Everyone needs some fresh air,
and wholesome association,
with like-minded people.
I stop by a locale so many gather.
After walking around, a nametag stands out.
He’s around my age and similar hobbies,
but I’ll come back – I want to find one more.
It didn’t take long.
I see a recent member of this club - Justin Rosenbaum
I went back to my car to retrieve
a shovel, crowbar, and wheelbarrow.
and wholesome association,
with like-minded people.
I stop by a locale so many gather.
After walking around, a nametag stands out.
He’s around my age and similar hobbies,
but I’ll come back – I want to find one more.
It didn’t take long.
I see a recent member of this club - Justin Rosenbaum
I went back to my car to retrieve
a shovel, crowbar, and wheelbarrow.
After some moments of excavating,
I pry my new friend out of bed,
and place him in the wheelbarrow.
Justin is just starting to age.
I went back and gathered the first guy.
His name tag says, “Brian Bianchi – missed dearly.”
He is more aged than Justin.
I'm glad I bought Febreze for inside my car.
I buckled them in the back seat,
and counseled, “Keep your hands to yourself.”
I will try to drive carefully.
I don't want to injure anyone.
I’ll keep the back window up too.
This will keep them from waiving at passersby.
A car or telephone pole might rip off their arm.
Then I’ll have to stop the car and fetch their arm.
Nothing but work, work, work.
We arrive at the park.
It’s a perfect day for a picnic:
blue sky, billowy clouds,
sun directly above, and a summer breeze –
which makes us feel fine.
I put my two friends in the wheelbarrow,
place the picnic basket on their lap,
then move towards the pavilion.
It’s in the same direction,
but just before you reach the creek,
which separates the forest.
I dust off the bench before we sit down,
so our clothes won’t get dirty.
I open the red gingham lined basket,
and give them both an apple.
Justin decides to have the potato salad.
Brian wants the Caesar salad.
I pass around corn on the cob,
a bowl of “dirt” with the gummy worm,
and to drink - bottled water and red wine.
I reminded them, “Make sure you eat healthy.
Your body is your temple.”
Several minutes pass – not a sound.
I’m starting to think
these two are real dead beats.
What to talk about -
What TO talk about.
“Hmmm. How about the human body,
healthcare, body mods, and plastic surgery.
Your thoughts… go."
I pause.
I’m getting cold stares.
"Ok – I’ll start
I wish women would stop
with these lip augmentations.
They end up looking like a plastic platypus.
I don’t mind the plastic boobies…
as much – but even that gets annoying.
Of course, there are always a few exceptions.
We should just be happy with ourselves.
Easier said than done in this culture,
where beauty is all that matters.
Ear gauges, or gauges anywhere – NO.
I don’t mind tattoos.
Just so it doesn’t look like they were bought
from a bubble gum machine.
But with the aging process, any semi good tat
will eventually look like Patrick the Starfish.
This is what Albert Camus suggested
In The Myth of Sisyphus -
not to be confused with
The Myth of Syphilis,
written by Alphonse Capone.”
I wait for Justin and Brian's response.
More cold stares.
"Camus brought out,
much time is spent working
and bettering our lives,
only to have it end short.
So why bother?
Well, you both are young,
so you don’t have to worry
about sickness or death –
as much.
This dovetails into my next gripe -
Healthcare."
"Oh, I’m so sorry for my rudeness.
Your wine glasses are empty."
I pour Justin and Brian a drink.
"I do believe in justice and healthcare for all.
It’s terrible to hear stories where a family loses the house
to pay for a kidney transplant.
But in this ‘You get what you pay for world,’
I fear what a government sponsored
kidney replacement program would entail.
Nothing is free!
Even dying costs money.
That’s why I tell my wife to not pay for my burial.
Use a dremel – chop me into pieces in the bathtub,
and carry me out in Ziploc bags.
And don’t waste money on a funeral –
it’s not like I’d be able to chat with anyone.”
More cold stares.
“I’m sorry for the grave subject.
Haha get it ‘grave?’”
I tap Justin on the arm
and he slides and bumps Brian,
thumping their heads together.
Justin’s eye pops out,
and lands in Brian’s salad.
I changed the subject, since my words
seem to be falling on deaf ears.
Justin still leans on Brian.
He must be tired.
Now the wind is tousling their hair.
“Let me help you both.”
I use my comb to neaten the mess.
First Justin then Brian.
“Justin, you have nice full head of hair –
a little dry though.
Try Pantene Pro-V Moisture Renewal shampoo.
That’s the one I use.”
I avoid commenting on Brian’s hair,
since I don’t want to hurt his feelings.
“You both still didn’t drink your wine.”
