Bitterunion

Hello sir, 

As I was riding aboard a greyhound bus to Toronto the other day I happened to see you in your beat up old rusty van. Normally the sight of such an unkempt dare I say, piece of shit vehicle as that being on the road next to me is a tad concerning as the pieces falling off of it in directions unknown, coupled with the fumes I am surely inhaling could result in an early and forthcoming death on my part.

What jostled me from a hazy half sleep was not the sight of your vehicle, but the fact that you were turned 90 degrees away from a view of the road while traveling somewhere in the neighborhood of 120 kph. This is all well and good, you’re an important man I can understand that. Important enough in fact to not only be concentrating on your laptop in a rush hour traffic situation, but have it mounted on your dashboard for quick and convenient use in any laptop emergency.

This handy brace would probably also serve a greater purpose in maiming you when you do one day succumb to that life changing high speed crash whilst also ensuring you get to tweet your last words. “lol in traffic, lol”. No that would simply be an irony too great to come true.

The saddest part of it all is, you, that brace and that busted ass car that you commute to work in every day, will probably outlive all of us. Nearly sideswiping a bus is no bit of a wakeup call, but simply a funny story to be told round the pub later on in the evening.

Some interesting alternatives to using your laptop in traffic, may be firstly curving that pc addiction of yours. I mean most phones can get the internet on them and it’s a hell of a lot easier that putting a giant Christfucking laptop cradle in your car. Or shoot whatever happened to just driving? Just good old fashioned paying attention showing up on time alive and well after a jolly trip down the highway.

I mean what did our grandparents do? They listened to AM radio and they tapped their mother fucking toes is what they did. I mean yeah they were at least 3 good whiskey drinks deep by their morning commute to the office, but they were in the zone all the same. Eyes on the road, Buddy Holly in the speakers and ready to take on the world. Not to mention driving around in a car that could plow through any small house. Not fly apart like some redneck, rusty, degenerate version of a formula one crash.

I think all I am trying to say is wake the hell up. You and your ancient Chrysler soccer mom, death heap from hell almost ended me because your too bloody important to watch the road and pay attention like the rest of the sad and mostly responsible public who were stuck in the same rush hour traffic. Consider this your cease and desist letter before you end up in some hospital or before something more tragic happens like your Farmville goes unattended for a few mere moments.
In summary, you are a dick. Smarten the fuck up.

Signed, your friend (toodles!)

Scott

P.S.
If in fact what you were working on was the cure to cancer or some sort of ultimate life changing breakthrough discovery, please ignore the following rant. Alternately if you are some kind of Jack Bauer type and you stopped some bomb from going off by keying in a launch key on your laptop while looking badass undercover in that busted ass van. Godbless you Jack Bauer figure your daughter is so hot. Also please don’t kill me.

Now before I begin, some of you may see the following as mean, manipulative and exploitative. To those people I need only say. If I ever get this to work, whoever it works on fully deserves it. Secondly in the words of Canada’s rock sensation Sloan, it feels good to do it.

When watching the time travelers wife I had a horrible idea.

Or a brilliant one.

As a brief aside no I have not read the book, reading is dull, unless your reading this, in which case its AWESOME. The following therefore will be taken contextually from the movie and not the book so don’t go ahead and write a bunch of hate mail about my inaccuracies, I am just going for the rough concept here. Secondly I’ll find you and shit on your porch.

Anyway back to my idea.

What if I could find a woman so incredibly gullible, attractive and wrapped up in the notion that she too could fall in love with a wayward time traveler. Think of the benefits this sort of arrangement could have, no more dinner with boring old Fred and Linda “Oh god I’m disappearing! I’m time traveling again unintentionally!” No more expensive holidays. No more chores. Hardly any responsibilities, and your partner doesn’t think you’re a dick, they think your truly a time traveler unable to control your affliction and missing out on all of those precious life moments. Sucker.

To wipe my hands clean of my future dinner date with boring old Fred and Linda, and going through a hellish holiday with the in laws I figure the following steps will need to take place to succeed in becoming “The Time Traveler”

Getting started

Meet an attractive and gullible sort of lady that has heard of the time travelers wife. Intoxication could also help with the illusion so I would imagine the best place for this would be at some dancey bar. It will be loud and crowded so I can pull my very first time travel. If I really wanted to drive the point home I may bring some flares or pyrotechnics to add to the effect as well as stashing a grey haired wig, makeup kit and old man clothes outside the bar. With an approach as creepy as “Hey have you seen the time travelers wife? I’m like that guy.” I can only assume many tries will be needed to get past the initial greeting. But once the “In” has been established. I can make up some bullshit about being dragged back to generic events she may be able to relate to. This works especially well if I clean up and shave have a familiar face and blend well in the room. I may be able to pull off that I have seen her in the past and future. I will spend the night being a complete gentleman until the moment where I must time travel away to prove my wild statement.

