Hydrogen: I'd imagine the fly version of Christianity would have some subtle yet important differences.
Trillaphon: In the name of the Father, the Son, and the giant heap of dung behind the garden center, amen.
Hydrogen: The Passion of the Christfly, starring Jim Cabeezel.
Trillaphon: That first diorama isn't very impressive, it's less a realistic battle scene and more a medieval Playmobil set with a bunch of dead flies randomly glued to it.
Trillaphon: The fly church, on the other hand, he could probably sell to the Guggenheim for at least a cool 30 million.
Hydrogen: The MoMA presents: an evening with fat baby Hitler and his big pile of dead insects.
Trillaphon: Oh god yes please, I sure hope the exhibit centers around a 60-minute looping video presentation that's just endless extreme close-up shots of his horrible pudgy face as he plucks half-dead flies off of things and puts them onto other things. That's what the public wants to see.
Trillaphon: You know, instead of being a fly-obsessed budding psychopath, maybe he's really just getting a big, big head start on his insect collection for 9th-grade biology. He'll be the only person to turn in 80,000 dead houseflies and half of a grasshopper.
Hydrogen: He'll get an easy B-, in exchange for agreeing to take his collection away and never bring it back.
Ferguson's long arm of the law laments the latest cutback.
Simply put, if I had Johnny Manziel’s physical gifts, you better believe I would be there in the Weight Room, getting to bed early, doing whatever I had to do to be the best possible athlete I could be. I wouldn't be posting on social media about sucking titties. I wouldn't even look at a titty, buddy. I'd look at a titty and see two big footballs.
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