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