It's incredibly easy to destroy things. Any vacuous, venomous vandal, any hooligan can habitually, happily hurl bricks through stained glass windows—pompously self-proclaimed “perfecter of the windows”—a stained glass expert—an artist of highest degree, says he. Oh, really? Who's the real expert? The brick hurling, half-witted hooligan—that vainly vandyked vandal—or the guy laboriously repairing the window?

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It's incredibly easy to destroy things. True story—an hatch hefting, half-wit hacked off—amputated—his own glans penis! So is he the glans penis expert? Are you gonna run straight to good ol’ gross-in-the-head with all of your glans penis questions?

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It's incredibly easy to destroy things. Chimpanzees mutilate the penises of rival males. Likewise, advertisements for urologists routinely boost their proficiency at prepucectomy—they’ll burn it off with a laser, or freeze it off with liquid nitrogen, kaj tiel plu. But—any wretched tribal witch doctor with a bone in the nose, a sack of shrunken heads, an’ all that can perform a prepucectomy—your beloved, base, beastial, barbaric blood ritual. Does that make him an expert on the prepuce?

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Can we just be honest? These are fetishistic, filthy, feral, feces flinging, mutilating, malevolent, miscreant monkeys of medicine—fancy themselves fine artists, cuz they flung poo at the paintings of Pablo Picasso.

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Can we just be honest? Like chimpanzees, doctors are dangerous Amoral Apes. Frankly, they’re sociopathic, savage simians with a sickeningly sadistic sexual fetish for flaying foreskins. They’re hatchet hefting half-wits happily hacking away—cuz they gotta hack it off—to get it off—when they're whacking It off—so they chop it off, or burn it off, or freeze it off, or clamp it off an’ slice it off—cuz how they get off.

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Can we just be honest? It's a pathologically putrid perversion, the paraphilia, apotemnophilia—of the prepuce in particular to be precise—so popular with primitives with their primeval primate predilections for pruning penises. An’ owin’ to the void in their simian souls, devoid of moral agency—that which separates man from these base bloody beasts—there’s no controllin’ the compulsion compellin’ ‘em—and there's no telling ‘em right from wrong.

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Can we just be honest? No matter how tenaciously you cling to your comforting illusions an’ delusions—deep in denile an' self deception, circumcision is a soothing, saccharine-sweet, sugar-coated euphemism used by ignorant, inane, bulshit spoutin’, snake-oil toutin’—drooling window licking quack-tardes. Who repeat risibly ridiculous medical mendacities such as it's an HIV vaccine—but it only works if you also wear a condom, an’ shoot your heroin out of a clean needle. Well, here’s a tip, amputating the tip of ya’ tongue is a cholera vaccine—but it only works if you also drink pure water.

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Can we just be honest? Over there, in far-flung foreign lands—over, over there in the where-ever-the-fuckastans brown-skinned, white-coated medical professionals—pretentious, pompously preening peacocks, perform prepucectomies—gender-inclusively—citing the same raft of rancid rationalizations for the same sadistic, self-serving, self-righteous rite—for boys and girls alike. Yet, ya’ still call it female genital mutilation. So, it seems—to stamp the pseudoscience seal of approval onto tribal folklore an’ old wives' tales—one needs white-skinned white-coated professionally pretentious, pompously preening peacocks providin’ proper decorum for transmuting excrement to aurum in a medical forum. Wallah! The stultifying stupidstitions of savage shamans are substituted for stultifying stupidstitions of pseudoscientists. What was once sexual mutilation is now a medical procedure—a simple medical procedure with no detriments, an’ so many benefits I can't count. Yeah, ya’ got to be lily white—like a bright white pair of tighty-whities—to give it the ol’ white-coat white-wash an’ wash away the s*** stains—thus made a miraculous miracle o’ modern medicine.

So you want to see a Savage?

Savagery is so very very easy to spot.

Well, I'll tell you where the Savages dwell, they’re over there.

They’re over over there in wherever-the-fuckastan—that's where the Savages dwell, Stan.

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So just look over there.

Just look over over there, in wherever-the-fuckastan—

that's where you’ll look Stan.

So don't look over over here, look over over there,

cuz they're never never over here.

It's never never your tribe no.

It’s never never you Stan, no.

Well the Savages, they all dwell over over there

in wherever-the-fuckastan—that's where Stan.

Cuz it's never never your tribe—no—it's never never you Stan

no not you—never you Stan, no.

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Well I am the haver at hand

of a handley handheld mirror—one not always so pleased with what he sees in his mirror.

So I'll tell you Stan, savagery so easily,

so very very easily,

slickly, sickenly, seeps in an' steeps an' stains every Simian soul.

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So just where in the hell do you dwell Stan?

Well I’ll tell you where, ya’ dwell Stan.

Wherever-the-fuckistan—that's where ya’ dwell Stan.

So stop looking over there Stan

Stop looking over over there Stan

Look over here Stan

Look over over here Stan

Stare into this here mirror and see the Savage Simian staring back at you.

Because you too—yes you too

Oh yes, it's your tribe too Stan

That dwells in wherever-the-fuckistan