Failureville and you

	

	Bill,

             Your delusions are humorous.  The "CUTTING EDGE" LANDSCAPE 
	DESIGN and MAINTENANCE SERVICES?  You have some wacky 
	contradiction going.  Cutting grass isn't corporate, it's 
	redneck.  You're going to hire secretaries for your grass 
	cutting corporation?  Now that's good LNO material.  I think 
	I'll write that into my next script if you don't mind.  	
	Probably have more chance of making money from the idea.  
             It's inevitable you know, your one way ticket to Failureville.  
	There are plenty of vacancies waiting.  Each room comes with a 
	set of parents that sleep and occasionally make grunting sounds 
	down the hall.  Yeah you know your dad works your mom real good.  
	That's shameful spanking material for you.  
             Yes, your headed straight to Failureville, a hop skip and a 
	jump from Loser Central, where you can go to the bars and stare at 
	all the women that would be more interested in studying the 
	designs they've just drizzled into their last sanitary napkin than 
        even consider for a second a glance in your direction.
             In Failureville your father tries to pull more strings to get 
	you a job that actually pays but he finds there are no strings 
	left but the string on the back of your mothers night gown which 
	takes longer to untie than his sweaty performance which you listen 
	intently to, crouched down with your ear to the crack under the 
	door.  
             So you attempt to revive your lousy no profit lawn mowing 
	business but give up when you find out that your grass bags could 
	take no more and decided to disintegrate.  So you walk back to 
	The Pizza Outlet, with your head down.  They hire you again on one
	condition, that you wear the company hat to conceal your greasy,
	oily bed hair from the customers who tip you meagerly despite the
	fact they feel sorry for your wretched unsuccessful ass.
             You save those lousy quarters and in a year afford a gun. 
 	It's a shiny six shooter, the same kind the cowboys used to shoot 
	the villain and then hang in a holster slung over a chair while 
	they slammed the deputy's daughter.  
             One day after cleaning your pipes out onto the pizza your 
	about to deliver, you turn the ignition to leave the side of the 
	road and it sputters.  You try again, it gasps and dies.  This is 
	the third american made half size truck you've owned.  The third 
	one that broke down on you.  You sit there for a while, feeling 
	lower than you've ever felt.  The familiar smell of the extra 
	topping you made for the pizza wafts into your untweezered 
	nostrils and you close the box, open the glove compartment and 
	pull out the gun.  It is shiny.  Shiny like the small bar with 
	the rounded off end that you found tucked away underneath your 
	mother's panties the one night your parents were away and 
	you decided to leave your rotten, stinking room for a short 
        while and explore.  
	      Your mind wanders to the afternoon the next day when you 
        woke up, looked out the window and saw a nine year old girl in a
        bathing suit.  As a result of your staring and drooling, you were 
        late for work.  The boss yelled at you and so for revenge you decided 
	to give the next customer an extra topping.  For material you 
	conjured up the little bathing suit girl next door only she 
	wasn't next door she was in your room bending over to smell one 
	of the many mysterious stenches on your carpet....
             You tuck the gun into the decrepit elastic waist of your 
	three day old multi-stained briefs and drag your wretched ass 
	out of the truck.  You wander into the woods with your head 
	down, shoulders slumped.  This is it.  Not long afterwards a 
	loud crack emits from the woods.  Nobody even hears it.  

                                              Ted
  

                     
  

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