Using ancient secret methods discovered in Egyptian Tombs, I single-handedly resurrect the weeping ghosts of martyred housewives, teach 'em how to sing like avenging death angels and send them one-by-one after those pig-headed tobacco-spittin' tequila-reekin' testosterone-smokin' chromosome-deficient meatheads who spit on my new shoes, share their drunken wisdom with the world at three a.m., insist on taking up every armrest and all the floor space so they have enough room to air their sorely lacking penii, and have the audacity to consider themselves the alpha omegas of their mothers' sorry existence. My banshees swoop down swinging hatchets and singing with the righteousness of ten thousand bashed-up drag queens, flicking their bread knives in all the right directions...

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