I never even get to touch my dick. My penis. My winger. Stinker. Poop poker. I’m not current enough for myself. I’m not standing at a train. I’m sitting in a glider. Musette’s dad brought this computer over. It was broken. He put a new keyboard in. The sound doesn’t work. Maybe it’s the card, my wife said. She’s the one who spilled orange juice into it. I was so mad. It’s like Georgie getting his arm chomped off. He just wants to come home. She loves me. They both do. My family. My dog is neglected now. I don’t even get to play Destiny. Everybody wants to watch TV. American Horror Story, you know what I mean? This is Trump’s America.

My butt, man. Oh, my ass. My wife. She’s got an appointment scheduled with the gastrointestinal doctor.

The baby can’t even hold her head up. I’m squeezing her stomach. She’s got so much shit in there. So much of life has to deal with the ass. It’s embarassing. This is why we wear masks. Keep our lungs out of the fumes The fumes out of our lungs.

I’m at a train. I’m standing here and people are brushing against my arms. The alt-right is whispering in my ear, telling me that if I accept what they’re selling, which has it’s truth to it, I can be a star.

I’ve got to go after the lesbians and the transgendered. I hate Hillary Clinton, and you know how I feel about the president. I don’t hide my feelings on the matter. I’m not a political writer or a video game writer, but I write about politics and video games.

Posted in Lit

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