The life of every man on earth with the

exception of homos will be pointless

until he places it into the hands of a

femme fatale.

Instead:

Little silver pull-tab on Diet Coke can; whose idea was that, it’s all on purpose, they do it deliberately b/c their whole lives are about manufacturing pop cans and it makes them so viciously miserable they take it out on the consumer, phone system is clogged molasses while everything else is speeding up, deviant capitalists slowing me down man it’s a push-button-menu at the food stamp office where you can’t get thru with your 20 year old rotary phone, eat shit and call again no, seriously, we appreciate your business, the customer is always spite in Austin Texas where it’s 120 degrees in the shade— how you coming with that refreshing Coke can, ha ha please enjoy the following fifteen phone messages before we give you the secret number to press so you can talk to a peon who also hates your guts, here’s how we get the veterinarian hospital’s brand new unlisted address while your German shepherd lays bleeding on the side of the road for your convenience, fuckin number never ever in the right yellow pages(?!??!) and even if it was the print’s too small since your eyes are shot and you are out of the loop have a nice demographic, why aren’t you dead yet? The market place seeks ambitious minds to design inscrutable, over-priced weed-whackers, hey ho, let’s go Dr. Olestra, give me my cocktail and I’ll pay for your Jaguar, unacceptable, psychopharm college, canned asparagus, wimmen, see how they run like pigs from a gun see how they fuck with my pinprick condom just b/c they don’t need one, let me show you a brand new use of an extension cord, step right in to our sterile off-putting thermonuclear pop-up buildings where our betters suffer within while trying unsuccessfully to open oh, anything, you name it, pencil-pak, compact disc, bag of cough drops, ibuprofrin bottle (nice touch), make me fly across country to find the appropriate disposable (nice touch again) bags for one of 50 fucking off-the-shelf vacuum cleaners whose goddamn hose attachments are not interchangeable, observe your grandfather, former CEO, wandering the halls of 10,000 square foot assisted living facility, crying, hysterical naked, can’t open his Depends and pissing all over the walls, product marketing induced senility—

Now you wanna call me during family time, family time, sorry fucking family time so we can chat about planned obsolesence, how does it smell, how does it taste, you’ll be in the market for a new one any day—

Take every underemployed man and woman away from their struggling togetherness and into your urgent focus group where they can earn fifty bucks fighting with their unemployed neighbors over how flimsy McDonalds can make their milkshake containers before the motherfuckers fold in your lap, oh and how ‘bout the packaging of the next president/toilet brush, same shit, it’s all presentation, appearance counts when it’s all you got, why are you here, sperm donor, we’re about done with all that sleep-walking too, why are you here, striver, provider, provide what, you live in an increasingly two-tiered political economy made of haves and have-nots, haves comprise less than 5% of nation’s wealth, strive on stone chump, your two year old daughter is choking on a nicotine patch (ever heard of glue, genius?), you are what you look like, land of opportunity, maybe you’ll get rich someday, land of your appearance is you, buy me a fancy dinner someday, let the good times roll, you know diamonds are a girls best snore and you are what you look like, gutless, incapable of subjugating fragile male ego (barf) to she who cavorts helplessly and recklessly every day with the devil beneath the deep gold sea.

But enough about you, lover.

Duct-tape girlfriend actin right?

yo,

trouble

Home.