Being human is enduring Futility and so I ask in stupidity, "Where o where is my delusions of power that eludes me, in this comic & dire hour?" Mayhaps it lies within the depths of my offensive anal cavern of bodily filth and comedy, where a tiny creature sleeps. At times one can hear its whistling snore, if they dare to endure the odor that follows. Where is the center of my strength? It might be possible that it's my pink pucker who has the ability to clench and emit a whistle along with a pinch of perfume from Hades... Mayhaps this power is in some faith that I can easily begin to acquire if I braved the multitude of beliefs from which one can choose to put their faith 'n then pray that I have chosen "wisely". Mayhaps the power lies within my fleshrod with its sack of seed whose purpose is to supply women with swollen bellies, and the painful sprouting of little curses. Mayhaps I am without any influence other than wicked tools of havoc, various acts of idiocy, and vile seed meant to create more dim tykes to help spread my talent to irritate. I am a man whose house belongs to a woman. Her name, Futility, is not a mere coincidence, especially since I was foolish, having accepted her hand in an expensive ritual of ever-lasting unity. My only course of action as retribution is to have her endure nine months of pregnancy, whereby she gives birth and is soon quite ready to again produce more of my tiny hellish curses. So thus my disease spreads! Leaving me to ask myself in earnest, as would a dunce donning a proper shitwig, this query so queer, "Where o where is my delusions of power that eludes me, in this comic & dire hour?"