Out of his extraordinary peripheral vision, Simon Bagley, no relation to Jim, glimpsed a grey kitten peeking out of the shrubs. Upon closer inspection, he had discovered a litter of four and a half kittens (Maybe a third. It’s hard to tell without knowing the original mass.) They were mewling madly. Being a genuine “cat” person, he was terrified, for he knew the mother must be nearby and hell hath no fury like a mother cat.
“Hey dude, you’re blocking the sun.”
The man paused, and looked all about. “Who the what?” He was confused by the curious voice that seemed to come from nowhere.
“Down here, numb brain.” It was a common black ant. If you are familiar with the body language of ants, you would know it was pissed. Seriously.
Vince was in the middle of a serious conniption fit. His nostrils were flaring as his breathing went ape shit, fluctuating wildly between long and short breaths. This made his face turn a shade of red somewhere between envy and wrath. As it were, he was the rare one out of six hundred people, who could actually make visible steam come out of his ears, so like a dog who licks itself, he did. His intense gaze, if isolated and taken out of context from the rest of his face, looked like he was choking. His fists were so tightly clenched, they turned ghost white. All the while, he stunk to high hell, for he had avoided showering for a third day.
To put things in perspective, Gene Simmons is old enough to be Taylor Swift’s great great grandfather. If striving to become wealthier by any greedy means possible is a sign of aging, it’s a wonder that he is still alive.
And now, a mash up.