Ugh! Ugh! I'm Dying, You Idiot!

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Good evening. And to those of you just joining us: good evening.

Welcome some of you to the first part of a nine-part series entitled, "A Complete Waste of Time, or: A Modern Post-Modern Exploration of the Pointlessness of Wasting Time." Tonight's piece: "Ugh! Ugh! I'm Dying, You Idiot!"

Death: what is it? Nobody's quite sure, really. Scientists, for example, believe Death to be the point at which all things - babies, puppies, and, yes, even dear, sweet gram-gram - cease to be, which I think we can all agree is a bit of a bummer.

Nonetheless. Like a trial to a local newspaper or magazine that we never would have signed up for if given a say in the matter, Death comes for us all.

Sometimes, Death comes like a thief in the night - loud, chaotic, and wholly inconsiderate of what time it is, or if we have work first thing in the morning. Such was the case for Cecil Cecilson of Plainfield, Indiana - a turgid little bastard who knows damn well what he did - who had the misfortune, I suppose, of coming-to as an unknown, yet shockingly skilled prostitute proceeded to remove one of his kidneys on the tile floor of a motel bathroom.

Other times, Death is more playful trickster than some unseen, terrifying constant and inevitable conclusion of biological existence. Such was the case for Chlamydia Lapierre, of Fontana, California, the unwed widow of a small ficus plant who suddenly found herself reduced to two dimensions following her regular Tuesday afternoon shift at Classy Lou's Erotic Dancing Emporium.

Tonight Dear Reader, we humbly invite you to laugh into the abyss, to embrace the all-consuming madness that comes from knowing, one day, you, and all that you hold dear, will, for all intents and purposes, be scrubbed clean from the stained, cracked, and wholly holey pavement of existence. And in some highly unfortunate cases, this will inevitably and statistically prove quite literal.

And for precisely those very reasons, Dear Reader, in tonight's issue we shall fail to stoop so low as to speak with Connie McGivens, a local barista and failed piano tutor; fish enthusiast, Cyril Shenanigans; and Kyle Dewit, local con man and bookie. And in just a moment, a very special presentation of Bill Billiamson's lesser-known erotic novella, "Calvin Carson's Cavalcade of Cars, Cards, and Cardigans," already in progress.

But first, a complete waste of time.

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