Vice This Cocksucker

You must have come out of your mother’s womb spitting and cussing, grabbing onto the pubic hair and swinging like a mini meth crazed Tarzan. But you didn’t even wear a loin cloth only that sneer, the one that sets you apart from rational and compassionate human beings. You’re heart is a mechanical wonder, a cold steely machine comprised of used V-6 engine parts and the bones of the unborn. You bow at the altar of the only god you know and you call him profit and he bleeds crudely, like a stuck oil tanker. Please smoke another cigarette because as you’re arteries tighten your grasp on the world loosens. Have fun in Hell I hear the weather down there is unseasonably warm…