(Grabbing bag of Survivor) This. Is pure survivor. Extract of the hips and sacrum. Hips. And. Sacrum. Here, little girl, is where it all collects. It is in these, the sockets of our hips that our lights are turned on. As you have seen. It is these cups which runneth over. The earth is a honeycomb running with the nectar of suffering. Here, and here … These are the oarlocks of suffering … (Makes humping movement) We ache … For the other side … Just to get on the other … Side …
(Grabs back bag of Survivor) You kill them.
I’m a distiller. An extractor. A chain link fence tic tac toe referee. Ex. Oh. Ex. Oh. Ex. Ex. Oh.
But you kill them.
Yes. I am a business man. Catching a ride on basic human need, getting off before the train crashes. Hopefully with something in my pockets. (Indicating hips again) These. Are the hinges on the door where god made exit. I’ve heard their stories. Their disgusting impossible stories. I know. They are old. Oh oh oh oh. Ex. Old. (Indicating bag of Survivor) This is basically all that’s left of them by the time I get there anyway. Why do you think old people’s hips break so much? The grief collects there. Snaps them in half. The nectar, this nectar collects there and must, MUST, runneth forth. Sap from the trees is the same. I’m basically a woodsman, screwing faucets onto trees, so people can make their tasteless lives a lit-tle bit sweetah. I provide a service. As do you. Yes. I kill them. Your mother loves you.