Hey, lard-ass! Yeah, you. Why on Earth are you ordering that low-fat, prissy little anorexic-special vegan salad when you know a chunky monkey like yourself needs to be wolfing down a real meal? Namely, me-- your good ol' charbroiled buddy, Mr. Triple Cheeseburger. Now, I know you're probably thinking about all my other names, like Captain Cardiac or Artery Aloysius. But I'm here to dispel all those misnomers and lay claim to my rightful title. I am, after all, the King Of All Lethal Food Combinations. That's right. Just one look should be enough to answer all your questions.

Moving across the calendar, day by day, pitching camp each evening and moving on in the morning light. Not really worried about which way is which or where I am supposed to go. That's life to me. The blessed existence of a wanderer. But that was then and this is now. The bus pulls into the station on the atypical point of the evening when the stars are coming out. I begin to feel the heavy steel contamination doors of contempt slam shut like a slap in the face, sealing me off from my fellow man. I can't take anymore and I no longer want to coexist with other human beings.

I’ve been a hypochondriac all my life. Ever since I can remember, I’ve been convinced that I am some day going to be stricken with a terminal illness. Lung cancer, leukemia, brain aneurysms, polio, Lou Gehrig’s disease, scurvy, fleas! I’ve always felt that I would catch one or more of those. Every time I read or hear about the symptoms of a disease, I either realize that I already have them or I begin to feel them coming on. This week, it’s my lungs. I feel like I can’t breathe. The chain reaction inside of a hypochondriac’s mind is amazing. It starts with a deep breath.

Webster defines wild as “living in a state of nature, not ordinarily tame or domesticated.” This past summer has been like any other with the news coverage on shark attacks. Why sharks chomping on so many humans is such a big surprise escapes me. Sharks are wild animals. They eat, shit and reproduce. Nothing more. Where do humans get off thinking that swimming around with these watery wood chippers is a good idea? How dare these fish fuck up our fun by swimming at our beach!

For some goddamn reason I couldn’t remember how to tie my shoes. It didn’t really matter though because rent was already paid, so I just let the laces flap around and walked with my feet far apart so as not to trip. That would hurt. Wouldn’t want to scrape up a knee. Ouch. Rocks would get all stuck under the skin like when I was six. Where was I going? Damn.
“Syd? What are doing out here? It’s going to rain. You should come in.”

A girl sits on a corner. Her head is full of inquiry. What is she thinking? Maybe who her next target is. Maybe who the guy across the street is. Maybe what she will wear tomorrow. She rises and smells the dampness of the day. She walks down the path disturbing the peaceful puddles that lay before her. “Leave us alone!” they yell at the top of their non-existing lungs. She does not hear them because puddles can't yell or talk. Their language is the splash made by her foot. She waves her hands through the air, freely feeling the mist. She grabs a portion of the fog and forms a ball.

Well, I'm on the move. I plan to hit the main highway artery east, and never look back. I have been stuck in this hell-hole of a town for three terrible years, and now I finally have my chance to run away. Three years of my life have been wasted, working a meaningless job. Columbus is the ditch-diggers’ capital of the employed United States, with more mind-erasing, white-collar corporate positions than all of the Midwest put together.

Stifled by a grey wool suit
My rage and my passion
Went to sleep.
Constricted by silent, social constructs
My identity vanished,
And my smile hung on my face
Like a certificate of stupidity.
I flashed my salesworthy ass
To every paying customer.
“Attention all corporate shoppers,
There’s a fluorescent light
special in aisle four.”
Ready to be packaged and sold
A slave to the game,
Or a rat in a race
It’s all the same thing
With a different name.
Anyone can play.
It’s easy to learn.
Just grab your ankles

Melvin was an accountant. A quiet man, forgotten by the human race. He was neither liked nor disliked, hated nor loved. No one was interested enough to lavish feelings upon him. Vaguely known even to his closest companions, his presence was like the wallpaper-- always there, never noticed, never demanding-- fulfilling his purpose with quiet amusement.

AGNOSTIC FRONT: When I was little and would do something bad, my parents would smack my little vinnie behind. It was old school discipline, and it was for my own good. That’s kinda how I feel when I listen to Agnostic Front. They’re society’s musical disciplinary whooping that keeps us all in line. And they have a brand-new, 14-song musical knuckle sandwich coming out in October called Dead Yuppies.