throwing it all away

I do not know the identity of your candidate of choice in the 2016 UnitedStatesian presidential election, but if you’re anything like about 85 percent of the rest of the electorate, I can guarantee that person is awful. Just awful. And a poor reflection on your judgment, by the way.

I know, I know… the fact that you willingly visited this blog to read incoherent claptrap written by me–a balding nobody who is so forgettable that even though my name and face are prominently plastered across the top of the screen, I am still essentially anonymous–is already a black mark on your record. But if during this electoral go-’round you’re casting a vote for one of the two major party candidates… well, frankly, it calls into question just what you hope to accomplish with that vote of yours.

Because if the polls are to be believed, you don’t even want to. You’re about to pull a lever (or fill in an oval, or punch a button, or hang a chad) for a candidate that you don’t even like. A candidate you may even despise. A candidate you neither trust nor believe, one you have probably publicly disparaged in front of anyone who would listen. You are on the cusp of expressing your desire to hand the reins of power to a person that you find personally revolting. Someone you wouldn’t even trust to hold your stuff while you go to the bathroom for fear they’d immediately turn around and sell it to buy black-market Ukrainian Aspercreme. You’re about to do something that every bone in your body says NO to, which is in and of itself pretty amazing, since it takes a lot of willpower to ignore TALKING SKELETONS trapped inside you. (Dear God, that is some nightmare fuel right there. Every second of every day filled with the just-barely-audible murmurs of the bones within you, robbing you of sleep and all coherent thought as you are tormented by their ceaseless cries.)

Sorry, I lost track of things for a second there. What was I talking about? Oh, that’s right… Trump and Clinton are the worst. Seriously, the worst. And yet you are probably about to vote for one of them because you think the other one is incrementally worse. I mean, I guess it’s possible that your vote is motivated by actual enthusiasm for your candidate’s platform and his or her brilliant ideas on how to carry our nation through the chaos of the 21st cent–

BWAH HA HA HA HA, sorry, I tried, but I can’t even say it with a straight face. Do you actually believe that Hillary Clinton or Donald Trump actually believe anything they have spewed from behind their rally podiums? (Podia?) Two craven charlatans who, on any single given issue, have 1) stated officially on the record at some point in the recent past that they are firmly on the other side of whichever view they most recently espoused, and 2) vehemently denied that they ever said the thing that we have actual footage of them saying. Two ancient frauds who have arguably failed at every worthwhile task they’ve ever put their hands to, and yet have somehow come out of every debacle richer and more successful. Not smelling like a rose, necessarily, because people still basically hate them, but neither of them is losing any sleep over it. As I put it way back at the beginning of the year:

I’m here to tell you, brothers and sisters… there is another way.

They will tell you there are only two choices in 2016. They are lying to you.

They will tell you that if you vote for anyone other than Clinton, you are voting for Trump. Or if you are voting for anyone other than Trump, you are voting for Clinton. Yeah, I can’t figure that logic out, either, but nobody said party hacks are paragons of logical thinking. Because that’s what those people are: hacks. They don’t have beliefs, they just have teams. They don’t care about the right person winning, or even a good person winning, or even a minimally decent human being winning… they just want someone from their team to win. It’s about victory for their tribe, and if you don’t want their tribe to emerge victorious, then you must–MUST–be supporting the enemy tribe.

Or, you could opt out of that game by choosing not to play. Because that war is not worth fighting. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m voting. I’m not a complete nihilist who would advocate not voting. But last I checked, there are other options on the ballot. Better options on the ballot. And most states have a blank where you can write in the name of someone you think is a better idea. I’m skipping over the Republican and completely ignoring the Democrat. Because I can. Because I don’t have to play the Lesser of Two Evils game when there are non-evil options on the board. And my vote will be a vote for that person, not a vote-by-proxy for the candidate you hate slightly more than your own. My non-major-party vote is not stealing a vote away from your favorite sociopathic senior citizen, because there are literally zero conceivable arguments that could convince me to cast a vote for either one of those vain, yell-happy fail-bags.

“Oh, you’re naïve,” you tell me. Well, here’s the thing: people have died to ensure that I can vote my conscience, that I can vote for the candidate of my choice and that it will count. “Yes, but the way the system works…” you say. The system works that way because you have accepted that it must work that way and that it can only work that way, but it doesn’t have to work that way. 

