The Thing. Cocoon. Oatmeal. All of these things are super mega fucking important, no doubt about it. But there is really one main reason why the Big Boss of the Day is so large and in charge, and that thing rhymes with “why a fetus?”
I’ll never forget the day Wilford Brimley kicked the front door of my house in. I was sitting there, minding my business, eating an omelette made from farm-fresh Cadbury Creme and washing it down with a warm glass of pancake batter. He came tearing across my dining room like a walrus who smells seal blood, put me in a choke hold, dragged me to the bathroom and gave me five swirlies before sucker punching me and shitting on my bed.
A friend of mine was at w*rk when it happened. Brimley charged into the guy’s off*ce, pistol whipped him, grabbed him by the collar, dragged him into the hall and masturbated all over his back. As the guy struggled to get away, Brimley kicked him repeatedly in the tailbone, and recounted in graphic detail his intimate rectal experience with my friend’s aged mother.
Diabetics everywhere are scared shitless of Wilford Brimley, and with good reason.
If you don’t order your testing supplies, he WILL come to your house, and he WILL touch you with his moustache. What happens next will make you wish you never saw a Mounds bar, I fucking promise you.
He knows who we are. He has a list and he has copies of our passports.
God help every last one of us and our quivering, terrified pancreases. I’ve put bolts on all the doors but I swear sometimes that motherfucker comes up through the shower drain.
The Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse. Big Boss of the Day? Big Boss of your fat diabetic ass. Enjoy your saltines and skim milk, and for god’s sake, eat your oatmeal.