Time traveling for the first time

I’ll try and make a lot of noise, possibly in the bathroom while slipping out of a window. Or simply crabwalk through the crowd remaining undetected whilst throwing my road flares or setting off my pyrotechnics. When I get outside this is where the magic happens. I’ll step across the street and don my old man disguise. When she comes out I greet her shocked with: “ I told you this was important! Were soul mates!” I plan to not skimp on the costume as it is imperative to the believability of this charade, alternately I suppose I could find a bar in a really dimly lit area. 

Choose your own adventure

With any luck I have established some kind of connection to my “mark”. Now I can choose weather or not to use time traveling to have a one night stand and simply time travel out of the room in the morning. (Note to self it is important to save some pyrotechnics and flares for the morning after but not too much as to burn the house down.) I also have to make sure to say things like “Oh no I’m time traveling I could get lost in time!” so that I am absolved from being an asshole. Its my condition not my personality.

Relationship city

If I take the other route and I am in it for the long haul this is where it is time to cash in on time traveling. Oh how romantic it will be, me a man who travels through time seeing things men have only dreamed of. But not matter I will be a liars liar. To keep this up however I think I will need some help, Possibly a makeup guy for my old man flashbacks and a pyrotechnics guy for my amazing time traveling. The relationship would continue as per usual however I would hold my veto card close to my chest. Dinner with Fred and Linda comes around. I’m popping a road flare, saying “IM TIME TRAVELLING” and crab walking the fuck out of there to play lazer tag. Bliss. As long as I come back in my professional old man costume for a bit who knows how long I could be gone for. Oh how happy we would be. Me missing out on all of the events in life that suck. And my lady living her dream of being the time travelers wife.


Unrealistic, yes, Unfathomable, yes. If it ever worked I think I would simply have to see how far it went. For those of you who think it is awful to even think of such a thing out of a romantic story like the time travelers wife I would have to agree that I am tainting the story. But If I can get out of a one night stand awkwardness, skip dinner with the in-laws or boring old Fred and Linda or any other mediocre stupid life event to go and play lazer tag, well shit I will try just about anything.

Tony Federelli here to introduce to you a new breakfast cereal that is going to revolutionize your day with a burst of energy, excitement and taste explosion.

When we asked the American public if they liked cereal 86% of them said “Fuck yeah!”

But what are today’s modern breakfast cereals missing I ask you?

Well I would say they are missing a comforting and recognizable shape as well as a new taste that will shock your senses like old sparky.

I’m talking bout Vaginos people.

Because so many Americans like cereal we needed something different, something edgy and groundbreaking. But with a familiarity that brings the average consumer back to mamas kitchen.

These tasty slightly oval shaped o’s are modeled after the female vagina to bring you a taste sensation unlike any breakfast cereal before.

The taste of vagina is infused in every O.

Our o’s start out very simply, the dumpster behind the cheerios plant where the rejected oval shaped o’s are discarded. The o’s are then loaded into a truck and sent to Nicaragua where our main plant is.

The o’s are each individually sculpted using the reject cheerio is a base. Adding a bran dough , skilled child slaves craft the perfect vagina shape each time. Modeled after the diagram in the latest addition of greys anatomy.

Passing through a large oven fueled mostly by garbage and dead villagers the o’s are heated to a hard state for the first time in production.

The o’s then move on to our flavoring facility where they are soaked in large wooden hot tubs occupied by hundreds of Nicaraguan slave women fed a steady diet of fruits and grains, the Vaginos stew for a week to soak every last drop of the vagina flavor.

We then dry the Vaginos in the hot sun and rub them with coconut oils to give you that sun bathed taste of the beach baby tanned chyach. Without the sandy aftertaste!

Sugars and glitter are then added to give the vaginos a pop!

How much sugar you ask?

 Metric Fucktons.