Sounds of gunfire and explosions
interrupt my conversation.
I duck under the picnic table.
“You both better get down –
I don’t want you to get shot.”
The violence seems
to be coming from the forest.
A final BOOM stops the noise.
“Wow, Justin and Brian,
that sounded like a mini-war.
Of course I don’t know what a full-size war sounds like,
but I do watch tons of Netflix."
Three men emerge from the forest
dressed in camo, machine guns around the shoulder,
and bullet belts crisscrossing their chests.
They are fully dressed with smiles
on their camouflaged painted faces.
As they get closer,
I see one holds a severed deer head,
another holds a bag slung over his shoulder,
and the one in the lead holds what seems to be
a bazooka - which is still smoking.
"Howdy, I’m Joe," he says as they cross the creek.
"Is that a bazooka?"
While laughing Joe replies,
“Actually, it’s a M9A1 Rocket Launcher.
The local reserve base let me borrow one
for the weekend to go hunting.”
“Lookie what I snagged,”
said the guy with the bag.
He dropped it off his shoulder.
It’s a clear bag filled with fur,
mashed-up guts, and bones.
“I was small game hunting.”
The gentleman with the deer head adds,
“Look at this rack – it’s a nice rack.
A 12-point buck.”
The head is leaving a trail of blood.
“Ok Schm-ISIS,” I mutter under my breath.
“What?”
“I said would you like a cold drink with ice?”
“Sure,” Bazooka Joe beamed.
While I poured the water into cups,
Bagman taps Joe on the shoulder.
“Looks like these two have a problem here.”
He points to my friends Justin and Brian.
“You know what? It does look like they have a problem.”
“Yeah it does,” Deer Head adds,
as he tucks the deer head under
his left arm - now looking
like a WWE brand headlock.
He aims his assault rifle at Brian’s head.
Then Bagman aims his rifle at Justin’s head.
Joe drops a rocket into his bazooka –
I mean M9A1 Rocket Launcher.
He aims it at both Justin and Brian,
switching from one to the other –
trying to determine the bigger threat.
“Stop it,” I beg, “They don’t mean anything.
That’s just how they naturally look.”
"They look like a few dead beats!
I don’t like the way they’re looking at me.
It’s disrespectful,” Joe complains
“Please – it’s just their normal look,” I pleaded
Ignoring my words, Joe argues,
“How ‘bout we blast their ‘natural / normal’ look
off their dead beat faces right now!”
“What’s going on here!” someone shouts.
Bazooka Joe, Bagman, Deer Head, and I turn around.
It’s the park ranger.
Now he’s one foot away from us.
“It looks like someone has some explaining to do.
Don’t you know alcohol is prohibited in the park?
Who’s to blame here?”
All three hunters point at me
by use of their weapons.
The ranger gives me a stern look –
like I just killed someone and screams,
“This will cost you – I’m writing a citation!”
Bagman steps forward, “Sir
this is just a misunderstanding –
he won’t do it again.
Let me give you something for your trouble.”
He clasps his bag of mish-mash,
reaches in, and pulls out a rabbit.
It’s mangled and shredded,
but one is able to discern that it’s a rabbit.
“Here, take this please”
The ranger looks at the offering.
“Thanks! I was searching for a gift
my daughter can enjoy. This is perfect.
I need something to carry it in.
How about that?”
He points to my picnic basket,
grabs it, and dumps out the contents.
“Lemme help you with that.”
Bagman grabs a spoon
from the potato salad bowl,
and scoops the remains
of the rabbit into the basket.
Then returns the spoon to the bowl.
“I just noticed that it’s missing an eye.”
The ranger sees an eye in Brian’s food.
“This will work,” he remarks,
as he presses the eye into the rabbit.
“Slightly big, but it’ll get the job done.”
“Are you sure your daughter won’t mind?
The rabbit being second hand.”
“Nah, my daughter is so doped-up on meds,
Zyprexa, Lorazepam, with a nickel-bag of Ritalin.
She doesn’t know her own name most times.
If fact, she will be talking to this thing,
and it will be talking back – in no time.
My old lady just lets her play
in her room all day till bed time.”
"It must be nice! My kids never stop
talking and making noise.
Could I score some of those drugs?"
Deerhead jokes, while trying
not to get more blood on his boots.
They all laugh, except Justin, Brian and I.
“Well, thanks again, and everyone stay safe.”
The ranger waives as he walks away.
“Yeah I have to go too,” Joe echoes.
“See you later,
oh, what are your friends’ names again?”
“This is Justin, and he is Brian.”
“Ok, see you both later, take care.”
More cold stares.
Joe whispers, “Your friends don’t talk much.
