Halt! Hold it
right there, e-Citizen Provocateur™! Just who in bloody blue blazes do you think you are,
defiling the blessed womb of Mother Earth® with your tawdry, selfie-centered
portrait? I couldn’t be more repulsed if you were naked as a stray turd — sans
the hemp uniform — up on all fours with your scrawny arse to camera. Perhaps your
inner John Birch barometer is confusing spelunking for spreading eagle or maybe
you’re one of those deranged deity types who believe themselves to be the risen
Lorde® and your disgraceful pose — bushy business exposed — is revered
in the eyes of your brain-scrubbed flock. Whatever the case, ‘tis time you
close up shop — that is, your legs — and steer your purple shoes to
the nearest KOA® shower stall for a proper douching, as I can smell you from
here. Do it while I’m still of a mind or I’ll cite
you and the sister wives in your compound.