Enough so that your children may slip into a diabetic coma, making this cereal the most friendly for Saturday morning cartoon watching since reese’s pieces cereal.

I get a lot of questions about the glitter in vaginos. People say, is glitter harmful to me in cereal Tony? Will my rectum be cut by the shards of glitter Tony?

Although the glitter is mostly indigestible I can promise that our  army of quality control technicians rigorously check each individual glitter package to insure that no sharp edges are present.

As a secondary precautionary measure our bran dough base is infused with a mild laxitive allowing any sharp glitter missed in the quality process to evacuate the bowels in an expedient manner. Creating a brown glitter rainbow slightly resembling a Mariah carey video with every movement.

After the production process is completed and the o’s have had time to dry in the sun they continue on a conveyer to our automatic packaging facility where they are packaged and shipped off to you.

After all of this work, you the American public can enjoy a bowl of premium breakfast cereal every morning.

But what does this cereal cost Tony?

I would pay up to $50 for a box of cereal of this quality in my supermarket.

But because of our Nicaraguan labor exports we are able to offer you this product for the low low price of $3.99.

$3.99! Impossible! I feel like I’m stealing!

Yes ladies and gentleman you can march down to your local store and enjoy a box of vaginos for the same price as a regular box of cereal.

Lets hear what people have to say about this great product.

“Vagtastic!”

“It tastes like Friday night!”

“I cant help but have morning wood, for vaginos!”

There you have it folks regular Americans all agree vaginos are fantastic.
But this raises a tough issue as well.

I recently received some mail from Terrence D Winklesteans from Maryland who wrote:

Dear Tony

I am a homosexual, and I am thoroughly disgusted by real vaginas, and I am nervous to sample your cereal, could you describe for me the taste so that I may one day overcome my previous reservations to vaginas and sample your cereal?

Well Terrence I would like to respond to you with this confession. I too am a homosexual.

That’s right folks this bounding portrait of masculinity is in fact a rump ranger. I myself have never tasted a vagina, or even seen one up close.

You may ask, well isn’t it strange for you to be marketing this cereal?

To which I respond, No, it is a beautiful and tasty product. The sugar makes each o taste like a dream, and although I am repulsed by the real thing and compare them to the sand worms in dune, I love the oh so delicious vaginos that come in every box. After tasting vaginos and being assured by many they are what actual vagina tastes like they have mad me even consider changing teams. Oh vaginos with their glitter shining, their fermented secretions tantalizing my taste buds with that sun kissed chyachie taste of vagina in every bite.

So ladies and gentleman if you like me want to wake up to a big bowl of sugary vaginos go down to your local grocer and grab a box today!


“Vaginos! Today, your eating out!”

You walk into the comedy club just as the Mc is beginning. You and your date find a table right around the middle and cozy up in the plush seating under candle light.
You’ve come for an evening of comedy, and you are not about to be disappointed.
 
The Mc struggles through a few opening remarks, some awful mumbled jokes and then bellows,
 
“Ladies and gentleman I would like to welcome you to the laugh hut on this lovely evening. We have some great acts for you lets get this thing started.”

The room grows quiet a stagehand comes out and places a stool, microphone stand and a glass of water onstage. He quickly runs off nodding to someone briefly as he passes the curtain.

The candles flicker away on the table tops in the dark for a full minute as people begin to talk in hushed voices. There are signs of movement behind the curtain.

A figure emerges from stage left out of the blackness a single spotlight on him. Long perfect, flowing, curly black hair. A firmly pressed and starched business suit and sporting a yamacha. 

Walking across the small stage in a very precise and dignified manner. The man stops to take a sip from his glass of water, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Its time to make or break his career in comedy.

He breaks into his opening banter in a raspy, throaty voice. Talking of growing up in his native Manhattan. You are comforted by this man. He is like an old friend.

He runs through some typical shit, from the old “I made more money at my bat mitzvah than I have throughout my whole life. Let me tell you becoming a man makes you money!”

To the tad racier

“I went to a public school near where my mother worked in the city. There weren’t many Jewish kids and I would get made fun of for celebrating Christmas. Those kids didn’t realize I got 7 days of it. Bigots.”

As this man is running the gauntlet of terribly over told jokes, you realize just how stereotypical he indeed is. The long curly hair, the well dressed suit, and a gigantic hard to keep your eyes off nose. You swear it is fake but from this distance you cannot be certain for sure.

The man continues to get the occasional laugh, but for the most part is hearing the crickets.

