The facts are nobody gets their parents stories right,
not that that matters, for in turn nobody's parents get
their kids' stories right.
Not that anybody gets anybody else's story right, so
where does that leave the yo-yo who is determined
to offend nobody and winds up being stoned to death
for it. Stoned to death meaning put away in a secure
housing unit until a shrink certifies that the creature
qualifies for being as insensitive as everybody else.
That takes us back to humor, not the commercial stand-up
kind flooding humanity these days, but humor bred
in the tumor, when there's absolutely nothing to laugh
about, so you think, and that's when you crack yourself
up with a stupefying insight about what you been afraid to
face: nobody gives a shit about you, never did, never
will. No matter how hard you try to get along, keep an
open mind, or close it ever tighter, the very yo-yos you
trying to get close to squirts you with bile homebrewed
just for you, laugh at your hurt, say comon caint you take
a joke.
Pow, you give that jokester a piece of your knuckle, or
that's what happened to me last time I tried to tell some
good-heart where to stick it their kindly understanding
of my goiter ful ness. Saint, let me tell you, getting
pounded in your burl do hurt. Then it swells twice what
it was and nothing fits.
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