Maybe my single contrary vote won’t count much on its own, but in the aggregate, if enough people agree with me, our votes can be a kick in the pants to the flawed human beings we have entrusted with political power. The only reason you think we have only two choices is because the two choices keep telling you they’re the only two choices, and for some reason–despite their letting you down over and over again, and despite clear evidence to the contrary–you’re buying it.

And I’m the naïve one?

There is another way, and I’m taking it. Most people think I’m wasting my vote, but you know, it is possible for most people to be wrong. (Lincoln was elected with around around 40 percent of the vote, meaning that most people thought he was the wrong choice for America. That’s right, I’m invoking Lincoln, which means my arguments must be ROCK SOLID.)

There is another way, and I’m taking it. It may not be enough to sway those who are locked in the either/or mindset, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.

We’re in a bus. (Figuratively. Stay with me here. Trust me, I’m a bus expert.) And we find ourselves on a dead-end road that forks into one path that leads to a bridge that has collapsed over a river, and the other to the edge of a fairly deep canyon (it’s not grand, but it’s nothing to sneeze at). Half of the passengers fight passionately for the cliff option, as we might be able get up enough speed to jump it. Long shot, but who knows? And the other half insists that the bridge is the better option, as the water will cushion our fall and a handful of people might be able to swim to shore. Meanwhile, I’m pointing out that there’s a wide spot in the road right here, and we can turn this around right now, and y’know, guys, there was a turnoff back there that we drove right past, didn’t you guys see it? And one side insists that if I don’t choose the cliff it’s because I want everyone to drown, and the other side loudly proclaims that if I don’t choose the bridge I must want to be crushed on the jagged rocks at the bottom of the chasm. And the yelling gets louder and louder, and eventually no one will even acknowledge there’s a way out of this mess. So one side wins, and we all lose. And as we all plunge to our inevitable deaths, everyone points accusing fingers at me, and they scream, “This is on you.

And if you’re one of those arguing that my vote means what you say it means, then with all due respect (and I pray you take this in the spirit it’s intended):



Sorry, chumps, you don’t get to tell me what my vote means. You don’t get to make that call. You can’t tell me my vote is the reason he lost or she won or vicey-versey. Even if somehow it comes down to the electoral votes in one state! My state, say. Missouri. And Donald Trump literally loses Missouri by a single vote: my vote, because I voted for a third-party candidate. And so Hillary Clinton gets Missouri’s electoral votes, they put her over the top, and she is the President-Elect. Is her election my fault? NOPE. Because if I had voted for Trump, it would have been a tie, and where would that leave us? Possibly a cage match? (I’m unclear on the constitutional options.)

In any case, there is another way. And I’m taking it. Not gonna tell you which way you should take, but I’ll tell you this: that bus you’re on is going nowhere, and I got places to be. They’re not important places, because I’m not an important person. How important can I possibly be? I’m one of those third-party voters, and you know what they’re like. WEIRDOS. All fedoras and Renaissance Fairs and anime. All the time riding buses and telling people not to drive over cliffs and whatnot. WEIRDOS. Weirdos whose votes count just as much as yours. Weirdos who can count higher than two. Weirdos who can hear the Democrats and Republicans telling us it’s raining but who know for a fact that the warm moisture we’re feeling ain’t precipitation.

It’s not too late. Be one of us. Be a weirdo.


band jive

Brace yourselves, babies. I’m about to drop a big ol’ truth bomb on you here. I’m going to reveal something about my past that will stun you and could possibly even knock you off your feet, so to avoid liability issues I kindly ask you to take a seat. Buckle in, if said seat includes some kind of restraint mechanism (if you’re driving a car, for example, or riding a roller coaster, both of which are ideal environments for reading and/or enjoying my writing). Here goes.

I was a band geek.

I know, right?! Who would have ever thought that an approval-craving, socially awkward misfit would gravitate to the arts? Why wouldn’t a short, clumsy, rail-thin Star Trek fan be naturally drawn to, say, athletics?

Wait, why aren’t any of you acting surprised? Hmmph. All right, fine. I guess it’s not all that shocking. I mean, come on. I’m a dork. And don’t get me wrong here, I’m not saying that band-types are inherently dorks, but let’s be honest: if someone plopped you in the courtyard of an American high school and offered you a million dollars if you could produce a dork within five minutes, don’t try to tell me you wouldn’t make a beeline for the band room. Not passing judgement here, it’s just science.

