The Sand Witch
Sometimes you just have to rain crapulent fistfuls of feculence all over a childhood classic.
To wit:
The Sand Witch
Dorothy’s house didn’t just land—it body slammed the Wicked Witch of the West straight into a beach cabana, legs curling like stale churros.
Moments later, Glinda descends in her glittery-ass bubble like a goddamn disco soap dispenser. She steps out all perky and clueless, looks at Dorothy, and chirps:
“Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?”
Dorothy, covered in sand and sweat, hair full of seagull shit, eyes twitching from heatstroke, snaps:
“I’m not a good witch.
I’m not a bad witch.
I’m a SAND witch,
you dumb BITCH!”