Home, Home in on the Pain

It was a stripped out kinship race that had brought him to this point. Of no return is where he stands. Off in the midst... lost to all that call society their home. As one once said, "I didn't move to the city. The city moved to me." Such blind egotism was a mantra for him and he wouldn't let nothin get in the way a that. He screams, "Oh brothers, how have you let me get out this way? Oh brothers, why hast thou given such unfriendly thoughts? Oh brothers, why must I lasso my own urges to keep from falling across the tracks?" These questions lay unanswered because he lacks internal dialogue. Thus, the kinship race. The strung out, fucked down, stupefied spectacle that slapped him across the face and slipped a cold hand down his trousers. He lost. He lost it all: his family, his lifestyle, his pure sexuality, his Turbo Charged Camaro IROC Z-4, his wood tip Back Woods Cigarillos, his "ethics of nothing." All was lost 'cept his Stetson "Totally Fucked" Hat with patented shit stains and sweat-strewn brim. The goofy grin only emphasizes the fact that he is, and has been for eons, a plaything of fate with broken dreams and fractured aspirations.

A Toolshed Full of Drugs.

Toolshed is beside himself; though the tack hammer had done it's job he was unsatisfied. Before him lay the wreckage of seventeen televisions of various sizes. All had given Toolshed a hard time and none would be forgiven. Their screens were blacking out the sun in Toolshed's mind. Their antennae matriculating him into the College of Depression and Sadness. Their constant blare tearing a hole in his mind to be filled with the likes of anti-depressants, painkillers, and appetite suppressants. Could it be that all his efforts were in vain? A wind of emptiness still tore through his petty existence and the predatory pharmaceuticals preying upon his mind were still holding sway. Years previous it had struck Toolshed like a dumptruck slamming through a bridge embankment: he was hanging by a thread spun of medicated sadness above an abyss of woe. Though sidestepping the mental anguish had been fruitful for years, it eventually became futile. He realized the darkness creeping in could not be controlled. And so the media mogul that had been preaching in his living room for his entire life, the television, became private enemy number one within the realm of his broke-down, seedy boarding room. Scapegoats, however, breed more scapegoats. Every box of static was eventually trained under the mental cross-hairs of Toolshed. His latest and largest rampage yet, a raid on the local TV Repairman's shed, leaves him empty still. Popping another Xanax, Toolshed longs for a dramatic, single tear to drip down his cheek. But alas, tears denote emotion and Toolshed is so Zoned that he is just devoid of such things.

Molten Anonymous Love

The campfire blazes like The Mannequin Arm of Giant flung across a funeral pyre. Marshmallows bloated and charred, strung out across a spindly stick of ash, hang precariously from the outstretched hand of Lil Baby JuJu. What was he doing here out in the wilds of Gary, Indiana? Why were these gyrating, masculine bodies of steel orbiting around this flame casting ugly shadows across the torn down life that once was the American Steel Industry? Ah, yes. It all comes together in JuJu's slop-heaped mind. These wonderful men are the remnants of a bygone era of powerful foundry workers, all sexed up on JuicePilez and makeshift stainless steel. The arctic economic climate of today brought with it a stream of erotically charged hardbodies emerging from every exit of every steel factory in the godforsaken pit that is Gary, Indiana. This collective muscle floe had been waiting for the moment when they could finally tear off the tortured chastity belt of American Steel and "Get Real Crazy." Within hours impromptu Discos were set up across the town proper in the form of campfires and boomboxes; creepy smiles and erotic joylessness became an instant way of life. JuJu was drawn to this cacophony of sexuality. Donning his "Cap of Shame," he crossed the state line and found himself engulfed in avid sensuousness like nothing he had ever experienced before. Looking out across the sea of wrangled, tinkled flesh, Lil Baby JuJu screams, "Does anyone want s'more?!" He's not sure what he's offering when he asks this.

Oh, Beautiful Mullet With Sweat of Man Dripping

Though sweat pours off his forehead like a waterfall of pride and shame, his Mullet of Pricelessness shall overcome without the help of an Aquanet injection. His secret lies within an immovable commitment to the absence of hygeine, follically speaking. He is a man of the outdoors and oddjobs; overgrown lawns cower in his presence, methheads bow at his girth, Jesusfreakz zone out in his spiritualism. Thus, the natural baptism of sweat sprung daily from his body gives his quaff daily support in the form of pure human grease. The formative agent keeping this modern feat of Pure Southern Man together is oozing from his pores: he is, in essence, a cesspool on a three week bender. There is no need for hair gel within in this man's world, nor is their time for it; grease of man is all that is required to keep this writhing existence aflame. Speaking in tongues, he wags his head about catapulting tears and sweat across the burnt out front lawn of his trailer. While the Mullet stays solid, the obese women and small children of the trailer park lose they're shit while staring at this abomination in awe.

Zone Tinted Glasses

True, the traffic patterns of today are confusing, petty, pro-life, sexualized, put-off, mumbling, totally stupid, and altogether sensuous. Zoned out highway employees tool the interstates for mink wrapped dominatrices and give up all they can for the last kick of shit in their face. Wifebeater flapping in the wind like a rubber hose flogging a helpless child, the nomads of an age long gone (the times of the sexual hitchhikers of crystalized passion) will soon lose all consciousness and slump recklessly across the dotted line. One radical Mad Maxian will reap the benefits of all this needless wreckage. Growing real huge, maybe four or five feet tall, he'll take off the vestiges of a terrible age and don his Zone Tinted Glasses, wrangle the ruined mass of hair upon his dome into a GRADE A UltraHotPink Scrunchie, and set his eyes upon the only thing holding him back: the Stop Sign hanging from a rusted metal pole at the end of the Cul de Sac his mother lives on.

Knee High Optional

He used to remember the days when he slipped a woolen sock over his head like a slipcase to his totally blasted soul. He used to remember when he ran blindly through the fields of shit, resembling a gone sock monkey off on a psycho tribute. He doesn't remember anything anymore. Those days are gone for him. The socks have taken all they can from him. He now sees himself as an inanimate object with a sack of nails for a body. Silicone wastelands doll up his moving image prosthetic personality and he no longer waits for the moment of footwear ecstacy. Yet, that instinctual yearning lingers: he altogether resembles something machine made and spineless.

Jazz Handz

Could it be that the nickname bestowed upon him was a premonition? JazzHands shakes his sickly mind back and forth, setting the crumpled hat upon his head into a lovely spiral of confusion almost as debilitating as the sort that roams within JazzHands' brain. He's been in this alleyway for years, his hands have been twisting their deformed circles for months. And he doesn't know how they got here: those shakes that now set him in a caterwauling reel. Creeping around dumpsters, upturning stacks of disheveled winos, crunching broken Mickey's bottles underfoot, Jazzhands realizes he is where he wants to be. Underneath all that is what he was and will be is what won't ever be. A tiny child within another child that fell off a pile of bricks and dashed out its GooGooDoll Special Toy across the shattered grasslands of Total Shit.