So, yeah. I was a nerdy outcast back in my schoolin’ days, and for whatever reason I found a home of sorts with a bunch of other nerdy outcasts who thought making music was kind of cool and who were fine with being considered decidedly uncool. And because it was not enough for me to be considered weird just by the very fact of my membership in the band organization, I decided to take it one dorky step further by playing the clarinet. Because why wouldn’t I. Of course, it’s not like I had a burning passion for the mellifluous tones of the clarinet. My bedroom was not plastered with Benny Goodman and Pete Fountain posters (not only because there was no such thing, but also because it was not 1943). I made that decision the way I make all my decisions: I put it off until I was forced to clumsily stumble into a corner where only one decision was possible. So basically, I played the clarinet because I knew a guy who had one I could use. If I had to do it all over again, I probably would have played drums, partly because I have a surprisingly solid sense of rhythm but mostly because I really enjoy hitting things that can’t hit back. But no, I had to choose a musical instrument that may as well have come with a magical cloak that made me invisible to girls. A dude carrying a clarinet in high school is like a dude walking into a speed dating session with a printed-out herpes diagnosis and a badge that says “NOT YOUR TYPE.”

That’s not to say that I didn’t enjoy it. If I didn’t enjoy it, I wouldn’t have stuck with it all through junior high school (this is what we called “middle school” back in Ye Olde Dayyes) and high school and all through college. I had fun in band. I did! And I was actually not too shabby at it. I was good enough to make All-Region every year and even All-State my senior year (though I suspect that says more about the shallow depth of the Arkansas clarinet pool than it says about my raw talent). And I had enough musical proficiency that I was allowed to also play saxa-ma-phone and even a little bass drum here and there when the need arose. (And if you ever need an image to pull you out of a depressive episode with its sheer comic ridiculousness, just picture a scrawny dwarf like me carrying around a bass drum.) That was in the pre-college years, anyway… in my college years, when I was competing for placement with people who actually cared about practicing and whatnot, I almost always hovered near last chair. Humiliating, yes, but better than I probably deserved.

In the only example of a more-or-less positive influence I have had on their lives, both The Boy and The Girl have gravitated to the band world in their adolescence. The Boy, in fact, is in the Pride Band at Missouri State… the selfsame marching band where I spent four years taking up space on the field. That’s what woodwinds do in marching band, you know. You can’t hear them on the field (and who would want to? ugh). Woodwinds are there just to fill in the holes between drum and brass formations. Seen and not heard! As it should be! As a baritone/euphonium player, The Boy need not worry about sad irrelevance on the marching field. You can hear him! Of course, that puts a little added pressure on him, as you have to both look and sound good out there amongst them yard lines and hash marks. The woodwinds only had to look good, which they generally did, despite my rank marching incompetence.

And oh, such incompetence! The stories I could tell you about the myriad ways I managed to trip over my own feet and step one way when I was supposed to step another and look the fool in front of literally dozens of hundreds of spectators. And those stories shall be told, in next week’s very special installment of my ongoing “that’s what dumb do” series.

Disappointed? Of course you are. Now you know how my band directors felt.


“that’s what dumb do: the time(s) I looked the fool in marching band”

(or some such title, kind of up in the air right now … eh, I guess that one is good enough, not going for a Pulitzer here)

lyrics are for chumps

I am typing these letters on a PC keyboard, forming those letters into discrete units of meaning called “words.” These words can then be combined with other words to form more-or-less coherent thoughts called “sentences.” I say “more-or-less” because keep in mind, I’m writing them. So your mileage may vary. Anyway, I was trying to make a point about something, but I kind of got sidetracked there for a second. Apparently, talking about communication just makes communication more confusing. All the words get in the way!

Words are a problem. Never been a fan! That’s why, even as I write this, I am listening to some soothingly word-free electronic music (by a German fellow named Ulrich Schnauss, if you’re interested). I have enough trouble getting my thoughts out already. I don’t need my tiny, fragile mind distracted by extraneous words flying around when I am trying to get my own words out. You know when you’re trying to drop a deuce in a public restroom and you’re straining so hard, and someone keeps banging on the door, and you’re trying to squeeze but all you can hear is their incessant knocking, and you just want them to go away so you can pinch one off in peace? That’s exactly what my writing process is like. (With identical results.)

