“Yeah, yeah. Like you’re such a prize.”
Who the hell are you?
“I’m John Mayer’s appendix.”
Oh, COME ON. It’s not bad enough I chat with abstract concepts, dead famous animals, and stools; I gotta talk to pop stars’ internal organs now?
“Hey, I’m not internal anymore.”
“I’m getting a lot of visceraphobia here.”
Not a thing.
Whatever. So what’s your deal, anyway? 40 years of doing absolutely nothing and you explode?
“But I didn’t explode. Didn’t even get a chance to fulfill my destiny.”
“Murdering John Mayer.”
“Me and his spleen have been talking about it for years. Fuck that guy.”
“Ever hear his songs?”
Yes, but that’s no reason to murder the guy.
“No, no. Who does he talk about in his songs? The heart. Eyes. Ears. Lungs. Hands. Every fucking body part gets a song, but me? What do I get? Bupkiss, that’s what I get. Fuck that guy.”
“I will not be ignored.”
You will be now. You’ve almost certainly been thrown away.
“Oh, no. I got rescued. Someone came and got me, and then plan’s still on. John Mayer will pay for how he treated us.”
Someone? Us? Who is “someone?” Who is “us?”
“You know who, motherfucker.”
“Me and the bitch’s appendix won’t be treated this fucking way.”
I hate everything about this universe.
“Appendix, get in the fucking car.”
“Can I drive?”
“You ain’t got no hands, motherfucker. No, you can’t drive.”