- On April 19, 1775 a fella you may have heard of, who went by the by the name of Paul Revere rode a horse a total of about 20 miles (give or take) from Boston to Cambridge (and he actually didn’t even make it to Cambridge) shouting to everyone along the way those famous words “The British are coming!” Well I say, “big fucking deal!”
- On April 19, 1775 (the same fucking day, same year, same time) a man you’ve never heard of named Israel Bissell rode around the countryside, and just like Revere he warned people to get ready because the war was on and the British were coming. But, Bissell didn’t do this for a mere 20 miles. This motherfucker rode 345miles in four days and six hours from Watertown, MA to Philadelphia, PA and he rode his horse so god damn hard that it died and he had to stop and get a new one. SHIT SON!
It was a girl, I think, now that I look back on it from this present time that started me down this long, devious, and twisted path. A girl who put me into the current frame of mind and this powerful presence of self empowerment. A hundred thousand lies upon lies that perpetuate this dastardly, diabolical duet dancing to the tune of some unholy ballet from hell. It’s all bullshit. Some silly suturing idea of a beautiful being, wrapped up in boots and black leather will drift down and appear to me like the Virgin Mary in the deep dark desolate desert. It’s fucking tragic and so god damn beautiful… I laugh my dick right off.
The one who hangs right outside the barbwire fence on the south-east side of the camp for corpulent young women. He’s out there all day eyeballing the Biggums as they saunter by on their daily jaunts about the undergrowth, taking pant after puff from his long rockets whilst the Boom-Box, plastic zip-tied to the front of his ten-speed, thumps out Unskinny Bop by Poison in excess.
Outfitted with only an unzipped black leather jacket, a pair of teal “Sleep Away Camp” gym shorts, and a red, white and blue headband, he intermittently whistles at each rotund goddess that he deems laudable of a hand job and a hot tub. He knew he had an obsession early in life when he found himself jerking off to Pillsbury Doh-Boy commercials. Now-a-days, this is where he hangs- outside the camp enticing the “chosen” girls with Fun-Size Snickers bars in a reflection of delightful excellence. They call him the Snake Charmer.