helpless cute little baby seals attaining peace of mind with a piece of mind.
            Meds can’t help you. No chemical can. Explode externally to save self destruction. Weigh out your options. Do you want to be a super villain or kill yourself? Megalomaniac world ruler, solitary confinement. Blood dripping out of your veins. GSR on your finger tips. All because of some lousy depression. No, avoiding depression. “Hysterical Laughter”.
            Think you are a bird, think you can fly. Splat on 10 people below you. Laugh Hysterically. Satire my ass, this is my life we are talking about. “Hysterical Laughter.”
            The pen is mightier than the sword, jab it in your neck. “Hysterical Laughter.”
Lets go destroy something beautiful. Accomplice ? No. Figment of my twisted mind. Nuke the Swiss Alps, Key a brand new red Ferrari, Burn the Mona Lisa. Fire gives you heat and light. Destruction on HD technology. Two million pixels per inch. Two million little pieces of the Mona Lisa burning. Don’t smile bitch, Laugh Hysterically.
            Bottle up emotions, the outcome can surprise you. I choose door number three. Modern art on the floor. Naked dead broad pinned to the bed. No self destruction only external explosion followed by hysterical laughter.
            Choose the weapon of destruction. Weapon of your choice, Caliber 5.56 mm “M16” air cooled, gas operated assault rifle with a rotating bolt actuated by direct impingement gas operation. 900 rounds per minute. Traveling at 3,200 feet per second. Straight into your eye. Drum magazine holding unto 90 rounds. Even if I miss 50 percent of my shots, I still hit 45 before I reload. This is fun. Each bullet coated with Teflon to pierce even the toughest armor to rip through your flesh in time. Tiny entry wounds. Exit wounds the size of a football. Gory, sickening, puke on the floor. The devil resurrected. Columbine still fresh in the memory of a few who lost. Cured am I? No. “Hysterical Laughter”. Not enough. The thirst continues. Death sentences not enough. “Hysterical Laughter”. Torture, pain, ineffective weekend retreats. Make me a vegetable make me a Broccoli, make me a Zucchini. Vengeance is yours.