They say that the best way to make God laugh is to tell Him your plans. I generally agree with this; the universe and His intentions for it are too incomprehensible for mortal understanding. But I do know, with one hundred thousand trillion percent certainty, that God's plan for me does not involve me seeing a dead possum, turning that dead possum over, searching for that dead possum's pussy, cracking open that dead possum's pussy with my finger, and peering into it to see if there are a hatch of possum babies ready to lurch out of the not-actually-dead-at-all possum's pussy.
PETA, apparently, disagrees. As they recently tweeted that you could possibly save a zombie possum's life by doing this.
Yes, you read that correctly. PETA wants actual human beings to run up on a racist-ass MAGA zombie possum (Yes, possums are racist as fuck. When was the last time you saw one at a Black Lives Matter march? Exactly.) and massage its snatch with the hope that a dozen ghastly possum ghouls will burst out and eat you. I've lived 38 years of life without caressing a zombie possum's clitoris with the hope that the contents of the possum's vageen will spring to life and bite me to death, and I fully intend on spending the rest of my days either A) avoiding possibly dead possums that are just playing possum because that's what possums fucking do is play possum or B) seeing a possibly dead possum and saying "There's a dead possum right there" and continuing with the rest of my life; resisting the urge to fingerbang it. Maybe I'll even check my FitBit. Which means I'd have to buy a FitBit. Someone buy me a FitBit so I'll have something to do immediately after hurdling over any zombie possums I happen to see.