Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch

The strangest acquaintances come briefly
but hard with the Universe's sole intent
of making you grateful for your own
set of unwieldly problems.
That jackhammer-toting
toothpaste model motherfucker
had months of unemployment benefits
forged by his shacked-up whack-job
whose fake tits he bought
after leaving his wife for fellatio.
I went to the trooper barracks with him
when he found the Walmart receipts.

I was also there when the local PD
came another time during one of their several
domestic disputes fueled by Bud bottles
and pills he was once prescribed.
It was an odd home to have dinner in
for those wild months in Marlboro Country.
His bride-to-never-be
was deathly allergic to seafood
so that was off the menu.

She drove me unfairly nuts in her own way
despite our lack of carnal relations
though I'd seen all the silicone
and her Holiest of Holies
by Scout's Honor accident one afternoon
when that sociopath called me into his den
while seated at his obsolete computer
watching an amateur porn he'd made of them
complete with less-than-special effects.
People are fucking weird, man.

What pushed me over the edge, however
was the exaggerated way in which
she pronounced the letter T
at the end of a word
as though it added legitimizing emphasis
to whatever dull point she was making.
It sounded like a toddler
in an alphabet exercise.
It sounded like muted hi-hat cymbals.
It sounded like venom being spat
from a whore who'd never got the hang
of swallowing her trade.

Why do I ponder this now
seven years later
with a hefty mug of gin
and a handful of unfinished orange bottles
locked away
since I hate their evil contents?
Like I told you before:
People are fucking weird, man.