What up, fools?
Now don’t start convulsing and carrying on about how a salutation from my holy keyboard is like warm sunlight on your soul. (Which is true.) It’s time to discuss one of my most hallowed prophecies: Oprah’s Book Club!!! As it was decreed upon the sacred mountain, i.e. the imported marble balcony of my glittering Santa Barbara estate: You shall acquire a copy of the good book (Middlesex) and imbibe it’s every moral.
You shall learn about hermaphrodites (They got both private parts! That shiznit is crazy!) and be endeared to their struggles through your empathy for the unlikely heroine/hero of Calliope Stephanides. You shall not think it’s whack that her/his parents were a brother and sister who did the nasty. We are all accepted in Oprah’s heavenly embrace. (Except for David Letterman, James Frey, and others with mad beef].) You shall appreciate the cultural complexities of the Greek people, who show their joy by breaking plates and eating lamb testicles . . .
Shoot, I’m hungry. I summon Gayle: “Bring me the sacred meat!” This wrapper is Satan’s conundrum, oh wait, here I go … Daaaaaamn, this Slim Jim is the heat!
So, back to the prophecy. I shall usher in a new age for the two-sexed ch’O’sen! The freaks shall flock to me in search of the ultimate acceptance and redemption that only an appearance on my show can provide. They shall discuss their doubled-up diddly bits and bask in my awesomely non-judgmental glow.
Unless you fail to read Middlesex. Ye who disobey and consider reading Harry Potter 7 first shall receive the deathly hallows of my all-consuming rage. And it ain’t pretty. So read on, my legions, read on.
Peace ouuuuut …
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