Your date gives you a look like “Maybe this wasn’t such a hot idea”

You give an assuring look back and whisper. “The next guy will be better.”

Just as the man seems as if hes about to finish up, he pauses and takes a big sip of water, wiping sweat from his brow, he clasps the microphone stand with a fury and erupts into some terribly self loathing shock humor which causes the entire crowd to laugh and gasp.

The most tame of these being “Never go to a dinner party at Hitler’s place, Motherfucker just burns the shit out of everything. 9 times out of ten the directions are on the box man.”

The people don’t know what to make of this man on stage. Beginning so harmlessly he is talking in such a way that would make any grown adult blush. This man knew how to shock and awe.

After a long relentless assault of shock humor the man pauses, finishing the last of his water and motioning to the waiter for another glass. He makes a comment “good help is so hard to find these days” and then sits down with the microphone in hand.

You just don’t know what is going to happen next. This crazy self loathing Jewish comedian had everyone on the edge of their seats. What he was saying was terrible, but somehow not so hateful as he spoke of his own people.

Nervous laughter filled the room as the comedian furrowed his brow sighing at the waiter who eventually hands him a new glass of water.

The comedian now staring intently at the floor speaks sheepishly into the microphone.

“Ladies and gentleman It has been a real pleasure to be here with you this evening. For my closer I want to go out with a confession for you all here and now.”

The comedian stands up removing his yamacha. Suddenly he drops the microphone to the floor and detaches a fake nose and his long flowing black hair which appears to be some kind of sectioned wig.

Surprise folks, that comedian is me.

“I’m not even jewish!” I exclaimed and began to throw all of my prop accessories into the crowd while screaming “Its raining hate! Its raining hate! Its raining hate”

People don’t know what to do, should they be disgusted by me? Should they laugh harder? Sitting at your table a laugh begins to brew deep in your chest. Suddenly you are bursting full out belly laughing.

You turn to your date, She is shocked disgusted and grabbing her purse to run. My fake nose lays in the middle of your table. You’re the only one in the club laughing. Everyone else is grabbing their stuff and getting out before the next comedian. The Mc pleading them all to stay.
You follow your date outside, she shakes her head disapprovingly at you, calls a cab and leaves giving you the finger as it passes by. From the entrance of the comedy club I am escorted off stage into a police cruiser.

You walk home alone.

OK, Mr. Producer, here is my pitch to you. Since Hollywood is making so much money off of remakes lately, I have a great money-making idea!
Lets remake that oh so sweet and fun loving 1952 film, Singing in the Rain.

Intrigued? I thought you would be, sir.

First of all, let me just say, although the original quaint little film was a showstopper back then, and probably implored quite a budget for the time, I can remake this film for a very low, low fee. Certainly not the 2.5 million allotted to the original films creation.

How low you ask? Good question.

Well lets just say you can pick between going to KFC for lunch or signing off on this picture. I have all my own equipment and to save money were just going to film on a rainy day. Suck on that MGM, bet you didn’t think of that one back in 1952.

As for locations, it will be mostly guerilla filming in friend’s basements and street corners without express permission of anyone involved. As for effects, I can handle most of the visual and sound myself in my home studio- pictured here.

Yes sir, that is a closet lined with egg cartons and a floor model staples Compaq computer.

All that I ask in return, is your studio to endorse and distribute the picture as you normally would, all for the low price of buying me and those involved a hearty gravy slathered chicken lunch.

As for talent, I can provide this myself.

I have a very manicured friend who can easily pose as Debbie Reynolds. I swear, I have never seen him sprout facial hair longer than your average lady.
I myself can play the Gene Kelly role, any singing I can probably duplicate to a tee in post. God bless auto tune.

As for updating it for a new generation, well, you may want to sit down for this.
The main theme song will no longer be singing in the rain. It will be Insane in the Brain as performed by Cypress Hill. I realize this track itself is dated but I think it could offer a new insight into gene Kelly’s character.

The story would be changed roughly as follows: Gene Kelly would be a pimp, disenchanted with his main hoe and known throughout the city as the king shit pimp he must wander the streets looking for his new “best bitch”. On his journey, he stumbles upon Debbie Reynolds’ character and falls passionately in love.

Some compositions I have for the first half of the film: “Bored o dat snatch”, “Fit like a Whaa and I’m ready to fuck” and “I had a wet dream” just to name a few.

