The Gonzo Wolf

There’s a child inside me (no, Trumpers, it’s not what you wished for) who wants to wipe the dust off the Epiphone Hummingbird, pack it up, and journey to a Dallas open mic. The only problem is that there’s an old man inside me (no, Trumpers, it’s not what you wished for) who’s gotten quite adept at picking up on bullshit.

My two original songs that I can play on a moment’s notice tell stories from my past. They’re serious to me. They’re momentary wisps of my soul in forgotten rooms of abandoned houses. They’re not sung to score chicks, sympathetically follow my shenanigans on Instagram, or praise imaginary deities for instant approval/acceptance.

Unfortunately, the only places I’m not going to find that in Dallas, Texas are Gen X hotspots like biker and dive bars. Even more unfortunate, those places are packed with Trumpers wishing for child spelunking and entering elderly men through old-timey, ever-failing butt muscles.

Every single day in DFW there’s a preacher or teacher on the news for diddling kids. These sickos maneuvered their ways through decades of self-grooming, presenting themselves as officiates of two of the most invasive professions on the planet. Is it ironic the jailhouse property room is filled to the brim with official White House knee-pads, autographed by King Acorn Dong himself?

They’re moving in herds. They do move in herds.

I come from a family full of both, and I doubt any of them have plans to ask the JV quarterback to prom.

I can’t help but be serenaded by songs about Jesus at my amateur rock shows, and it’s a bigger turn off than a squeaker past the mushroom threshold. Nothing at all against his believers, but you guys should try harder to elect representatives with pre-existing, healthy sex lives. Of age! Of age! Don’t forget that part.

Maybe we should come up with some form of identification – perhaps something along the lines of a reverse expiration date – and sew it into their underclothes On Sundays as a point-of-no-return deterrent.

Once you’ve done that, keep your people away from my open mics! Do you know how many horrible glam-metal songs I had to hear in order to denounce my inbred religious beliefs back in the 80’s? It’s a lot.

I want to sing songs about dead girlfriends and Klan kidnappings in small towns, and it’s difficult to do following a trust fund baby church princess in a tutu. I’ll be frank; she had some decent legs for a chick who survived youth group missionary initiations; not a single missed mushroom stamp on either of her inner thighs. Professionals in their field, obviously. Highland Park Hail Damage, they call it – whoever they are.

It was mission accomplished, as far as I was concerned. Not a damn person in the venue cared about her Jesus music, with the exception of myself. I heard it loud and clear, because I wasn’t thrown off by the sudden stage view of her wiener runways and a pawn-shop special in-between.

I waited too long to learn to play guitar. My people no longer exist publicly. We’re too busy preparing for the arrival of the old gods. I don’t know; what do you guys think about with your Saturday morning coffee?

Preach truths, toke jokes, and shoplift Amazon.