You smell that sound? Huh... Do ya?
It's anger. Pure, unapologetic anger.
Look around! Anger in the news. Anger in music. Anger in comments left at the Betty Crocker forum. Anger in the half-played axis and allies game board collecting dust on a forgotten table somewhere.
Even in the eyes of your 40 year old Teddy Bear.
And he's pissed.
It's scary, man. But I've got a plan.
I'm gonna collect all those people that matter to me; all those people that I love. I'm gonna collect them and tell them there ain't no more anger. Or bitterness. Or cynicism.
Those days as an angry young dog are behind me.
Are they behind you?
.
.
.
But then I get to thinkin'.
Hey, Dad! Remember the time you were called in to pick me up at the Parma Police station at 3 o'clock one Saturday morning? Remember how you spit in my face and declared me a disgust?
I do.
I remember it like one of those grainy VHS tapes of something recorded off late-night t.v.; low contrasted and jagged-edged with just a whisper of disjointed sound crackling through the static.
Still... I do have to admit my admiration. With nothing but Colt 45 and saliva, you managed to create a black hole.
There isn't a scientist alive who can say the same.
I kid myself more than I kid you all.
The angry young dog will always morph into a mistrustful hog, rooting not for truffles - but for fragmented memories.
Finding slim pickings, self-consumption typically begins with the tail and ends at the snout.
But...
But I do got a plan.
I'm gonna collect all those people that mattered to me; all those people that I loved. I'm gonna collect them and bury them like a dog does his bone.
Those days as an angry young hog are behind me.
Are they behind you?
