Madonna-Whore Complex Turns Grim Reaper Into Pathetic Loser

Stupid skeleton images, no matter how terrifying, cannot kill an idea. The famous Freudian concept of the mutual exclusivity in the male of love and lust persists as an analytical tool to illustrate life's dynamics. Death is just death, and depending on semantics, a mere doorway, a transformative blissful moment, not a spooky mean man in a cape with flaming motorcycle and ninja sword. In a tag team Death match, the Madonna-Whore Complex would play good cop-bad cop with death's emissary, which would stand alone and isolated due to the singularity of its executioner-like status. The Holy Mother would cast beams of warmth upon the Grim Reaper's scythe, blinding his vacant eye sockets, sending him backwards only to trip over a sneaky Whore kneeling behind him wainting for the axe to fall. Death is like a useless bitch in this fight, trying to cart away the Virgin Mary as if Her Eminence has no superpowers. Turning to cut off the presumably syphllitic Whore's head and its flowing hair, the Grim Reaper is met by seven more heads with even better hair. Death gets the crabs from indiscriminate scythe contact, and the Madonna makes him go to confession.