small brush shouldn't fuck with big timber

Death's Door, the view from the Spanish announcers table: <strong>cocksocket blues</strong>

Tuesday, February 8

cocksocket blues

You know when you’re just feet from the elevator and the doors start to close and the cocksuckers on the inside see you reaching for the door and never make a fuckin effort to hold the goddamn door for you, and they’re staring at you with “that” stupid smirk on their shiny faces. Or when you’re in the muthafucker and your floor comes up and you utter the words “excuse me” and these gutless pieces of assmeat just stand there in your way like a herd of mindless cows acting like they can’t hear you, and when you do raise your voice they act so offended. Or when you’re standing in the checkout line of the sonofabitchin grocery store behind some bitch and you’re freakin because you hate lines and this wrinkled old cocksocket is fuckin around with a magazine instead of writing her muthafuckin check out. And she’s prolonging your agony in line and all you want do is go home and eat your fuckin shit in peace and get away from the world, and she calls security cause she can hear you breathing hard behind her and you’re sweating like a bitch cause of the anger you’re trying to hold in and the last thing you need is some minimum wage pretend cop giving you face.

Or you’re talking to a “friend” about a problem and you’re tryin to get you’re point across and it all seems so simple to you but this person isn’t getting it. And you really need for them to “get it”, but they don’t and it’s all you can do not to reach out and grab em around the throat and shake em until they do. And as a result of all this you sit in your dark living room angry and frustrated, moaning and wanting to scream out the world but you’re afraid too cause it’ll scare the neighbors and they might freak and call the cops who’ll find out your secret and then your day will really be fucked. So instead of doing all that you go down to the bar hoping to hear some loud crunchy rock cause that might ease your mind. But your friends at the bar accuse you of playing too rough and being a freak so you feel bad and as a result you have a couple of drinks too many and end up running from the cops even though you like cops and consider yourself one of the “good guy’s”. But it’s no use cause even though you lose the cops and make it home, you’re afraid to leave the house for the next few days cause you know they gotta be lookin for you, and what a fuckin fucked up way to start the workweek.
"and the monkey flipped the switch"


Blogger Berry said...

Ok, you lost me with the last scenario. But otherwise, um yeah. I can relate.

3:24 PM  

Post a Comment

<< Home