Please sir let me finish, this is going to blow your mind once I get to the ending.

In between the musical numbers, as I feel the kids today identify well with MTV Live, I would like to see an update after each musical scene, whereby an incredibly unrehearsed and unkempt person will awkwardly take us through what we have just seen, of course adding in nonsensical slang and jovial comments whilst constantly blurting out where people can follow him on twitter. I feel that adding this touch will shoot this film far into the present. (Don’t forget, you can follow us on Twitter- @bitterunion)

Getting back to the meat of the story, on their first evening working the streets together, they get caught in a torrential rain shower. As pimps do not think ahead too far as to bring an umbrella his fine pimp clothes begin to get wet. Because of this downpour and the lack of business due to the rain, Gene Kelly begins to go insane in the brain.
The dancing and routines will be roughly the same. Although instead of twirling umbrellas I would suggest we twirl giant pimp canes. This is again a future adaptation of the film. I also see a vision of big smiles and a happy-go-lucky feel to the whole dance number.

The film will round out as pimp, Gene Kelly, discovers he only has feelings for his new best bitch, Debbie Reynolds. He presents her with a diamond necklace to which she cries and says, “thank you, daddy.” Followed by an 11 minute sex scene with full penetration.

Yes, I am serious. You heard me correctly. Full penetration.

Showing full penetration may be a little risqué, but lets be honest, dancing around in the rain like a fucking screwball back in the 1950’s was pretty risqué and fucked up as well. I would say full penetration in a feature length film is right on par with a sopping wet dance number in the rain. I mean that is behaviour reserved for the mentally insane. Showing insane people dancing in the rain back then is fairly equivalent to showing full penetration for 11 minutes. I mean given the proper venue you can see that on any computer with an Internet connection. Kids today are simply desensitized to such things, if done correctly it will be seen as a tender and romantic moment.

Before you outright refuse, please let me pitch the ending.

The final twist of fate will update the story even further. With the divorce rates much higher than when the movie first came out, Instead of the musical scene where the two actors join each other in singing “Good morning”, which will only make the current generation think of sexual aid medications, the Gene Kelly character will turn over in the suns morning rays and begin to belt out a song called “Regrets”. He will awaken from his drunken haze and begin to realize he was only in it for a sweet lay, and is now locked into a committed relationship. The scene will end with him sneakily unclasping the necklace and can canning out the door as he breaks into the last finale lines which are simply “Regrets! Regrets! Reeeeeeeeegrettttttssssssss!”
Quick shot to MTV guy texting.
Fade out.
Credits roll.

So, what do you think, sir?

Ok, I’ll leave. Ill just wait by your car down there until your free. The silver Mercedes. Yeah I saw you get out of it this morning from the bushes over there. I’ve got an even better idea when your free. Here’s a little teaser.

Kazaam 2.

Think about it!

I’ll have the pitch ready when you come out.

