I get out of bed, look outside, and I gage my propensity for love. Some days the gates to the holy are wide open, my light shines on even the lowest excrement, and voila, top hat, white tie and tails, it tip taps reeking with class. Quite often though the gates are firmly shut and I am left in the dark to my own devices.
It is during these trying times that the governing entities of my psyche crumble under the dictatorship of the least plausible characters to govern. Coup d’etat! And now there is a clown in power. How did it happen? Was I being complacent?
Deep in the muddy swamps of guilt, anger, and self-pity I scramble to assemble a resistance movement.
Scraggly partisans descend from the hills: a robber Eric Idle singing on the cross, a concentration camp Benigni marching in front of his son, Louis Armstrong spitting in a trumpet.
Begrudgingly I grab my coat and my hat and move my rover to the bright side of life (Surprisingly lit up by mere whistling). One.More.Fucking.Time.