Sunday Mash: One Day at the Coffee Shop…

Nietzsche, Pablo Neruda and Santa Claus shoot the breeze over a few lattes

Neruda: My God that waitress is alluring. I can almost taste her.

Nietzsche: *snickers* Pablo, your lust is matched only by your corpulence.

Neruda: My corpulence? I’m a lean mean sex machine next to chubs here.

Santa: Why can’t you just leave me out of this? I’m just sitting here. Geezus.

Nietzsche: You do not SIT, you are a figment.  Figments do not SIT.

Santa: A fig-what??  I’m sure as hell sitting here, Fritz.

Nietzsche: You are a construct of weak-minded religious enculturation.

Santa: Fritz, two words: bite me.

Neruda:  Ok, goddam it, enough of this. Let’s get back to talking about poon.

Nietzsche: Does nothing else occasion that vacant mind of yours?

Neruda: Well, excuse me if I’m not obsessed with the abyss 24/7, von twisted uberfuck.

Santa:  mmmmm…love these chocolate graham cookies.

Nietzsche: I’m sickened by this display! 

Neruda: Yeah, yeah…you’re sick, period.  Have you ever considered therapy?

Santa: Therapy, good idea.  You really need to relax, Fritz.  Get out more, too.

Nietzsche:  I refuse to be admonished by a fanciful creation of mass delusion.

Santa: *buuuuuuurp*

Neruda:  This show is tired.  I need some action. *begins writing on napkin*

Nietzsche: Now what are you doing?

Neruda: I’m working up a poem for that waitress.  What rhymes with “feel?”

Santa: squeal?

Neruda: Now you’re talking, fat boy!  Hey, maybe she’s got a friend?

Nietzsche: I’ve heard enough.  *gets up from chair*  You are a weak willed primate who peddles mediocre verse, nothing more.

Neruda: Whatever. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass, Fritz.

Santa: *chuckles*

Nietzsche:  And I have nothing to say to you, since you are not here. But if I did, I would call you a gluttonous troglodyte.

Santa:  ooooh, guess who’s NOT getting his favorite brand of bratwurst this Christmas!

Nietzsche: *sneers and walks off*

Neruda:  Sheesh, what a hard ass.  I hope nobody takes that guy too seriously.

Santa: Yeah, wars get started over less.  Hey, by the way, did you hear he got himself a case of the crotch rot?

Neruda: You don’t say???? 


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