My TV is as big as a mansion. My other TV is as big as a blimp. My phone is installed in my hand. I speak into my pinky and dial by tapping my fingers together like I’m manipulating string or gesturing like some genius conductor.

Through my hand, I can know everything. Theoretically I do know everything. I’m as omniscient as I wanna be.

Ask me anything. The name of that dude from that movie about the suicidal kid who sleeps with the hippy old lady? Bud Cort. You knew that already? Ok- The extra to the left of the priest at the funeral where they meet. His name was James Presston. Yeah. Bet you didn’t know that. My fucking hand told me that.

You could worship me, because by default my hand makes me a god amongst men. Go ahead, build me some churches. Fill dem coffers, bitch!

See, my hand just told me what “coffers” are. Badass man, I can’t wait to build my coffers.

In case you haven’t figured it out yet, I am from the future. Like, a hundred years ahead. We all have wandhands. Even my grandma, which is kinda cool. She even knows about Mack Haul A Call Kin.

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