LOVE HUMANS NOT GODS.

Jack Tait hopped off of his blue tricycle and began smashing the faces of the fourteen men who abused him when he was a young boy of seven.  one by one.  swing by swing.  Jack hit them hard and hit them lots.  blood splattering everywhere.  Jack both smiled and sweat.  huffed and puffed.  sixty years of pent up anger released in his many swings.  he used to fuck girls for the same reason.  some make love.  Jack Tait releases his rage.  rage against the many who have hurt him over the years.  and there are many.  there are plenty.  Jack Tait took one last swing and threw his bat down.  he also took a piss.  he then hopped on his blue tricycle and rode away.  naked with his one ball dangling in the cold air.  he rode past dirty smelly bums and dirty smelly politicians.  he even rode past the odd dirty smelly cop.  everyone dirty and smelly in their own way.  Jack Tait was once an altar boy but now lives alone and only prays to his bottle of Jack.  the odd time he listens to The Cure but mostly just drinks and jerks off.  he also plants tomatoes but only in the summer.
  Jack Tait eventually made it home.  he hopped off his bike and placed it on the side of his rundown farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. he looked around and then went inside.  he heard howls from the coyotes and yelps from the cats.  he ignored both.  he went directly to his fridge and opened the door.  he then opened his throat after he opened his frozen bottle of Jack and took four big swigs.  he then sat down on his shitty purple reclining chair.  he found an old yearbook and opened it up.  everything opening suddenly.  he looked at all his past teachers and past students.  he also looked at past fucks and past rejections.  love nowhere.  phoniness everywhere.  “why did life take such a turn for the worse?”  Jack often wondered.  life was once filled with freedom and love and drugs and sex.  it was also filled with fun.  then it turned into selfishness and rules and phoniness and rich maggots looking down on people more talented and more refreshing.  fake British useless women looking down on people more talented and more refreshing.  boring dolts and boring folks.  boring cunts and boring stunts.  a life filled with shitty people and shitty lies.  shitty music and shitty books.  Jack Tait sat and pondered.  he sat and pondered some more.  he sat and pondered so long that his hair had turned grey.  now bald.  he picked his left nostril and came out with blood.  he looked to the Lord above and screamed, “why do young boys and young girls get raped and tortured????  why do people in the Phillipines suffer through typhoons and tsunamis when they are so god damned religious????  why did my Dad die at such a young age???  why did Olivia Wise die of cancer at such a young age???  why did Cal get cancer at such a young age??? why is there cancer period???  GOD YOU CAN PERFORM MIRACLES AND YET PEOPLE ARE SUFFERING AND MAGGOTS ARE RULING THE FUCKING WORLD!!!  WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU???”  silence.  Jack Tait then smashed his bottle of Jack against the side wall where there are marks of bottles from previous rants and then went to sleep.  he first put zit cream on his nose and looked at old pictures of his family when he was six.  he also prayed to the almighty Allah. he prayed for peace and love in a world filled with greed and dullness.  he also asked Allah if he could restore his hair.  and his ball.
  Jack Tait woke up the next day still bald and still with one nut.  prayers once again going unanswered.  LOVE HUMANS NOT GODS.