Like many I have contemplated my own death. The actual way it goes down doesn’t so much matter to me. Whether its from horrible disease, car crash or random gang stabbing. The actual death doesn’t so much worry me.
After reading Tom Sawyer at a young age I got to thinking, if I were to attend my own funeral procession I would want it to be a mind blowing spectacle for both myself and the folks who showed up.
Funerals are too official, too gloomy, I am not saying I want one of those lame celebration of life type funerals where everyone wears whatever they want and goes wild, drinking each other under the table while nudging each other and telling stories of my passing. No that’s not the way to do it at all.
I want to go out with pizazz.
Will there be Sarah MacLauchlan songs?
Fuck no. That is again far to gloomy. If there are tears shed, I want them to be tears of pure awe and amazement for the exuberant display brought forth to entertain one and all and send me off in fine style.
Keep the photo albums out of it for a little bit. I mean I am sure when we were going through the holiday snaps with you the first time you were bored enough, having to see them again when I’m fucking dead and you have to be polite about it, well yeah that’s just a waste of your time and mine. Even though I’m dead at this point I will still feel like I’m wasting time that could be spent doing something supreme.
Here’s how its going to go down. Show up at sunset alright. Perfect time of day, hung over or not you have no excuse not to show up. I mean shit its at sunset you have like a whole extra day to plan how to get there, from reading the obits to showing up.
Novelty ties are a must at my funeral, I am sorry but no exceptions can be made here. It is really the only wardrobe stipulation I am making, women can be exempt I suppose, but if you’re a man your rocking some kind of witty novelty tie. I don’t care if you sling it over a t shirt, clip on, bow tie, bolo tie, who gives a fuck. Tie an electrical cord around your neck and make an ironical novelty tie. Id smile down on you for something like that.
Secondly I want to be burned, Even if I die in a really peaceful way and the body looks super lifelike and sweet, and I haven’t shit myself or died rocking a huge boner. No matter how beautiful a corpse I make, which I know I will, just burn my ass. This is part of a greater plan.
Don’t get me wrong I still want a tombstone, Someplace you could come by and visit later. Bury a little pinch of me in there, with a note that just says “gotcha!” for anyone brave enough to try and dig me up. The tombstone will be the staging area for my grand exit funeral.
Gather round my tombstone one and all.
As the sun is setting were going to roll out a whole bunch of pretty cool cars. Aston martin, Lamborghini, Maybe a classic Corvette, a nice Jag. Hopefully some of which I will have owned throughout my lifetime. The headlights are going to snap on all at once. The crowd will hush, clutching their breasts in excitement. Novelty ties flapping in the wind.
Car stereos are going to crank on all at once starting to play February Stars by the Foo Fighters. There will be a grand show, with ballet dancers, carneys and cirque du soleil with a parade of elephants.
That is right folks, my funeral will bring together the sworn enemies cirque du soleil and animals. My death will allow them to see the error of their ways, and join forces in order to put on a show unlike any man has seen before. The kingdoms of both animal and French will meld together as one, forgetting the allegations of cruelty on both sides.
The ballet dancers will dance atop each car, the carnies will perform various stunts as an aside, and cirque du soleil will provide amazing acrobatics atop the elephants.
And this isn’t even the finale.
This show will boggle minds for generations. It will be the greatest five minutes of entertainment anyone has ever seen at a funeral.
No prayers, only shocking once in a lifetime spectacle.
This astonishing feat will continue until the buildup in the song, whereby this point my surviving spouse and or immediate family will want to avert their eyes for the display to follow.
When Grohl belts out the iconic, “FEBRUARY STARS.” Surprise! The ballet dancers are also strippers. At this point they will begin to strip and dance in a sexual manner around my tombstone.
As the women perform their manic sexualized dancing, the crowd can all turn their eyes to the sky as a gigantic flurry of fireworks begins to shoot off overhead.
I am talking fireworks that could shoot down a 747. I would like this funeral to be declared a national security threat from the finale fireworks.
Here is the tricky part. I know this has been done before. I would like my ashes to be put into the fireworks. Yes that’s right. I want to be shot up into the sky over-top of all of my surviving friends and family. Showering you with ashes and light.
I realize this does not sound too appealing. The strippers may indeed get burned. I will set aside money for compensation.
Showering you in my essence would be both sexually satisfying from a dead mans perspective and a fulfillment of a promise to live on with each of you.
The car lights will fade out, the strippers will begin to dress, the elephants will parade back into their cages, with the carneys and cirque du soleil following to their respective cages.
The sun now fully down the attendees will hang around to marvel at what they have just seen.
My goal is to have at least one person utter “Best funeral ever”
That’s how I want to go out.
I realize ballet strippers, circus animals, carneys, exotic vehicles, ash fireworks, novelty ties and cirque du soleil will be hard to get, and enormously expensive. But to my friends and family, I am not yet dead, I have given you lots of warning, I think its reasonable to make this happen.

This dawn is in ruins
O lump of fecal deposit plummeting from heavens
Why must thou fall upon my handle
Why must thou stab at my form with such passion

The day beginning like the rose
Rising with the sun in morning
Basking in the warm comfort of dew
Fully satisfied and content

Why am I now forsaken?
What form of villainy is this
That dost spray my handle
Searing a grave insult into my flesh

This dollop of foul evil is truly the devils work
The Bird from whence it came merely a servant of Bezel bum.
I fear as though I must answer for some wickedness before me
By smearing my extremities with its fantastic stench

Why for any reason could some raindrop
Not guide its way down from a fair and forgiving cloud
Upon this handle
To spare my embarrassment

For now upon my hand is pure evil
It cannot be washed with water or lye
This paste is a reminder of my sin
To forget it would only lead to a further wrath

So I turn to the sky above and smile
The powers above smile back as if to say
Gotcha bitch
This dawn is in ruins
And so am I