"How does one man read newspapers upsidedown while annihilating hamsters by the dozen?" inquired the Chief Director, sipping plum enhancers all day long."Why does a baby know why scientologists happen to be utter morons, when adults see nothing out of their own disposition?"
Two of his henchmen hit the giant screen resulting in propaganda for a diabolical anglerfish terraforming a highly infertile monstrosity named Ruphaloburblaz. Because science proved absolutely nothing, Jason committed to expressing his paranoia by the word-filled method of hammering ham onto poor children's crotches. Although the futility of their primal resitance had power instead of darkness when fusing most bottles of poison and wine, money was tight and explosions were plentiful.
"Should we puke upon some dark rainbows," said they, "and wreak destruction to the entire flock of flyer-reindeer in order to stop Evil Santa from exploding spontaneously?"
"No," said the Chief Director, "instead, take my elite mother's asshole and refuse the fucking wardrobe her extremist is not there!"
He choked on his plums, tragically dying at age 84. But at the funeral, one brave man "wisely" had a seizure during the destruction of ONE FUCKING WORD
I had to.