I would like to be doing charitable work down under, caring for upset and injured koalas. As I'm nearing the end of my 6th continuous month of charitable work, I'll agree to go on one more rescue call some dark and rainy night. I'll save a small, cute koala from a burning tree in rapid fashion, bitches be going crazy watching the heroics.
Then, as I pose for a photograph surrounded by horny Australian cheerleaders, the koala slowly reaches into its pouch, removes a tiny little shank, and stabs me straight in the goddamn heart. In a crystalline moment right before death, I whisper to the koala. "Et Tu Brute?" I begin to cry tears of sadness, the koala cries tears of remorse, and the cheerleaders go home and renounce their slutty ways.
I recover 3 months later and ultimately die of respiratory problems at the age of 33.
Then, as I pose for a photograph surrounded by horny Australian cheerleaders, the koala slowly reaches into its pouch, removes a tiny little shank, and stabs me straight in the goddamn heart. In a crystalline moment right before death, I whisper to the koala. "Et Tu Brute?" I begin to cry tears of sadness, the koala cries tears of remorse, and the cheerleaders go home and renounce their slutty ways.
I recover 3 months later and ultimately die of respiratory problems at the age of 33.
<---Goodnight, sweet prince
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