Well folks, I’m now nearly three days deep into my experimental spirit-possession of the slinky n’ sylphlike Canadian-waif simulacrum I’ve come to refer to as the Deschênes Doppelgänger (i.e. the clone of Annie-Claude Deschênes that I mad-scienced up recently), and so far it’s been an action-packed adventure indeed!
The past 62 hours of my “test drive” have been spent engaging in a varied and vast array of spurious activities too numerous (and in some cases too litigious) to mention here, but highlights include:
- Experiencing a stick-hit-initiated epiphany*.
- Getting into a slightly-unnerving floating-head-related adventure.
- Stealing various PRECIOUS THINGS (hearts, virginities, a tricycle) from a bunch of STOOPID BOYS.
- Spontaneously growing a Dave Grohl Punk-Slappin’ JumboHand™ with which to perpetrate righteous retaliation upon some jumped-up jumentous jerkface loser who called me “Canada’s answer to Karen O” whilst I was gettin’ my karaoke on.
- Aaaand… being molested by the increasingly irritating ghosts of fourteen filthy fuckin’ HIPSTERS (they don’t very much like the fact that, unlike them, entities such as I have the means to possess vessels of the flesh — nyah nyah nyah nyaaah nyah, suck it ya buncha useless puny spooks).
Rad shit tends to manifest itself wherever I go while in this form it seems. Bloody maaaahvellous it is!
* Epiphiny transliterated:
”Say! This is pretty much a stick/dick-driven visual metaphor for what a whoooole lot of MRA jackwads seem to think is the way to treat a lady.
Right then, this brow-beating branch-brandishing bolshy bastard better have a damn good explanation to allay my assumption that this is a case of ‘I’m gonna play-hit this little chick with a stick cos I could get arrested if I whip out my dick’ schtick or I’ll shove this branch so far up his ass he’ll soon fittingly resemble a pig on a spit.”
… let’s just say it turns out he wasn’t innocently confused/mentally challenged/really-high and trying to knight me here, so I took it upon myself to ensure he has plenty of time to reflect upon and rethink his abysmal attitude towards women while he spends the foreseeable future in intensive care and shitting wood-chips into a colostomy bag.
Two wrongs certainly don’t make a right (this and about 43 other assorted wrongs have made for a fun few days for me though, ha!), but goddamn was that ever satisfying.
Woo-HA! Social satire!
Now if you’ll please excuse me I have a pack of whinging dipshit hipster-spirits to “lose” in a high-stakes poker game, yo.