Blog posts, dry toast, hipster d-bags coast to coast bragging about flagging their intellectual victuals roasted over the slow broasted flames of inebriated inflection, reflecting on the directions social media's going, lowing like cattle and rattling neck-bearded sabers at cable-television wagers.
Dangerous conclusions, colluding over slow-roasted macchiatos, the new dime bags, tagging their posts with allusions to the cages we’re all defined by, and data-mining every meme for the unseemly we deem appropriate when we scheme to skim some of the cream off this fat-ass latte dream.
Magazines flogging molly and clogging up hallways with picture-postcard advertisements advising us to retire outside the confinements of dignity, dinner at Denny’s on Wednesdays something to calendar in last year’s technology, colanders holding more water than the biology we requiem sitting in front of TV screen, little black and white man boys slaving over a hot grid iron and their sweat ejecting desperation for identity in masculinity, our prostates full to bursting, urging us to cursing as we thirst for another nacho cheese potato chip and our IVs drip with Schlitz and Lebatz.
Facts forgotten, moments fomented on memories of epistles penned three fingers at a time, rhyme nor reason in season as we hunt and peck through the dreck of explaining the chain of events that lead us from these five-hundred word rants through chanting, panting in post-connubial bliss (we insist) because writing is better than plucking.
A euphemism, a eulogy for euthanasia, mercy killing words too fierce for flinging, singing neither electric physiology nor spirit-tested psychology but soul fettered ignominy, frets bursting fingertip capillaries so that capsicum laced coffees can be chased through places equally spaced to accommodate the greatest rate of return on waiting for that delicious libation.
No apologies. None.
