ppendix is fucked. I can tell. It hurts like it’s in a bind, being held by hairy hands and wringed. This pain has got to go away. Cut it out? Sure get rid of it. I don’t need it.
It’s like my gut had tacs and nails for breakfast and on its way out of the diner decided to finish the last of the lemon juice with a big swig.
You don’t even need an appendix. It’s a waste of space, extra weight. Trim girls should get them chopped out before they slip into that dinner dress.
“Look, I don’t have a deal for you. I have an offer that you have to take.”
I was getting started with the tough talk. I pretended I was talking to my big, wet, appendix. All goo and blood looking at me with heaps of pain.
“I can’t make it more simple, if you don’t take this offer, you’re dead. Fuck, you’re kid’s dead too.”
That’s right. Squirm in your seat.
My appendix opens his mouth. How the hell did he get a moustache?
“Ok, I know you’re serious and your friends are serious, but I’m serious too. I’ll have everything delivered tomorrow morning. It’s that simple. Kill me now and you don’t have a package—just a waste problem."