Pretending to make a living

Believe it or not, there is a Toronto School of Puppetry. Actual schooling for something toddlers do,with ease, on a whim. Can you imagine breaking that news to your parents? That you have chosen to forego the whole university thing to stick your hand up a make believe pal of yours named Mr. Pop Tarts. What’s your son up to these days? Well, he and his l’il pal Mr. Pop Tarts are just beginning their second semester. I was worried about the workload, but that little felt fucker really has his back. I couldn’t even imagine telling someone that I’m a puppeteer. It’s comparable to saying you will never see a woman naked again because you make a living making this li’l pretend clown dance and sing. Or play an imaginary lute if you’re really good.

Your future is literally in your hands. He, she or it is your l’il business partner. That little fucker puts bread on your table with his silly little antics. Have you no shame? How can you look into his beady little eyes? You disgust me. And Mr Pop Tarts.  You’re not worthy of being inside of him. Asshole.