Cretin Heaven

The words left softly from the end of the stick. There was no honor in losing to the fools anymore. It had to end here.

Still, time moved on and nothing changed. When the Ramones played and the crowd started jumping, I fell back into the men’s room and did a line of redemption. Because the count was low and the par was high.

I needed what little bit of satisfaction only a power stimulant can give.

Then Social Distortion plays, and I’m trying to catch the eye of a pretty Sheena; a glorious tribute to curves and my mind’s perception of the truth–which was limited to the imagination.

I follow the crowd toward the stage and the world is spinning, just like Moses only with punk rockers and skinheads, and I drag my head around the unfortunate reality of my hopeless endeavor–spoken with enough verboseness to leave even the smallest bit of fortitude; my lack of will or understanding.

And the high permanently fades.

I’m floating down toward the last fragments of understanding. It ends just as it begins, with the Cretin Hop. I float on the crowd toward Cretin Heaven.


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