Our daddies were all young once. Well, not mine. He’s from Ork. But our fathers who said it is what it is in Heaven worked hard
planting bubblegum in the sand. They beat the shit out of chickens with rakes and moved objects with their minds. Our poppies ate
their own shit and grew cocktail frank trees. Our dads used Uzis and AK-47s. They had no use for reading and writing. We accept that.
Our male persons who begot children ate dog food from a can and drank goat piss on the rocks. They let us drink it through a Krazy
straw. Our papas punched each other in the face and lay, loose as a goose, in quicksand. Our padres bought flamethrowers and burned
down the town hall. Our sires gave us marshmallows to roast. What could we possibly do, then, but run to the convenience store for
some chocolate and graham crackers.
For the first seven minutes. You feel that shower spout ebbing and storming and drooling and burbling. Stronger than Jim Thome or God
because, come on, Thome never took steroids and what kind of ballplayer never does the juice. And God? Let’s be honest, if there
was a God why doesn’t he just show up here and buy a sandwich and a bag of Lays, maybe a Pepsi?
Then nothing. Then that broken towel rack and Old Spice deodorant and Bob the Builder on a LG television. Beauty lasts seven minutes.
Except for that spider you had to kill. That’s what I mean. Dancing and cranking it in the shower. That’s just silly, but still. It’s
something. Not as bad as a wedding with no open bar. If you must jack in the shower don’t try to fuck the shampoo bottle. Trust me.
Do it naked, lying down, standing up, whichever is comfortable. Call out the name of your silly God who doesn’t exist. Just don’t let
the kids walk in on you.