They’re a bunch of stiffs – no offense.”
“None taken. I apologize.
That’s their personality.
I guess you have to get to know them.
But at least they don’t talk behind my back,
backstab, tell me that I’m undeserving,
have pissing contests, steal, insult,
and the list could go on.”
All three hunters walk away without a reply.
“They’re a strange crew. Right guys?”
More cold stares.
I pry my new friend out of bed,
and place him in the wheelbarrow.
Justin is just starting to age.
I went back and gathered the first guy.
His name tag says, “Brian Bianchi – missed dearly.”
He is more aged than Justin.
I'm glad I bought Febreze for inside my car.
I buckled them in the back seat,
and counseled, “Keep your hands to yourself.”
I will try to drive carefully.
I don't want to injure anyone.
I’ll keep the back window up too.
This will keep them from waiving at passersby.
A car or telephone pole might rip off their arm.
Then I’ll have to stop the car and fetch their arm.
Nothing but work, work, work.
We arrive at the park.
It’s a perfect day for a picnic:
blue sky, billowy clouds,
sun directly above, and a summer breeze –
which makes us feel fine.
I put my two friends in the wheelbarrow,
place the picnic basket on their lap,
then move towards the pavilion.
It’s in the same direction,
but just before you reach the creek,
which separates the forest.
I dust off the bench before we sit down,
so our clothes won’t get dirty.
I open the red gingham lined basket,
and give them both an apple.
Justin decides to have the potato salad.
Brian wants the Caesar salad.
I pass around corn on the cob,
a bowl of “dirt” with the gummy worm,
and to drink - bottled water and red wine.
I reminded them, “Make sure you eat healthy.
Your body is your temple.”
Several minutes pass – not a sound.
I’m starting to think
these two are real dead beats.
What to talk about -
What TO talk about.
“Hmmm. How about the human body,
healthcare, body mods, and plastic surgery.
Your thoughts… go."
I pause.
I’m getting cold stares.
"Ok – I’ll start
I wish women would stop
with these lip augmentations.
They end up looking like a plastic platypus.
I don’t mind the plastic boobies…
as much – but even that gets annoying.
Of course, there are always a few exceptions.
We should just be happy with ourselves.
Easier said than done in this culture,
where beauty is all that matters.
Ear gauges, or gauges anywhere – NO.
I don’t mind tattoos.
Just so it doesn’t look like they were bought
from a bubble gum machine.
But with the aging process, any semi good tat
will eventually look like Patrick the Starfish.
This is what Albert Camus suggested
In The Myth of Sisyphus -
not to be confused with
The Myth of Syphilis,
written by Alphonse Capone.”
I wait for Justin and Brian's response.
More cold stares.
"Camus brought out,
much time is spent working
and bettering our lives,
only to have it end short.
So why bother?
Well, you both are young,
so you don’t have to worry
about sickness or death –
as much.
This dovetails into my next gripe -
Healthcare."
"Oh, I’m so sorry for my rudeness.
Your wine glasses are empty."
I pour Justin and Brian a drink.
"I do believe in justice and healthcare for all.
It’s terrible to hear stories where a family loses the house
to pay for a kidney transplant.
But in this ‘You get what you pay for world,’
I fear what a government sponsored
kidney replacement program would entail.
Nothing is free!
Even dying costs money.
That’s why I tell my wife to not pay for my burial.
Use a dremel – chop me into pieces in the bathtub,
and carry me out in Ziploc bags.
And don’t waste money on a funeral –
it’s not like I’d be able to chat with anyone.”
More cold stares.
“I’m sorry for the grave subject.
Haha get it ‘grave?’”
I tap Justin on the arm
and he slides and bumps Brian,
thumping their heads together.
Justin’s eye pops out,
and lands in Brian’s salad.
I changed the subject, since my words
seem to be falling on deaf ears.
Justin still leans on Brian.
He must be tired.
Now the wind is tousling their hair.
“Let me help you both.”
I use my comb to neaten the mess.
First Justin then Brian.
“Justin, you have nice full head of hair –
a little dry though.
Try Pantene Pro-V Moisture Renewal shampoo.
That’s the one I use.”
I avoid commenting on Brian’s hair,
since I don’t want to hurt his feelings.
“You both still didn’t drink your wine.”
Sounds of gunfire and explosions
interrupt my conversation.
I duck under the picnic table.
“You both better get down –
I don’t want you to get shot.”
The violence seems
to be coming from the forest.
A final BOOM stops the noise.
“Wow, Justin and Brian,
that sounded like a mini-war.
Of course I don’t know what a full-size war sounds like,
but I do watch tons of Netflix."
