Wide-Eyed Like Diamonds

Oprah Winfrey, matriarch of putrid afternoon television, welcomed as her guest a local billionaire renowned for his terrible taste, marital woes, and unfortunate comb-over. The front rows of ABC's studio audience overflowed with women, pert and vacuous in their sensible pastel-colored blouses and pearl necklaces, grinning ear to ear at the sight of the archetypal "man o' their dreams." This man, more than secure in his wealth, cut-throat, self-assured maybe even arrogant, representing some infantile notion of the American dream just as much as the idea of protection and stability in marriage (emotional or financial, who is to say?). One women, light green shirt and middle-prarted straight brown hair, took one look at this rich man seated on a plush sofa next to his eager and simpering son, both adopting the same legs wide open "come on and look at my cock" posture, and her eyes widened to the point of explosion, only they didn't explode, they just kept expanding and expanding, crushing the people around her under throbbing ocular blood vessels, fat people, delicate people, people in 3-piece suits, expanding and pulsating until they reached the stage and began to ululate threateningly at Frau Oprah herself, who recoiled in horror and threw her billionaire friend an anxious glance. He, with an almost insouciant nonchalance, removed his diamond-studded cufflink and in one smooth motion punctured the poor green shirted woman's seething eyeballs, covering all and sundry in some sort of ungodly substance resembling egg white only much less savory and perhaps lacking in protein. The woman, her errant eyeballs vanquished, uttered a gasp of mortal embarrasment and cried out repeatedly, "I'm sorry! Oh, I am so sorry!" before she died, slowly yet unceremoniously.
I change the channel and discover that I can now cut a perfectly straight line with scissors with the utmost ease.