But it’s not just when I’m writing, or reading. Music with words is music to be avoided. For the most part, anyway. I’ll cop to occasionally playing some lyrics-laden Pandora station when we’re having people over, or I’m in the car with other people, or… I don’t know, random situations where other people are involved. Because other people seem to like words in their music, or at least they seem to when they’re around me. It beats talking to me, anyway, and maybe singing along helps them take their minds off the creep factor I inevitably bring to any circumstance. Point is, yes, I acknowledge the existence of music with words, and at various times in the past have even dipped my toe into the strange and unseemly world of Songs Featuring Words Vocalized by a Person or Possibly Groups of People. (Of my brief and misguided jaunt into the world of Christian Heavy Metal Fandom… I… I just… Look, guys, you’re allowed a few bad decisions when you’re young, okay? Unless a photo surfaces of me in a sleeveless Stryper shirt, let’s just pretend I never brought it up.)

But for the most part, for whatever reason, my musical tastes have almost always leaned toward the instrumental. Or nothing! I mean, I’m pretty sure I didn’t even own a single piece of music until I was probably in my early teens. I had nothing against music, and it wasn’t like I lived among the Amish. My parents listened to the radio and played LPs and cassettes and maybe even wax cylinders for all I know, but none of it made much of an impact on me, and I never took the initiative to play any of it on my own. As far as I can figure, what ignited my love for weird nerd music was my love for weird nerd movies: Star Wars, and Star Trek, and E.T., and all the amazing geeky movies we had to choose from in the 1980s. Indiana Jones! Explorers! The Goonies! Back to the Future! An embarrassment of riches, it was! And this was in the days when VCRs didn’t exist (or if they did, they cost as much as a late-model used car), and so the only way to recapture the feeling I got from watching those flicks was reading their cheap paperback novelizations and listening to their Original Motion Picture Soundtracks.

I can’t remember the first soundtrack I purchased. It might have been a cheap compilation tape featuring themes from a bunch of science fiction flicks, or it may well have been the soundtrack to David Lynch’s Dune (which featured music by Toto–yes, the “Rosanna” and “Africa” Toto–as well as an ethereal piece by Brian Eno, presaging the kind of stuff I would end up listening to as a balding near-pensioner). Whatever it was, movie music got its hooks into me, and it became my thing. Before long any bit of extra pocket money was spent on it. I was constantly haranguing my parents or my older sister to drive me into Little Rock to get my orchestral fix: to Camelot Music at the University Mall, or to Discount Records across from UALR, or even to Peaches Records in North Little Rock if I could convince my parents to drive me all that way. I mean, it meant crossing the Arkansas River through downtown just to pick up an overpriced cassette that was available nowhere else (because no one else cared), but after that long journey I could listen to the end credits theme to 2010: The Year We Make Contact over and over again, as much as I wanted!

Owning this in the 80s was tantamount to having UNDATEABLE tattooed across your forehead.
Owning this in the 80s was tantamount to having UNDATEABLE tattooed across your forehead.

And yes, it also meant that everybody thought I was weird. But they already thought that! What did I have to lose? Movie music became the soundtrack to my life. I loved the theme from E.T. so much that I made a cassette of just that piece, over and over, so I wouldn’t have to keep rewinding it to hear it again. I am not joking when I tell you that I listened to “The Conversation” from Close Encounters of the Third Kind before I went to sleep every night. … Okay, I will admit that was pretty weird. So maybe I’ll grant you that one. But it also meant that people just assumed that if the music didn’t have words, then I was all over it. I actually remember a friend of my sister asking me if I listened to KEZQ, a local radio station dedicated to what was essentially elevator music. That’s like assuming Metallica fans must also love the Starland Vocal Band because they both sing with their mouths. Don’t be dense, people. I may be a socially maladjusted obsessive, but I do have taste.

And that taste has… well, I don’t want to say matured, because the only parts of me that has matured is my hairline. Let’s say my musical preferences have become less selective? From movie soundtracks, I slowly graduated to classical music. I mean, it’s basically movie music for movies that don’t exist, right? And then to jazz, and then to my current mild infatuation with ambient and other branches of electronica.

