Being human is enduring Futility & 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 wickedly offensive anal cavern; a bed of bodily filth and comedy, where a tiny creature does sleep. Listen close & you can hear its whistling snore, if you dare to endure the odor that follows. Where is the center of my strength? Perhaps it is my embrowned pink pucker with the ability to clench & emit a whistle-- offering a pinch of perfume from Hades... Mayhaps my power lays within some faith that can be easily grasped- divinity embraced if only I could brave the multitude of dogmatic beliefs from which one can choose to put their faith 'n then pray that I have chosen "wisely". Mayhaps my power is within my fleshrod with its nefarious seed whose purpose is to supply women with swollen bellies, & the painful sprouting of little curses. Mayhaps I am without any manifest influence other than wicked tools of mischief, acts of idiocy rousing disaccord, & vile seed meant to produce more dim-eclipsed children spreading my inherent talent to irritate. I am a man whose house belongs to a woman-- Her name, Futility, is not a mere coincidence, especially since I am foolish, accepting her hand in an expensive ritual of ever-lasting unity. My only recourse & act of retribution: have her endure nine months of pregnancy. Ravaged until she reaches the agony of labor, she'll endure the bloody tearing of flesh & realize the birth of her parasitic curse-- ready again to bear more of my lil Incubus'. Thus my unholy disease spreads! Leaving me to ask myself in earnest, as would a dunce donning a proper shit-wig, this query so queer, "Where o where is my delusions of power that eludes me, in this comic & dire hour?"