President Rapture

Oh I’m sorry. The dead return the change from the seats I’ve sat in. My fecal overture to the cloudy bottom, coalescent.
Oh, I’m sorry. No I’m sorry. Your signal bears jiggly underarm fat, the banners of dissention.
Here: the Zombies are coming back through a time warp portal in the Bermuda Triangle. They’ve all been dead since the Rapture.
President Rapture made a deal with Savage Space Aliens from the Savage Future to Return the Rapture-d through the Rupture in the Oceanic vacation land where all America went to die, Pre Rapture.
As a bonus he made an extra Eternity in the Cozy-Chair Heaven by selling advertising rites. And the Martyred, who, further enraged by having half the promised virgins turn out to be boys and fat men, Are Zombilng out of the Space hole off the Miami Coast are percolating into your living room, oozing rotten viscous-ness along already molded over brick work in the foundation where the spider crickets work out to classic heavy metal ballads played on tinny old Casio Pianos.
President Verb, P{resident Mouth Hole and President Rapture are all triading their spiritual essences into stock optioned Brains Food.
Oh, I AM sorry you waited so long.
But keep your fingers in the icing and We PROMISE you’ll get heaps of jiggly gelatins to goo into the gobhole.
Oi Vey Everybody!