08
Aug
12

golden chorale

You know what really burns me up? You know what really gets my goat? You know what really makes my blood boil? You know what really moistens my mouth? You know what really burns my Pennsylvania Dutch ham and noodle casserole? You know what really bangs my wife while I’m at work? You know what really gets my drawers bunched up? You know what really rips my teeth out with pliers over my gambling debts? You know what really applies my deck varnish unevenly? You know what really gets my kid kicked out of college? You know what really chaps my hide? You know what really devalues my stock portfolio? You know what really puts my beloved family pets to sleep after a long and courageous battle with feline mucopolysaccharidosis? You know what really gets me hot under the collar? You know what really steals my lunch out of the break room fridge, then places items of similar weight back into the back and returns the bag to the fridge, just to mock me? Just to fucking mock me? You know what really Markies my Post? You know what really urinates in my hot tub? You know what really desecrates my corpse? You know what really keys my Saab? You know what really gets my dander up?
Well, friend, I’ll tell you. When you’re out there, laying it on the line, toughing it out, making a go of it, giving it the old college try, keeping hope alive, keeping your nose to the ol’ grindstone, stirring the macaroni, scratching out a living, sneaking sips out of the ol’ sock flask, living to fight another day, listening intently to the ol’ R. Kelly CDs, making sure the show goes on, keeping the party going, telling her sure, you’re definitely using protection before turning to wink at some imaginary audience, leaving it all on the field; and then some know-it-all, high-and-mighty, wannabe-expert, holier-than-thou, smart-aleck, windbag, fuck-face, wiseacre, so-called “municipal judge”, has to come along and rain on your parade, let the air out of your balloon, spoil your fun, pull the plug on the party, send you to rot in jail, award monetary damages to your victims, liquidate your assets, call you “a remorseless monster” during your sentencing, chuckle with the courtroom artist in his chambers over aged single-malt scotch at the exaggerated weak chin you were given in the pastel drawings they showed on the evening news. Well, that, and our society’s puritanical views regarding the male form. It can be quite beautiful.

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