Three men emerge from the forest
dressed in camo, machine guns around the shoulder,
and bullet belts crisscrossing their chests.
They are fully dressed with smiles
on their camouflaged painted faces.
As they get closer,
I see one holds a severed deer head,
another holds a bag slung over his shoulder,
and the one in the lead holds what seems to be
a bazooka - which is still smoking.
"Howdy, I’m Joe," he says as they cross the creek.
"Is that a bazooka?"
While laughing Joe replies,
“Actually, it’s a M9A1 Rocket Launcher.
The local reserve base let me borrow one
for the weekend to go hunting.”
“Lookie what I snagged,”
said the guy with the bag.
He dropped it off his shoulder.
It’s a clear bag filled with fur,
mashed-up guts, and bones.
“I was small game hunting.”
The gentleman with the deer head adds,
“Look at this rack – it’s a nice rack.
A 12-point buck.”
The head is leaving a trail of blood.
“Ok Schm-ISIS,” I mutter under my breath.
“What?”
“I said would you like a cold drink with ice?”
“Sure,” Bazooka Joe beamed.
While I poured the water into cups,
Bagman taps Joe on the shoulder.
“Looks like these two have a problem here.”
He points to my friends Justin and Brian.
“You know what? It does look like they have a problem.”
“Yeah it does,” Deer Head adds,
as he tucks the deer head under
his left arm - now looking
like a WWE brand headlock.
He aims his assault rifle at Brian’s head.
Then Bagman aims his rifle at Justin’s head.
Joe drops a rocket into his bazooka –
I mean M9A1 Rocket Launcher.
He aims it at both Justin and Brian,
switching from one to the other –
trying to determine the bigger threat.
“Stop it,” I beg, “They don’t mean anything.
That’s just how they naturally look.”
"They look like a few dead beats!
I don’t like the way they’re looking at me.
It’s disrespectful,” Joe complains
“Please – it’s just their normal look,” I pleaded
Ignoring my words, Joe argues,
“How ‘bout we blast their ‘natural / normal’ look
off their dead beat faces right now!”
“What’s going on here!” someone shouts.
Bazooka Joe, Bagman, Deer Head, and I turn around.
It’s the park ranger.
Now he’s one foot away from us.
“It looks like someone has some explaining to do.
Don’t you know alcohol is prohibited in the park?
Who’s to blame here?”
All three hunters point at me
by use of their weapons.
The ranger gives me a stern look –
like I just killed someone and screams,
“This will cost you – I’m writing a citation!”
Bagman steps forward, “Sir
this is just a misunderstanding –
he won’t do it again.
Let me give you something for your trouble.”
He clasps his bag of mish-mash,
reaches in, and pulls out a rabbit.
It’s mangled and shredded,
but one is able to discern that it’s a rabbit.
“Here, take this please”
The ranger looks at the offering.
“Thanks! I was searching for a gift
my daughter can enjoy. This is perfect.
I need something to carry it in.
How about that?”
He points to my picnic basket,
grabs it, and dumps out the contents.
“Lemme help you with that.”
Bagman grabs a spoon
from the potato salad bowl,
and scoops the remains
of the rabbit into the basket.
Then returns the spoon to the bowl.
“I just noticed that it’s missing an eye.”
The ranger sees an eye in Brian’s food.
“This will work,” he remarks,
as he presses the eye into the rabbit.
“Slightly big, but it’ll get the job done.”
“Are you sure your daughter won’t mind?
The rabbit being second hand.”
“Nah, my daughter is so doped-up on meds,
Zyprexa, Lorazepam, with a nickel-bag of Ritalin.
She doesn’t know her own name most times.
If fact, she will be talking to this thing,
and it will be talking back – in no time.
My old lady just lets her play
in her room all day till bed time.”
"It must be nice! My kids never stop
talking and making noise.
Could I score some of those drugs?"
Deerhead jokes, while trying
not to get more blood on his boots.
They all laugh, except Justin, Brian and I.
“Well, thanks again, and everyone stay safe.”
The ranger waives as he walks away.
“Yeah I have to go too,” Joe echoes.
“See you later,
oh, what are your friends’ names again?”
“This is Justin, and he is Brian.”
“Ok, see you both later, take care.”
More cold stares.
Joe whispers, “Your friends don’t talk much.
They’re a bunch of stiffs – no offense.”
“None taken. I apologize.
That’s their personality.
I guess you have to get to know them.
But at least they don’t talk behind my back,
backstab, tell me that I’m undeserving,
have pissing contests, steal, insult,
and the list could go on.”
All three hunters walk away without a reply.
“They’re a strange crew. Right guys?”
More cold stares.
