… wish the world was more like this? Where every man is shrouded in the unfiltered smoke of a cigarette rolled up in the torn page of a motel-room bible. Where there are no children and only two types of women: A broken-souled spinster, habitually clothed in what she wore at her husband’s funeral and a perpetually teenaged firework, whose beauty is as striking as the knowledge that she will become the spinster just as soon as her man dies in an horrific trucking/forklift/logging/mining/other miscellaneous risk-orientated occupation.

The amount of whiskey one consumes is directly proportional to the speed that his/her pickup will reach. The local sheriff is having an affair with your daughter and his bourbon-soaked uniform creeps through your kitchen in the early hours of the grey morning while your wife lies unconscious on the threadbare, moth-eaten carpet. So drunk she didn’t even make it to the couch.

Fighting is like breathing and tattoos are a substitute for buying new clothing. DIY all the way and the resulting infection puts you another step closer to amputation, which puts you another step closer to the ride to your “uncle’s” farm for some more DIY surgery. It’s not the surgery that kills you, it is the ride home when you are trying to drive through the anesthesia (read: whiskey).

Upside down in a ditch of horse manure as the break fluid catches alight from the smoking tires.

Tom Waits saw this post straight after I posted it and emailed me to tell me he wrote a song about it. So I guess this is a demo just for sleep500:

Written by: Zach.
Tags: do you kids, music, tom waits.