The Gonzo Wolf

So I’m sitting here watching my wife drizzle Nutella on my son’s toast like a Food Network groupie, and wondering how deeply the shaft of my upbringing goes. My mother would’ve thrown a thick square of butter on that bitch and couldn’t have cared leIss if it melted from the time of its slapping to my mouth. I think I got taken for a ride.

I fired-up in front of a group of twenties-something Hispanics who were part of a construction crew. They looked at me like I was insane. This Latinos For Trump nonsense is getting out of hand. Back in my day, they would’ve been the dudes to sell it to me. We can no longer have nice things. I blame polo shirts.

I’ve officially been banned from Threads for stating my distaste toward pedophiles. I hate to be all dark-side about it, but only a Sith deals in absolutes. We already know how Zuck rhymes.

It’s early in the afternoon now, and I’m 3/4 of the way through the newest song I’ve written called, ” Can’t steal my fire”. I was cranked up with distortion and screaming the post-bridge chorus. In walked my wife from family brunch. It felt the same as my mother catching me inspecting my gumballs at age five. Guitar is obviously my new form of jerking off. They both are enjoyable, yet a complete waste of time at my age.

There’s no other way to explain it. Maybe banging away on that doll from math class and her father comes home early from work. All the best sitcoms sold interruptions as the ultimate gasp. It still doesn’t beat the bicycle shop episode from Diff’rent Strokes.

Preach truths, toke jokes, and shoplift Amazon.