“I think it’s my kismet to start a Youtube channel!” Sharon said, as she drove her jalopy through the desert after jujitsu, diaphoretic.
“Fun.” Daffodil replied with ambivalent resignation.
“That was brusk. I thought you’d be happy.”
“On the contrary. You have a plethora of these diabolical, haphazard whigmaleerie ideas that turn into anarchy. And you always drag me into it.”
“But . . . we can create an incroayble channel where we dissect a liver, or make a mockery of the dyslexic pomposity of Kanye West or how “chaste” Taylor Swift is, or—”
“Or how to shine your winklepicker, or get over your eurotophobia, or find serenity, or make your own Disneyland lollipop. All that ballyhoo has been done before.”
“Oh, snap.” Sharon sighed. “But there’s never enough videos with people removing a piliferous carbuncle or a dioptric abscess!”
“I don’t think abscesses reflect light. And that’s gross.”
“What do you want to do?”
“How about we just find some boys and fornicate. NOT for Youtube.”