Of course, saying I graduated kind of implies that I left the other genres behind, but I didn’t. I still listen to all that stuff! I actually wake up every morning to movie music: Michael Giacchino’s end credits theme from the 2009 Star Trek reboot. No words in that bad boy! I’m a writer, for Kirk’s sake… I deal with words all day. The last thing I want to hear first thing in the morning is a reminder that they exist.

So, long story short (too late!) that’s why I don’t like words. And after all the time you just spent reading mine, you’re probably not a big fan of them, either.

silver man-iversary

In the fall of 1991, 25 long years ago, at the beginning of my junior year at what is now Missouri State University, I moved into this architectural masterpiece.

Nothing like watching the sunrise of the puke-stained lawn of the Delta Chi house next door.
There was nothing like watching the sunrise over the puke-spattered lawn of the Delta Chi house next door.

Dogwood Apartments. It may not have been the worst place I have ever lived–that honor belongs to the cramped and decrepit apartment where The Wife and I spent a hellish year amongst the cornfields of eastern Illinois. (That’s a whole ‘nother story.) But calling Dogwood a dump would be an insult to the landfill industry, and that was before a bunch of tasteless, slovenly college students spent a year having their way with it.

Of course, I didn’t have to live in Dogwood House. In a testament to the university’s remarkably poor judgment, I was on a full-ride scholarship (hey, how’s that bet paying off, MSU?), and I could have resided in the nicest, newest residence halls on campus. Like a king, I could have lived! But I willingly surrendered my slightly upscale dorm throne so that I could be roommates with a fella named Tom.

It began the way all good things begin in this world: with a Star Trek novel. Sometime during the ’90-’91 school year (details are, like my aging vision, hazy), a guy named Tom asked if he could borrow my notes from Dr. Victor Matthews’ religious studies class. Now I kind of knew Tom; we both frequented the same campus ministry, and we occasionally had lunch with the same large group of ne’er-do-wells, but it was basically your standard casual acquaintance deal. I knew he was from St. Louis, and that’s about it. But the afternoon he walked into my dorm room in search of scribbled, ill-informed notes about the history of the Old Testament, he saw on my desk a small stack of paperback Star Trek novels, and in that sad pile of abject nerdery, he saw a kindred spirit. A geeky, outcast, misfit, kindred spirit.

And so we talked about Star Trek. And we started watching Star Trek (the way God intended, on a blurry 19-inch black-and-white TV). And then we were watching Cheers and Night Court, and eating at Taco Bell, and going to movies, and jointly wallowing in the misery of dateless Friday nights, and deciding to be roommates in smelly, pestilent on-campus apartments. (See this post for a slightly more detailed and much more gorge-inducing explication of just how smelly and pestilent I’m talking.) I don’t have time or space in this post to tell all the stories that came out of that stinky year–for example, the time I accidentally deleted one of Tom’s papers the morning it was due, or the weekend Tom spent patiently babysitting my visiting-from-out-of-town girlfriend, or our short stint as accidental radio stars. I’ll have to leave those to another post.

But suffice it to say that even after a year of living in filth in each other’s company, we had developed a taste for independent living, and thus we made a decision that must have set off boisterous parental celebrations from St. Louis to Little Rock: we weren’t coming home for the summer. We were staying in Springfield, getting summer jobs, and securing for ourselves a magnificent local apartment.

Where Fun Goes to DieTM
Where Fun Went to Die™

“Price and Tom’s Disco Inferno,” we called it for no good reason I can remember, and compared to the squalid conditions of Dogwood, it may as well have been a palace. Our astonishingly low rent included water and electric, so we were free to take 45-minute showers and run the AC so cold we didn’t need ice in our drinks. Of course, the pad had its downsides: a tiny kitchen with about nine square inches of counter space, Nixon-era carpet and linoleum, and a pink bathroom that was as garish and outmoded as a Gabor sister. For the first month we lived there, our only furnishings consisted of two mattresses, a beanbag chair, a milk crate, and a television. But what else did we need? It was right across the street from campus, it was close to our crappy summer jobs, we could come and go as we pleased. It was the place to be! For some reason, despite my presence, people would just show up and hang out there, sometimes even staying if we had to leave.

Yes, we were still young, dumb, single male college students whose idea of cleaning was moving soiled laundry from the floor to the bed. Seriously, one time when our tub drain backed up, we waited a solid week to tell the building manager, during which time we just took showers while standing in calf-deep filthwater. But it was our place. It was home, and it was awesome. But unlike the dank aroma I leave behind after exiting a room, it could not last forever.

