Smells Like Breakfast Cereal
by Jason Nelson
Am I supposed to cry? Is that what your long tormenting comments are
supposed to do, make me cry? Well it’s not working. I’ve taken duct tape,
rolled strips of it into balls and swallowed them with swigs of juice. Then,
you ask, what else did you do, you crafty, crafty snot nosed boy you. Well,
I would’ve taken sheet rock nails and covered them in blackberry jam, but
they got in my way. Who are they you gurgle, while siphoning gasoline from
your parents car. Well, they are the syndicate makers, the heart breakers,
the executives with straight spines and thighs that leak milky green fluids.
You can staple cups to their ankles and in a few quick and easy minutes
you’ll have a scrumptious and occasionally chewy refreshment. Not that you
cared in the first place. It’s not the race after all or before a few. I
don’t understand, you say as your tongue is crushed by your relentlessly
gnashing teeth. Well, I suppose I could buy you a
dictionary, but hey what do I look like, a wallet. Sure my skin is
leathery, overtaned and folds in the middle, but if you crack my skull open
you’ll only find a few quarters and maybe a coupon for a free car wash.
See also: “New Car Warranty”
