[This idea came to yours truly in a dream, introduced to me by a weird co-worker:]
It's a whole new genre of experimental theatre, ladies and gents, called spit-rage! Instead of "Mothra vs. King Kong," it's "Mothra meets King Kong's creator and reams the ever-living marrow out of him for his appropriation of the of animal-revenge oeuvre."
Spit-rage is mad daddies and absent mothers, unscripted bitching about bitching and hamsters letting loose on each other, perhaps unaware of sentience. It's this sentence, except ANGRY and italic, without the crudeness of italics. It's... It's... fucking garbage can lids on fire in a movie, snitches! It's a biodiesel bulldozer deciding to blow a tire iron out its tailpipe. It's corn on the cob outlawing silk.
Spit-rage, you pimp! Spit-rage, sugar-dads! Spit-rage, the bane of halfhouse loonies, huffing ponypaint. Spit-rage, the last vestige of humanity in an otherwise arachnid planet. Spit-rage and dingo-queens getting queer about the fiscal cliff, dooming and preening themselves like ovenware fresh off the assembly line.
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