the trailer park blues

I once identified myself with music. Fast, raw, and fuck you in the face. My glory days were filled with sentimental ideals, plans to live on the road, and the worshiping of my Madonnas; alcohol, pot, and coke/heroin/anything I could put in my dependant mouth.

And I did live the life. I was a triple threat; young, good-looking, and reckless.

Now I am fat old fucker. I sit on my 1980s era pink flowered, tinted yellow, the springs flatten, two cushioned, found on the side of the road, couch; watching the who-really-fuckin-cares with my old dog who I call Snoopy (who is misnamed, since she 's a pug, and who is mistreated, since I walked her maybe three times in six years).

Ugggh. Yes, that is the sound that my microwave makes. I walk, not very far since I am in my trailer. Snoopy no longer patters her little feet after me; she is too obese from all the "people" food I give her and lack of exercise.

I slowly slide my boiling, lava hot dish out of its liberator from its long hibernation. The burnt plastic sticks the rims, as I reveal my treat. And a fork, one of the points slightly awry and stained with a brown alien substance, makes the great journey to my insatiable mouth.

The Chicken Alfredo is delicious. I must say it is delightful. Even the rubber chicken, brown noodles, and the piss colored sauce can be ignored, for this is a masterful example of technology allowing people all around the world to taste something made from The French Chief himself; low carb and everything.

I must not admire this plate for too long. It might go rock solid. And American Idol is coming on soon.

I am still a triple threat; fat, old, and lonely.