Verily, I say unto you, you will know them by their feculent underwear, and stinking tastes–tastes that are sullied from their malcontent.

Their idiocy glistens in the midmorning sunshine as hurried pedestrians shield their somnambulant gaze with their unoccupied hand, phone in other–greys and gloom emanating from their glowing screens.

I watch, as the colors intermingle with the perverse stench of a Guatemalan woman's flatulence next to Me on the bus. I start to feel that familiar feeling of animosity toward them–I need a horse blanket to wrap Myself with, to mask the suffocating reek of stupidity, mediocrity, and silent stranger fart.

Fortunately, the world doesn't function to serve herd animals and their little joys, and occasionally, plagues eradicate the weak.