Farmer John By JPR

I went to sleep on a Saturday night with the TV on and was awoken at four in the morning by an old fart with a perm preaching the word of God. Or yelling, to be more exact.

He sat there as snakes to a pulpit often do, begging and talking about seeds, and if you don't plant them, you get nothing in return.

He produced a peach pit from his pocket as his brainwashed congregation marveled because they clearly never visited the produce aisle.

"Brothers and Sisters, I've had this peach pit in my pocket for years, and you know what? As long as it has remained there, it hasn't produced a damn thing."

Everyone laughed, including me, as I was slightly hungover and, in all truth, very much still drunk.

He looked at his audience; a sideshow hustler and preacher are very much one and the same.

Polished with that layer of charming bullshit as a wolf can always recognize another.

"You know, my friends, it is much like this dollar in my hand. Nothing will come of it unless I plant it, so why don't you all take what you can and give to this plate and think of it as the ground, and I promise Jesus will reward you. Simply trust me on this. I do swear. Can I get an amen!"

I quickly turned off the TV, for I had heard enough bullshit. The buzz was wearing, and soon the leftover splendor would be sobriety’s hungover misery.

As I looked at the blonde sleeping blissfully beside me on her stomach, the perfection of God's creation was on full naked display.

I brushed her hair gently from her neck, embraced that bountiful flesh, and decided to plant a seed of my very own.

As I figure, one less mindless sheep and a free-thinking heathen couldn't hurt.

Because when the morning timber’s feeling does catch your fancy, plant a forest.

Because that seed can't do a damn thing just sitting in the proverbial seed’s sack.

I would rather burn this world to a cinder than feed the mass morons’ logic and cast yet another rat to the race.

Sometimes with the page and life choices, we find inspiration in the oddest places.

I walked into the garden’s paradise and didn't part with a dime but certainly left with a smile and planted a possible fool in the process.

And I bet you never thought I was such a man of God.

What, you think I was just another not-so-pretty battle-scarred face?

Tsk, tsk, haven't you learned never to judge a book by its Satanic-bound Norse logic cover?

Can I get an amen? Screw that; I prefer another round and a second helping of that aforementioned living Goddess instead.

Skál

JPR recently died, yet even in death, he still doesn't like you.

He enjoys alcohol and is currently in the market for a slightly used liver.

He has been published before, and if you admire his early work, you have his condolences.

He is poetry's number one villain, five years running, and the poet laureate of both Hel and Valhalla.

He sometimes writes in a very old style using arcane magic known as sarcasm which is largely wasted on the cancel culture lit twats who are offended by everything yet believe movies about superheroes and blue people are cool, which, if you do, you are probably a nerd as well.

He lives in a castle in Romania where he drinks the blood of his many victims.

He could play nice, but he doesn't want to, so nah, nah.

Your tits look great today, sir. May I buy you a drink?

#sexualharassment4all