Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to...


David E. Oprava




God, menstruate please menstruate, I am thirty-five with two kids and you are telling me that menopause hasn’t kicked in yet, hell I got mine years ago when the libido went on the skids due to global warming, something about the Al Gore eroding my vas deferens, ‘course it depends on how you look at it, might have been existential angst caused by the ritual séance of the nightly news, I stopped watching to save my soul which then got blasted by the Mormons at the door who want me to believe that polygamy was an aberrant mistake and that the latter day saints don’t do that anymore, if you ask me, that’s where they went wrong, shit, if you can stand to be married to more than one woman at a time, go for it just make sure you have enough whisky and pills to keep yourself numb from the never-ending dementia swimming in every conjugal visit, see, that’s how I drown in this shit, I need to hit something more often, maybe once a day, a small mammal or fill my house with criminals out on parole who have agreed to be slowly dismembered by the simmering rage that just being alive has engendered in me, oh, I know where it comes from, Thoreau never married or watched TV and that’s the answer right there, live off the land and trade the car for an ox, have fifty-seven children so half of them will die off, but the rest will run the farm and look after me when I’m blind and should be dead and buried under the apple tree next to that old donkey I loved, that is basic, that is the meaning of it all, be too tired to give a shit about Afghanistan, Iraq, sub-prime mortgages and getting my dick licked, by the way, have you gotten your period yet?




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