. . . I was checking out some Cthulhu merchandise. It was that time of year.
There was this-I dunno-I guess it was supposed to be, like, a Trapper-Keeper? With a Cthulhu on it?
I was a spiral-bound notebook kid back in the day, so I never fucked with a Trapper-Keeper before. First time for everything. And you're never too old. And all the rest.
But, ah, like . . . the Cthulhu on this Trapper-Keeper thing . . . it had a weird design to it. I looked at it, and it became obvious-to my eyes, anyways-that this Cthulhu was a monster with the big batwings and the tentacle face . . . except it wasn't actually its face. It was some big-ass monster wearing, okay, wearing a tentacle face mask. That's what it was when you looked at it.
So . . . you know . . . there are . . . what? Implications, shall we say, to this imagery.
The most disturbing of which . . . is that Cthulhu . . . seems to be wearing himself . . . as his own Halloween costume. 'Cause it is that time of year. But . . . I dunno . . . to just . . . wear . . . yourself . . . like that . . . I don't get it.
It seems . . like a kind of a . . . a kind of a . . . like a "fuck you" kind of a thing. An expression of . . . disgruntlement.
Which I don't get. Cthulhu's doing well for himself. Especially considering where he started, okay, startin' out, nobody gave two shits or three fucks about Cthulhu in the early days. But Cthulhu had that hustle-and he's earned it. He's earned all of his good shit, all right, I'm not trying to take that from the guy.
I'm really not.
But, uh, I think he got entitled with his shit I really do. Too much money, too many people kissing his ass, just gettin' ahold of those coattails, and riding the fuck outta that shit, okay, I saw it happen with Kong, I saw it happen with Godzilla, with Gorgo-Gorgo got totally consumed by the hype, I'm telling you.
And this is where Cthulhu is at, too, now, unfortunately.
Just slapping himself all over this ironic junk-fuckin' daring his public to abandon his ass, fuckin' daring 'em.
Well . . . I'm calling Cthulhu's bluff.
I say, "Fuck that low quality merch. I wouldn't even wipe my ass with it."
That's what I say.
William drops mic.
The consumer public is so goddamn inspired, that they, too, refuse to spend anymore money on Cthulhu merchandise.
Soon enough, Cthulhu files for bankruptcy, and he's forced to do some soul-searching. But at the end of this period of spiritual seeking, Cthulhu decides to focus on holistic living, and uses some of the money he's got tied up in Crypto and offshore banks to fund a series of meditation centers-"It's all about honing my Inners," Cthulhu says in a penetrating interview on an auto-fellatio themed podcast hosted by a steroid enthusiast.
And that's the same week that Cthulhu shadow drops an album of quirky and cute singer-songwriter type material that really let's his audience into the REAL-AS-FUCK Cthulhu, not that fake shit printed on the knockoff Trapper-Keeper.
And everyone was so joyous about all of it all the time.
But let's not forget about the guy that set all this in motion.
William.
He's the one who set it off, and burned it all down.
And from the ashes of the Bullshit . . . we got the New Shit.
That's the gift William gave to the people of Earth.
And that's the power of daring to have an opinion about a consumer item in a store, isn't it?
Yeah. It is.
William is the best person of all times.
Even better than Cthulhu.
I'm inclined to agree completely.
See? Even William agrees with our assessment.
It looks like everything will be perfect forever.
The End.
