Killer Bees...

Killer bees should drop it like it's hot. What do I mean? No, I'm asking you. I suppose that you couldn't know that, anymore than I could know what's in your mouth right now. Hey, there's a fun game. Let us play "What's in Uncle A-funk's aorta." Alright, go ahead and guess. No, it's not blood. Geuss again. No, it' not the 1979 Denver Broncos. I'll give you one more chance, OK? Yesss... you got it! Sweet! It is the soul of former-Pope John Paul the second. That's a funny sort of title. It could be a way of denoting that he was the second consecutive "John Paul" in a line of unorigionality stretching back to 'George Dubya.' It works on several levels. Levels of damnation, possibly. Damnation goes great with a side of butter-beans... or wrath. Which, coincidentally, is the subject of this post. No, not literally a post; like a fence post, or a crucifix; but a post like... you know... like you post something; like in the Sunday paper, you post an ad or... a mutilated puppy carcass covered in vomit and Herpes-pee. I should have left freckles at home. He doesn't even like sorority girls.