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The Worst Betrayal of All

History, literature, religion and commercial banking are littered with stories of betrayal.

Julius Caeser knows what I’m talking about.

Et tu, Brute?

So does Shakespeare.

“Oh, now you’re shocked,” Hamlet screamed at his mother. “That’s rich. Try watching your mother sleeping with your uncle while your dad’s corpse is still warm. Then we’ll talk.”

The Big JC knows a thing or two on the subject.

“Dude, Judas, I told you I don’t love you in that way… Oh. You’re betraying me. Totally uncool.”

As do the New York Mets…

Of course I’ll make you money. Give me money.

But none of these stories can compare to the betrayal that I have had to endure.  It is extreme.  It is agonizing.

Like going to the beach and seeing Pauly Shore.

It is… unforgivable.

A completely unrelated picture to see if you’re paying attention.

It is my bladder.  I post because I had to pee.

And I can’t go without having to make small talk with robo-urinal. “You’re pee is very clear,” he says. “That’s the sign of a good diet!” (All conversations with robo-urinal revolve around either pee color or trying to get him to stop grabbing at your crotch. It’s totally awkward.)

Yes, my own body has betrayed me and there’s just no good way to get back at it, which makes it the worst betrayal of all.

 

 

 

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