The cult is coming along pretty well.  We’re going to need a much bigger space, though.

Some of us went down to the park to spread the Word of Me and recruit new members of the family.  It was there, sitting on a bench, that I impossibly ran into Icon.  Icon was a pimp I encountered on the steps of a funeral home in Seattle several years ago.  “If it has tits or tires, you’re gonna have problems with it,” he had sagely cautioned me when we first met.  And now, how ever many years later, here he sits, on a park bench, his dreds significantly longer, and almost all of the business end of his pants completely blown out.

“Dude, things was fine until that Kim Kardashian bitch put out that pic of her ass.  It was everywhere…you couldn’t get away from it.  I just kept seein’ it urawhere…dat ass.  Finally, my dick just exploded.”

I know exactly how it is, Icon.

“Now I just sittin’ hur on this bench, hopin’ the damn thang grow back.”

“Listen, Icon…we go way back.  Let me just cut to the chase, here: I have started a cult.  I just appointed one of our members to be my personal physician.  He’s a surgeon.  Specializes in gun shot wounds.  I’m sure he would take a look at your exploded junk and come up with some sort of treatment plan to get you ‘back in the game’ as soon as possible.”

“Oh my god…what do I have to do?”

“Join the cult.”

“What kind of cult is it?”

“Doesn’t matter.  You in?”

“Yo doctor look at my dick?”

“I’ll text him right now.  We’ll set something up for tomorrow.”

“Aight.  I’m in.”

“Bless you, my son.  Now let’s get down to the mall and get you some pants.  One of our members works at Hot Topic part time.  She can hook us up.”

“Thank you so much, man.”

“You are welcome, Icon.  No more looking at any Kardashian ass, though, okay?”

“Deal.”