You sly amalgamation of my clicks and views.
I love that you think oily muscled men
yelling into a microphone is similar to videos of
how to craft the perfect sandwich over a campfire
with just a cleaver or surfers catching massive swells
and sometimes wiping out and sometimes
emerging like a miracle, like the coming of some messiah,
from the mouth of the tidal bore.
And, yes, I did play WCW Revenge on Nintendo Sixty Four.
And you’re damn right I did want to be Ray Mysterio JR flying from the top ropes.
And I absolutely practiced the Stone Cold Stunner on my brother.
But you don’t know that if Vicki McCurry, The Poet’s Mom, The Last Word, The Belt, The Strictest Parent in Paris, caught us watching wrestling we’d get our ass whooped.
She’s didn’t like the violence, the language, the theatrics.
She didn’t like her sons seeing that stuff.
So thank you—you approximation of my interests, you faceless, formless manipulator of the masses.
Yeah—that’s right—I’m talking to you. Tell me: Do you smell
what my mom is cooking?