Achieving godhood is no guarantee when it comes to the extinction of desire. Ask the Hindus or Greeks about that.
He pulls back the black rubber curtain and calls, “Nor, you got company.”
His purple armor he leaves strewn across the floor.
If you’ve eaten too many meals alone, you know what I’m talking about.
“Return, Harold!” he thunders. “We are Space Lord, and we command you to love us!”
If you are ever broken hearted and want to forget everything, there are worse places to go than The Stud on a Friday night. Just so you know.
There’s a lot more grunting than he expected. And it hurts.
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