The Gonzo Wolf

As I was saying before being so rudely interrupted by our morning, extraterrestrial visitors, I’ve been down in the dumps a bit. Now, after filing my first, official MUFON report, I flipped a few forgotten switches. I thought my doo-doo-brown Fender amp would catch fire.

It made me feel quite good for a change, so I really took the afternoon to explore a legitimate source for this dreariest of moments. I think I may have been able to put a finger on it.

I can’t fight back.

At my deepest level, I am first and foremost, and will always be, a soldier. A product of the late nineties US Army, I existed in a time when we lived on the edge of a middle-eastern knife; same as today. That’s not necessarily the part that bothers me.

If you signed those contracts, then you have a potential death warrant with your photo attached at any given second. I salute the soldiers who fall, but those 150+ little Iranian school girls were just trying to learn. We did that, and there’s no death good enough for the person responsible for giving that order.

The old-school Captain Save-A-Hoe of the high seas can’t just hop in his magic boat and save children from America and its newest role as world terrorist supreme.

Even more so, when my wife comes home to tell me tales of unruly clients and such (you ain’t met a Karen until you’ve worked in the world of fine art), my first thoughts are to crucify those twats atop their own lawn-art.

The wars have outlived the usefulness of the bones, and I feel like a useless lump of a warrior. A waste of pumped blood on soil already too enriched to influence cadence or catastrophe.

Religious people think these are the end times, but they’re oh so wrong. “End” signifies death, and you’d be surprised the amount of torture, both physically and mentally, that you can live through.

Who knows? Maybe I just need a rage outlet. I own guns, but I despise gun range employees. In Dallas, every single one I’ve met is a Trumper-thumper. I’d prefer not to support those businesses.

There’s also a place nearby that’ll let you drive tanks and other heavy equipment, but something tells me the gun range employees who were a tad too fascinated with the great orange god somehow ended up working there instead. I mean, where can you work in Dallas, Texas when a gun range won’t have you?

I live near the Dallas Zoo, and they have an impressive snake collection. I’d love to go work there to pass the time, because you can always trust a snake to be a snake. A human? I don’t trust too many of them right now, and I can’t imagine that number increasing much between now and the dirt-nap.

At least the good times lasted long enough today for a ten minute recording session of me screeching into a mic, and then promptly deleting instead of sharing. I just stood at the mic, played random things that came to mind, and improvised lyrics. Just whatever was on my mind at the time. As you could imagine, it was all sinister AF.

The land is no longer strange, yet a stranger I remain.

All the best people are.