Give me my September Rage

Hey Mom, I'm gay, and my wife is pregnant, but we're going to abort it ourselves, and Dad, oh Dad, I forgot to tell you this interesting anecdote I once read that turkeys are born with testicles in their gobbles and for the first few weeks after hatching they scamper around with a little scrotum dangling from their beaks until it whithers and recedes, and sister, your boyfriend called and said something about joining the army...the Iraqi Army...ho ho...ha ha...he he...and I forgot to tell you these things every other day of the year when I'm usually skulking and sulking from work to the sofa to bed to work to the sofa to bed to...ho ho...ha ha...he he...motherfucker, I'm a really funny guy, a riot, a laugh, a ham, a clown, a joker, a real nut-busting card, and get this guys, ready, ready- it's all a joke...ho ho...ha ha...he he April Fool...I kill me!

Jesus. All these conservationists of bland tomfoolery who dust off the prank phone calls, silly fibs and hokey high jinks every April 1st annoy the shit right out of my bowels. I hate hilarity. I don't care even if it is funny. Contain your merriment. Choke on all your emphysematous delight. That's what really cocks me in the back. Can't you see your laughter only makes me want to punish you?

If there's one thing I hate about people more than just being in my goddamn way all the time it's the tired hacks among them. People who stop you for a little giggle as you move your mind and body through one more agitative day with only the promise of another. Why are you telling me Mr. Don Key from the zoo called and I need to ring him back. That took seven seconds of breath you'll wish you had after I punch you in the stomach. Who are these people? What happened in their little pool of uterine soup that made them think this is right? Day after day I struggle with these people, and somewhere along the line they were given their own day? How about a day for me? February Fury's Day? The December Tantrum? September Rage? I have no days, no weeks or months, not even an hour when I can be me and say what I wanna say and laugh at your face and her gait and his wackiness. Wackiness turns my skin to nettle. Just give me an hour. In 60 minutes we can all celebrate what I feel inside and then go back to shifting through our pointless routines and appropriate responses like cling film over the umbrage and emptiness in us all. One hour, and we can once again dedicate our time to our decay. Like nothing ever happened.

I'm looking ahead, see. Thinking forward. Staring down this asshole of years provokes me like a hard bite on the cock, and giving me this hour really is better for all of us.