I Have A Sinister Plan For Your Life
By: Jesus Christ

Hey there, you little shit. Welcome to the world. For some, it's a wonderful place full of magic and wonder to be enjoyed at one's leisure, but not you. No, I've got a different plan for you, you ugly bastard. A sinister plan. I'm going to make your life one long living hell, and there's nothing you can do about it. After all, if I put everyone on the Paris Hilton or George W. Bush plan they wouldn't have anyone to vomit or drop bombs on now would they, and what sort of world would that be?

For starters young Mr. Cox (or should I call you Seymour - LOL) that womb you just emerged from belonged to a young woman with a bit of a heroin problem, which makes you an addict as well, so good luck with that (just kidding - there's no such thing as luck - I control your destiny, and trust me, you're fucked). Don't get too attached to this mother of your's though, because I'm just about through with her. I don't mind telling you since all you can do at this point is cry and squirm in your filthy blanket that her next cop of scag will contain enough rat posion to kill an elephant. Don't ask why - it has to do with a tangential plan I'm working on between the russian mafia and the CIA which is much too complicated for your infantile, drug addled mind to comprehend.

Seriously dude, I'm gonna fuck you up. You think Anne Frank and Bill Buckner had it bad? You haven't seen nothing yet. You're going to be my masterpiece. I'm going to give you the talent of Jimi Hendrix, only before you can sign your first big recording deal I'm going to have flesh eating bacteria eat your arm off. How's that sound? Then I'll let you learn to play with your prosthesis just long enough to get a taste of the good life, even find yourself a little wife and have a kid before I get you hooked back on heroin and throw in a little bi-polar disorder and have you smash your other hand when you punch a mirror thinking your face is the devil and you never play guitar again and your wife and kid leave you because you're always screaming at them that they were sent by the devil to put evil thoughts in your head like cutting your pet iguana Morty open with a power saw to see if the numbers '666' are tattooed on his heart and you're sent to a mental hospital where you spend three years lying in the fetal position reciting letters and numbers to yourself thinking that if you stop the world will end and you'll go to hell until your insurance runs out and you're cast out onto the street to bother people and eat things out of the garbage before getting creamed by a bus while chasing the hallucination of a diamond shitting rabbit into a busy street where you'll die a slow, painful death twitching and foaming on the asphalt like a salted snail.

Phew. I'm a little out of breath.

But of course you'll forget all of this before any of it happens, and you know what the ultimate irony is? You'll come to me. During one of your rare lucid moments you'll come to me on your knees, begging for my help, imploring my divine mercy. "Oh Jesus please," you'll blubber, staining one of my church's floors with your stupid tears, "Please Jesus, help me!" And guess what? I'll tell you to go fuck yourself and two days later you'll sprout the biggest hemorrhoid of all time. Bitch.