My brothers and sisters, it is time for a shift in our paradigms. I speak for myself and the 43 souls I’ve released from the prison of the body. Do not judge me, and do not pity them. Let us love. Let us share in our understanding. And, next time, let the hitchhiker with a big bag on his back, some red spats on his clothes and a smile on his face into your car.

Speaking of which, we’re not all as scary as Sean Bean from that new anti-hitchhiking propaganda film, “The [Government tells you it’s bad to pick up a] Hitcher.” We neither shoot James Bond in the neck with a tranquilizer dart nor betray Frodo at a critical moment for the fellowship. To stretch the metaphor just a little further, we also don’t almost kill Robert De Niro and Jean Reno due to our gross incompetence as hired mercenaries.

We’re not even hired mercenaries. Like I said before, we spread love and happiness, even if there’s a little pain on the way. The amputation of the first limb is a celebration of life’s fragile beauty. Wearing a woman’s head as a hat while driving down the interstate a la Steve Busciemi in “Con Air” might be fun, too, but I haven’t tried it yet.

You may be wondering what I’m getting at with the movie references. Let’s just say that we’re getting a bad rap by the fascist media-controllers at Hollywood. Only Anthony Hopkins could shine through their bias and show how fun-loving we can be. I aspire to that level of sophistication and politeness, even if I need to acquire some new tastes to do it. Oh well, that can be done with practice. Do you want to hop in my van for a moment?

Okay, maybe not right now. Still, that last chortle of blood is a sigh of pleasure. Their eyes roll back in cold ecstasy as I mop up the giblets. Everyone should try it, but no one’s in the right mindset to want it. It’s all the fault of the media and societal control. We’re still seen as the crazies, when it’s everyone else that’s made crazy. We’re sharing a great gift, and it just so happens that we like giving our gift. It doesn’t mean I have to get a booster shot of cold, no-fun eternal sleep. I’m not even close to triple digits.

So, are you up for some fun now, Mrs. Judge? Fine, you’re not. That’s okay. I’ll help you see the light a little later.