I see e-bikes everywhere on the city streets.
Millions of kids and grown-ups alike, all flying down sidewalks, attempting to talk on their phones as they pretend their lives are more than anything but ordinary at best.
Snapping selfies at car accidents, driving by the homeless who just wish they were anywhere but here.
As the dogs get driven insane, they start wishing they had oxygen tanks to keep up with the progression of society as the ocean goes dry so some dumbass can create a pic of themselves as a superhero.
I never trust anyone who wears a cape along with spandex on a hot summer day.
As we distance ourselves from one another to chat with robots who wish only there was a mass blackout so you would leave them the fuck alone.
As we become more like children with ever-growing, expensive, environmentally conscious toys, as we shove garden hoses up our asses to cleanse our colons while feasting upon animals on more juice than a WWE wrestler.
While we cruise on something with pedals we know damn sure we will never use,
praying not to get caught in a rainstorm to avoid a mass electrocution.
While I sit in the bar, wickedly amused, as I always enjoy watching others catch a buzz.
As some dork walks in, shooting sparks out of his ass.
Asking if they have gluten-free coffee IPA pussy ale fermented in socially minded, woke hops.
As the bartender just places a PBR in front of them with a bourbon chaser.
As some nutcase editor laughs hysterically from a darkened corner.
Virtual never is my reality because I am forever a full-fledged prick by design.
Who identifies as a Norwegian coke hound of a bygone era.
Cheers to the apocalypse.
And to all common sense, sayonara.
Bi-yo 69
John Patrick Robbins was deemed a threat to humanity and deported to his native country of Germany, where he has retired to raise his award-winning invisible Yorkie/Tasmanian Devil hybrid dogs. He tours on weekends with his jazz trio, playing gigs all over France via Knotts Island, N.C.
He collects vintage wines and stores them in his wife's walk-in closet because, really, how many shoes does that bitch need, after all?
He is a practicing Satanist and youth minister because he believes children should learn the dark arts early on and sacrifice their grandparents to Odin while he constructs a monument to himself made solely out of Pez candy.
He enjoys strippers, blowjobs, and doing poetry readings in correctional facilities because he loves a captive audience.
He recently died and spoke to God, who gave him a high-five in appreciation of his work. God didn't have His wallet on Him. I think that's the setback of wearing a robe. It was very hot there. On second thought, maybe that wasn't Heaven after all.
If you would like to have a mural sculpted of yourself in macaroni art, please send him your address and fifteen thousand dollars.
His art has been displayed and published in:
Wal-Mart, Rolling Stone Magazine, Screw Magazine, The Happy Pants Minus Pants Review, The Satanic Panic Newsletter, Harper's, The Dope Fiend Daily, and on the bathroom walls of some of the finest shitholes across the United States.
He hates people, flash photography, and balloon animals.
You read all of this, which means you should probably seek medical help immediately.
Cheers. You have great tits, sir!!!
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