HOLA GENTLE READER,
I bumped into my sister in town and told her about my dream featuring herself, right wing extremists, being stuck on a roof and Davey Havok.
She looked at me and said, "Cam, are you on drugs?"
Gentle reader, I am hella bored. I scored a day off work which is all well and good but everyone I know is at work or asleep or waiting to score drugs. Thanks a lot, jerks. In the absence of human contact, I have spent my day drinking coffee and writing letters and organising invoices.
V. bohemian, no? Hella avant garde.
(Invoicing dudes is about the most bohemian you could possibly get)
I'm going to write a song:
I don't think much of Louis Farrakhan
And Hitler fucked his niece
But the black and white power movements
are not the targets of this piece
50 years you worked so hard,
And at the end, YOU GOT A WATCH
They spelt your name wrong on the back,
To top it off, it was a SWATCH
You'd think the cunts could have splashed out on a rolex
(The boss just bought a jacuzzi - for his private jet)
But this song is actually about... what happens next
This song is actually about... what happens next
Retirement's a total drag
For an able-bodied gent
It'll be a boring 20 years
Before your body's spent
So why not put it to good use
And paint a widow's fence
Why not put it to good use?
AND PAINT A WIDOW'S FENCE
Mow some fucker's lawn
Oil some fucker's gate
You old people and your contributions
Are pretty hard to hate
But worry not, oh worry not,
I've somehow found a way
To despise the reason you wake up
Every single day
People of a certain age
Should not be out of doors
Lock them up in a home
And electrify the floors
Their wrinkles and their drooping chins,
Shout out 'Mortality!'
If it could happen to them,
It might just happen to me.
Shouldn't old people be dead by now?
GET OUT OF THAT GARDEN AND DIE, OLD MAN!
[just kidding, old people]