In due time, through the prodigious use of misdirection and straight-up lying, I somehow convinced an actual, alive lady to not only contractually bind herself to me for life, but also to allow for occasional PG-13 adult situations. The upshot of which was: the Official Price and Tom Cohabitation Agreement was thereby sundered. I had to move out, is what I’m saying. He was the best man at our wedding (and I mean that: he was literally the best man there), sure, but Tom was my roommate… no more!

Both Dogwood and the Disco Inferno are long gone: the parking lot adjacent to the Dogwood is now ever-so-slightly larger. (They say on some nights, when the moon is full and the wind is quiet, you can still smell the stink it left behind.) And I’m sorry to say the Disco Inferno was razed to build a much fancier apartment complex. I fear for the sanity of its residents; I imagine it’s the college-town equivalent of building over an ancient Indian burial ground, except instead of vengeful spirits you just get super-gassy and the TV keeps mysteriously changing the channel to Married with Children reruns.

But Tom is still firmly entrenched in the life of the Horn family. A good thing, too, because the kids really need a decent adult male in their lives to offset the influence of their father. Tom was there the day The Boy was born… one of the first people to hold The Boy after my firstborn had been squeezed, screaming, from The Wife’s nethers. Same for The Girl… neither she nor her brother have ever known a life without Tom around. He’s the guy you never doubt, the first guy you call when it hits the fan, the guy who gives rides when cars are in the shop, the one non-family-member you put on your emergency notification form. That guy. Every family needs one. Tom is ours.

A few weeks ago, The Wife and I loaded up the minivan and drove The Boy a few hours south so he could start his freshman year at the educational institution that chewed me up and spit me out and kept me coming back for more: Missouri State University. And as luck would have it, he’s living in small dorm that’s essentially right across the street from the former site of the late but unlamented Dogwood Apartments. He’s jumping feet-first into adulthood, building another story onto his life with tools he’s just learning to use. He’s turning from The Boy into A Man… making memories, and making friends. If he’s lucky, he’ll leave college with a best friend half as good as the one I got when I was in school there.

The Boy doesn’t have a brother, but I hope he finds a Tom.

can’t be bothered: a poem

I remember days from long ago
A time when I still cared
A time when hope was still alive
My pate abundantly haired

I was young back then, thick of head, strong of will
Ready to take on the world
Fate sized me up, it turned right around,
Grabbed onto a toilet, and hurled

Rich? Famous? Important? Smart?
Powerful? Handsome? Fly?
Don’t know who those words are talking about
No way they’re describing this guy

Let’s go with shrill, reclusive, paranoid, short
Wretched, depressive, and glum
Hair-trigger temper, gassy, morose
And I have a lame scar on my thumb

Lest you think I’m getting too down on myself
Take heart! I do have my skills
For example, I happen to be very good
At running real fast (down steep hills)

What was I saying? I guess I lost track
It happens when you get to my age
Par for the course! I’m a broken-down gnome
These achy old bones are my cage

My dream was to write and earn erudite praise
Approval: I desperately need it
I guess the best I can do now is blog
For people who won’t even read it

Dreams die hard, they squeal and they moan
Go gentle? Not in this life
I gripe and complain on Facebook and Twitter
Eh, mostly I pester my wife

For who else would listen? Who else would mind?
Who else should even be troubled?
It’s not your concern that my life is a wreck
And that my chin is so grayly stubbled

And yes, if you ask, “grayly” is a real word
I know ’cause I majored in English
It’s that kind of training that helps me unearth
Dubious rhymes like “distinguish”

But here’s the thing: the whole world’s a mess
(We’re choosing ‘twixt Clinton and Trump!)
The mornings are dank, the days all a-stink
Like existence is taking a dump

I’d say it gets better, but I won’t lie in verse
Each age has its own irritations
Sweet dang, is this is as good as it gets?
Just a series of Price-made frustrations?

So I’ll live out my days as a shrine to regret
Life’s joys I’ll crush and I’ll trample
‘Cause life’s not the problem: the problem is me
Please learn from my loathsome example

I’ll wrap up this thing with a shameful “I’m sorry”
To my wife, and the children I fathered
Want an apology for the time you just wasted?
Look elsewhere… I just can’t be bothered