Wow! You’ve just received an edible arrangement from your Aunt Elizabeth, congratulating you on the birth of your first child. What a truly kind, thoughtful gesture, right?
WRONG.
She’s making you look weak – insinuating you need your arrangements to be made of actual food in order to eat them. Throw it in the trash and tell your Dad’s sister that to you, any arrangement is an edible arrangement, because you’re not a fucking pussy.
That bouquet of roses and lilac sitting on the dining room counter? Grab a fork, some A1 sauce, and go to town. Better eat every last bite – or do you have to run out and pick up your dress from the dry cleaner?
Looks like you just had the stone arrangement in your garden re-done. Well, you’re gonna be making a few more trips to Home Depot, because that arrangement of smooth shale and goose-shaped amphibolite is going down your goddamn gullet with a lovely Bearnaise sauce to boot.
At this point you might be thinking, “is this safe? None of this is food,” but if you were a real tough boy, you’d enjoy eating that plastic cutlery set, and then you’d beg for more sharp plastic utensils to be carelessly stuffed into the only body you have.
It doesn’t stop with just eating anything in sight, though.
You have pillows and a comforter on your bed? You have my spit and piss on your grave.
Do what a real tough boy does – grab a pile of decapitated Furbies, light them on fire, and when the flames go down and the pile of burnt robot birds emits but a crackling ember, lay down your head and drift off to dreamland.
Reading a book? Fuck that, too easy. Read minds.
Have to shit? Dig a hole (even if all you have is concrete and your bare hands) then do it up. Or, be like me – I haven’t pooped in six years and am constantly in pain.
Look, this is just the way to be, and if you dislike it, don’t get your pedicured knees caught in the door on your way out.