Hey everybody. It’s been a bit of a tough month for me so far and I could really use some support. I’ve really been struggling with this new program I’m on. Frankly, I don’t know if this Oil of Olay is working. It’s supposed to make your skin all smooth and silky, but no, nothing. I’m willing to put up with a few boils, fine, but I’m feeling a bit uneasy about the liver damage. Maybe I’m just not using enough? But I’m already drinking like a gallon of this crap a day, and even that is killing me. Well, I suppose it is true what they say, one must suffer to be beautiful.
Oil of Olay has quite a colourful history. Before it became a popular beauty product in the mid-20th century, it was a blend of oils reverently prepared in the ancient method by expert artisans of the Old World, and was known as Oil of ¡Olé! Matadors lovingly applied the oil in great deluging draughts to the backs of their bulls, the better to glide smoothly off of their silky, glistening hides as they charged and sloshed through the oil-drenched bullring, before lovingly slowly stabbing them to death. The oil itself was carefully pressed in the same way it had been for centuries, using only the finest hydrogenated long-chain esters with no more than 40 ppm total organo-chlorines. This ancient practice was kept alive and passed on from father to prostitute and so on through a rich oral tradition. Then, the dawn of the modern era wiped out all of these idyllic customs in one swift wiping motion. Suddenly, there were new gods to worship. The gods of efficiency, the gods of profit, the gods of economic expansion. Huge new gleaming factories were constructed with row upon towering row of things that one would imagine are in factories that make Oil of Olay, as well as quite a few machines with lots of intricate gearing and probably some oscilloscope-type readouts. The wise, noble keepers of the old ways were beaten to death to protect the new monopoly. Entire villages were razed to the ground to make room for immense animal testing laboratories. Indigenous peoples were cast out of their homelands and into shark-infested volcanoes to make room for more animal testing laboratories. Helpless grandmothers were cast out into the streets for no particular reason. Innocent sacks full of babies at security checkpoints were bayonetted by sadistic and anachronistic soldiers. Entire oceans were transformed into seething, roiling pools of corrosive acid. Forest upon forest was covered up with quadrillions of tons of concrete to make avant-garde sculptures. More helpless grandmothers were cast out into distant regions of outer space and/or annihilated with powerful death rays and bayonetted and thrown into vats of acid thereafter. Inconceivably dense neutron stars were mercilessly smashed against the defenseless skulls of whistle-blowers. But all that sacrifice was worth it – Oil of Olay’s profits shot up like a bullet shot from some crazy mega-turbo-charged supergun designed by a mad freakish genius, screaming out into the stratosphere and shrieking far beyond into distant galaxies in unimaginably insane alternate dimensions while white-hot lightning-fast extreme-shredding heavy metal guitar licks wailed and exploded into eternal hellfire. And the unbelievable wealth has trickled down, off the sweaty buttocks of the corporate fat cats and onto the greedy tongues of the corrupt political elite. Today, thanks to Oil of Olay, everyone, both the insanely rich and the ridiculously rich alike can now revel in glorious lives of incredible debauchery, wiping their anuses on magical golden flaming kittens, snacking on living, breathing runway models made of flaming solid gold, and hurtling through deep space at light speed while comfortably embedded in enormous erotic golden electrified pomegranate/flamingo hybrids, that happen to be aflame.