Look into my eyes. Sink back, back,
back into your chair.
But not so far back that you fall out of the chair onto that straggly-looking cyclamen your grandkids brought you six months ago and that you keep “forgetting” to water, and have to lie there helpless on those freezing-cold tiles for eight hours with your day-time-casual hospital gown all hiked up around your waist as you watch the cleaning staff come in, point at you and laugh.
You know, like last time. Just a little bit far back, OK?
Now look into my eyes and hear my voice. Feel the soft—honestly rather pervily-sensual— squish of your filled-to-the-brim adult diaper. Oopsies! Press the big red button to call for help from the nursing station—except they’ve all gone to smoke crack in the utility closet, and you know, can I just say, honestly. This is how socialism always ends up.
Or is it capitalism, I always get them confused.
‘Cause no matter if they’re gussied up like Chairman Mao and eating monkey brains with chopsticks—or stuffed into a three-piece suit from Brooks Brothers and scarfing duck confit at Per Se—
—no matter whether those rulers you never voted for are crushing protesters in Tiananmen Square with army tanks—or driving stretch Hummers through Times Square as they toss Planet Earth out the windows like so much used kleenex—
—It’s the very same one percent.
The very same one percent with the very same hairy forearms shoved up the servants’ entrances of the very same bent over, wide-opened ninety-nine percent, just exactly the way it’s been since time immemorial—and pardon my cliché, but I haven’t had my coffee yet.
Well, then. Let’s set that aside for the moment and just listen to my voice. OK?
Life is good, here at the Sunset Lodge. Oh yes. You’ve made a lot of friends.
People you only ever read about until now! You’ve met Napoleon, that li’l ol’ freckle-faced rascal! Oh, and Liz Taylor stopped by. Always flogging that cheap cologne! Well, it keeps the flies off, you told her with a saucy wink, then you cackled with laughter!
Dear Liz, absolutely love the child to bits, what a poppet, but she is not known for her self-deprecating sense of humor.
You’ve met Bernie Sanders! Yes siree, our very own trouble-haired Nutty Professor himself, and you’ve stolen his Birkenstocks, because—
Just because. Tee hee.
But though life is generally good, one or two details could use some improvement. Like those hot roast beef sandwiches. Gravy???!!! Seriously??! They call it curry, or dipping sauce, or sports drink, but it’s all the same brown, viscous glop.
You’d ring up The Toronto Star about it, but your arms are still a bit stiff from “exercise time”, and since when does exercise always involve a 200-lb filipina-lesbian nursing assistant and a leather strap?
But hey! Let’s just wrap that up in the Pepto-Bismol-pink cloud of love and send it to live the rest of its natural life with Jesus. Or Mohammed, or whoever. Just fucking try to listen the fuck to my voice or I’ll really give you something to fucking cry about!! OK?!?
Now that you’re in a state of full relaxation, here’s what I want you to do. I want you—or your Power of Attorney, I couldn’t give a fuck which one of you—to open your wallet and take out your credit card. That’s it, hold it lightly between your thumb and index finger. And you know what’s coming next, don’t you?
I want you to BUY MY PRODUCTS.
OH, YES. BUY. MY. PRODUCTS.
And whether you’re chasing some extra sympathy by dribbling saliva down your chin, or just hangin’ with your homies while finger-painting with the yolks of your soft-boiled eggs, these witty, wearable Gandhi T-shirts—in baby-bottom-soft cotton—are designed to look great AND start conversations that don’t begin with,”You naughty boy, look what you’ve done!”, just like it was before you threw in the towel and began faking urinary incontinence! Good times, pops. Good times…
These heart-stoppingly beautiful tees with my original “quotes” and design are totally up-snappable @ $25 CAD. Don’t you think Dad would love one of these <hint hint…> ?