Jan and the can of spread

It is impolite to publicly take pleasure in the misery of old people. Having said so, it's a great comfort to those who have to deal with old people that they sometimes lose control and involuntarily shit themselves. The elderly are often frail and and are hence mistaken for a race of pitiable and humble beings, worthy of the deference and disproportionate indulgence usually reserved for very small children who don't know anything yet. But old people know lots of things, and some of them have lived long lives characterized by cruelty, disaffection, and selfishness. It was in preparation for their autumn years that the Good Lord invented IBS (Incontinent Bowel Syndrome) and similar ailments which have no Heavenly purpose but to force old bodies to disobey their evil minds and fill up the pants with a quart or two of Divine Retribution. For this miracle, and in the purest sense it is a miracle, it becomes unnecessary for younger people to ever kick old people, as long as we recognize that the matter of settling the karmic account has already been taken care of. Some may question the validity of this miracle, since there is a large class of people who enjoy sitting in their own waste, which would negate the justice of the miracle's impact. On the contrary, punishing aged scat-freaks in any way would be totally unnecessary, since they are always beautifully sweet young people, and beautifully sweet old people. The miracle, for them, becomes a blessing, and the beat goes on. If you do know any pleasant old people, it's almost certain that they are scat-freaks. God has blessed them, every one.

Counting down means the end is always in sight

Two fists are all it takes to shut your piehole. Two fists are useless unless connected to two arms, unless some elaborate pre-planning has been carried out. Two fists with nails through them are enough to make people feel guilty for thousands of years. Two fists need to be washed before handling food, digital media, small children, or the back of a nun's head. Two fists are all it takes to interrupt an otherwise routine bris. Two fists can be your best friends when everyone else is paying attention to someone just like you but prettier. Two fists are the judge, the jury, and that's it, because there are only two of them. Two fists will be around long after everyone's forgotten why they like you in the first place. Two fists can be combined to form one big fist, but no one does that because it looks silly. The best thing about two fists is always the other fist. Two fists guarantee entry at most any Masonic rite ceremony. Two fists are too many, but one never seems like enough. Two fists will fit up there, but they've gotta go one at a time. Two fists made this country great, and someday, they'll belt your kids for acting even tougher than you.

Fortune smiles on those who dare

It isn't going to do us much good to bicker and spit about who it was or what they've been eating lately, so in the interest of moving forward, let's all rise, leave the room, and come back in a few minutes while this candle burns the air clean. After all, I never promised you a rose-garden. While we're up and around, we can do a lap or two around the building, allowing us to jostle our constricted genitals that they may swing freely, and to shake loose the fabric of our trouser-legs so that they may once again be wrinkle-free. Better still, let's lose the slacks altogether and do a nakey-run out to the neighbors' mailbox and back. In the event of bee-attack on the way, we've got one of those five-gallon jugs of calomine lotion in the library. What can I say, I love the smell. Afterward, we can regroup here and continue belittling the lesser races behind their backs.

Gritting teeth and losing syrup

Letting one go at your mother's head is plain old wrong. Whatever resentment one has built up against her, your mother is always to be respected, at the very least for that unpleasant day when you ripped up her vagina (head-first, no less) and bleated your baby-cries of gratitude to a roomful of strangers, only to segue into a prolonged jag of pooping whenever you jolly well felt like it and speaking only in tounges like the Pentecostals do (which is fucking creepy in any state. How dare you speak that way to your mother! Your "experimental time" with Marxism also hurt us deeply, but that's not for here.)

Mothers make us beautiful, and some mothers try harder than others. Conversely, it's always your mother's fault if you turn out ugly, but it's your father's fault if you lack the gumbas to rise above it and still get laid all over the place. I'm sure someone could make a witty point if he or she begged the question enough to include single-parent and step-parent scenarios, but at that point we're just sucking poison out of a wound that needs no healing. Let it burn. Let it burn! And then blame your father.