I mean, mate your meeker. No no, meet your maker. Yeah, that’s it. We’uns all gonna die tomorrow. It’s a true case of Montezuma’s Revenge without all the toilet paper. Those Aztecs have it in for us and boy, are we gonna get ours tomorrow.
Too late to worry if you’ve been bad or good, Santa’s going out along with the rest of us. If you put off your Christmas shopping, that was smart because no one would ever know what you bought them anyway.
Finally, the War On Terror (WOT?) will be over, the swarm of Mexican cockroaches running over our border will end, the Islamic Jihad will stop dead in its tracks and our worthless asshole president and all the elected scumsuckers in Washington, along with Mayor Bloomburg, will be food for ants. Oh frabjous joy.
San Francisco, along with Dianne Fuckstain, will be returned to primeval forest with no naked pink fairies to be found lurking in the trees waiting to ambush passing behinds.
It’s really going to be a wonderful world once again. It’s too bad none of us will be there to see it. Or no, wait. Maybe it’s not.