FINAL Muffins

Ok, so, most of us are college students, that was kind of a secret, not really, but, if you're on the lower end of the normal IQ distribution you may not have noticed, and that's what I was counting on.  Anyway, it is now, or will be soon, FINALS WEEK.  The week when everything tries to kill you.

Appearance of peaceful serenity: yes
Will it kill you if you drop your guard: yes
Are there hidden polar bears: yes
Do these bears have lightsabers: yes

EVERYTHING.

You think I'm making this up?  It snowed.  Mother Nature turned the entire outdoors into a frozen, ice coated deathtrap filled with friction dependent multi-ton, motorized steel monsters, commanded by complete ass-hats, roaming about- just for us squishy, organ filled pedestrians.  This isn't even survival of the fittest, this is survival of the lucky bastards.

And the least squishy.

Garfield is made of LIES!!

It speaks only Truth.

Your own body even tries to kill you; with sleep.  You don't have time for it, you body demands it.  And yet, if you sleep, you die a horrible accademic death and go to burger king hell which is like the mortal form of purgatory if purgatory sucked more ass than your mind can comprehend; or, you don't sleep, and you avoid that festering grease wasteland but, you catch the crazies instead.  Now, 'the crazies' isn't exactly one of my normal scientific terms, the reason for this is simple; you don't catch a single scientifically quantifiable type of crazy, you catch ALL of the crazies.  You hallucinate, you become paranoid, you freak the fuck out for no apparent reason, you eat a box of pancake mix, you start singing Ke$ha, you become irritable and depressed, you pretend to be a veloci-raptor from Jurassic Park and leap around in kitchens chasing small children on into bread cupboards.

This is how your profs
view Christmas.
No sissy mistletoe for
these motherfuckers.

You do not want that fate.


But, everything is still trying to kill you.  Your professors want nothing more than to see you spontaneously combust during their final; they get a Christmas bonus for every student after the 3rd to combust with another bonus if they catch a nearby student on fire as well.  To them, you not catching fire is ruining Christmas, so that makes them pyromanic bastards and should not be trusted unless they're impersonating Elvis.



Even your food is trying to kill you.

Most trustworthy burger a man could ever hope for.

Yes, even that well-done slab of dead cow nestled neatly between those plump processed wheat grain buns coated in MSG laden artificial tomato product, even that is actively trying to kill you.  And how?  Well, not on it's own, on it's own it wants nothing more than to nurture you into a nice, comfortable adulthood complete with the Apple-Pie edition Genuine American Dream.  However.... there are terrorist plots at work here.  IN YOUR OWN LIVER.  Yes, stress hormones are turning that innocent, benign cow slab against you; they're corrupting it, teaching it the dark magics long ago forbade by Dumbledor and the council of wise elders with the approval of the Power Rangers Review Board.  That benign, peacful slab of dead cow is now actively seeking to turn itself from good, nourishing protein, into deadly Elven Death Fat of the Defiler +2: Bonus to Unclogged Arteries.  Fucking dark elvish liver terrorist.  That cow slab was INNOCENT!!!

You will miss them more than you
can possibly imagine.
Just like the Deathstar.

Now, there is, of course, more stuff trying to kill you, but, i've lingered here too long, if I stay they'll find me.  I've helped you all that I can.  BEWARE THE VELOCIRAPTOR BEARS.  They will find you, in your dreams, and steal all your fantasies, and feed them to their young, then eat your socks.  ALL OF YOUR SOCKS.


Oh, and toasters, fuck toasters, they're always trying to kill you, finicky little slot-loaded bastards.  They eat not just all of your toast, but all of your electrics too... electric bastard mongrels... and then, and then, the arrogant sons-of-bitches, they feed your toast back to you after they've eaten and burned it, like some sick, twisted cyborg bird tethered to the electric line regurgitating food back to it's young.  And you thought you were in command, all because of the turny-buttins, but it lied to you; that son of a bitch cyborg bird toaster lied to you, and you believed it, all of those years... you'll listen the next time the dishwasher tries to warn you now, won't you?

...Won't you?    

Cheerful looking son-of-a-bitch, innit?