Froth Out The Gills
At times you just gotta put your leather billfold wallet in your mouth, grit down on it and froth out the gills. Get it all out like a stupid dog with a squeaky toy, angrily happy shaking. Tougher than a two dollar steak, all to do is just let it marinate. Hooked on life but it’s not nice when someone fish hooks you. Put your money where your mouth is, the sickness you get from that is a reminder that this funding was brought to you by a sweaty businessman. From gas station clerk to bank teller, people hands start to sweat when the funds are out in the free. The anger must come out in the form of excitement, the confusion will defuse the situation. Froth out the gills, hyperventilate before letting those hostilities lead you to a good ole stoning. Hold your own door open, the peg leg is still working. Working on a will I outta do, anyone is due for a Ford or a Ram running into you. Settle it all with a will, once and for all. No online services or a lawyer involved, I don’t need to let my lawyer know what other stuff he could repossess. Don’t turn the police officer into the crossing guard, don’t fish hook me in the gills lawyer man. There’s something about writing a will that is very similar to writing a suicide note, you got to get it right the first time. The pressures of getting it right the first time is at a all time high, the lore won’t be right and it will haunt me more than the ones left behind. Spell the wrong name then some sucker from Memphis ends up getting my valuables. One thing’s for sure, writing a will sure makes you want to live as long as you can in comparison to the other note. I don’t suddenly just appreciate life a lot more when writing a will, it doesn’t get that emotional for me. It’s more so that my will writing session starts turning into an inventory check and I start realizing that I got lots of cool shit. I probably should already have an inventory of my stuff like my insurance tells me to but how else am I going to honestly lie to them about stolen stuff that I didn’t have and want. Who am I even going to leave this stuff to, The Library of Congress? It’s curated to my liking, my family wouldn’t want these. They think what I do between when I get home and into my room to roaming the fridge or bathroom is something homosexual. Quite frankly, they don’t deserve my batman comic book collection. My blood diamonds are stuffed in the teddy that I go to sleep with, it’s heading to the coffin. The neighborhood kids would feed my tusken raider figures to the on coming cars. Man, I really don’t want to leave this stuff behind. Maybe my painting could stay behind, maybe my 15 minutes of fame will come in the form of someone finding them when the family tree is long gone. Forget this, I write like shit and this paper won’t hold up in court. My playstation will be a steak dinner on the morrow of my mourning. The Red Bull didn’t give me wings and the pot of coffee burned me, just burn my stuff with me pretty please.