Smells Like Breakfast Cereal

by Jason Nelson

Am I supposed to cry? Is that what your long tormenting comments are

supposed to do, make me cry? Well it’s not working. I’ve taken duct tape,

rolled strips of it into balls and swallowed them with swigs of juice. Then,

you ask, what else did you do, you crafty, crafty snot nosed boy you. Well,

I would’ve taken sheet rock nails and covered them in blackberry jam, but

they got in my way. Who are they you gurgle, while siphoning gasoline from

your parents car. Well, they are the syndicate makers, the heart breakers,

the executives with straight spines and thighs that leak milky green fluids.

You can staple cups to their ankles and in a few quick and easy minutes

you’ll have a scrumptious and occasionally chewy refreshment. Not that you

cared in the first place. It’s not the race after all or before a few. I

don’t understand, you say as your tongue is crushed by your relentlessly

gnashing teeth. Well, I suppose I could buy you a

dictionary, but hey what do I look like, a wallet. Sure my skin is

leathery, overtaned and folds in the middle, but if you crack my skull open

you’ll only find a few quarters and maybe a coupon for a free car wash.

See also: “New Car Warranty”