Repossession Dogs

In a world going to the dogs, you can’t be surprised when someone howls in pain. If we all decided to get along, work together, then maybe we could fix things—

But no one wants that, right? People like to have something to complain about: The rain. A broken tooth. A job that wears you down. The long line at Arbys. Me? I’m trying to have some success as a writer and that can leave you as frustrated as a man wearing sandpaper underwear. Maybe this world is going to the dogs, but maybe even the dogs don’t want it.

When the news attacks your enemy you believe it. When it attacks the enemy of your enemy you call it fake, an illusion created by the elites. Well, who ever said the elites were out to get you? All they want from you is your money, not your soul….and maybe your soul has been repossessed anyway. Such a thing has happened, not to me but maybe to you. You walk into a room and flick on the light switch but there is no illumination. Your soul has been repossessed. Instead of spending all your money on Arbys and hard candy that cracks your molars and umbrellas that don’t work you gotta make sure your soul is taken care of—

And get a dog; they’ll always bark when the repossessor comes.

Even the president of the United States sometimes must have to stand naked; I learned that in a cartoon. But the artists will draw what you want, the only thing they can’t draw is water from a dry well. There’s a drought on.  No one wants to kiss you when your lips are chapped, there’s nothing to do but watch dogs and wonder what they’re thinking. They’re probably wondering why they have to always walk on cement, why you watch when they do their business but if they bust into the bathroom it’s “Bad dog!”

Makes a dog not want to bark when the repossessor comes.

I had a dream about a man in small wagon drawn by a single horse. You could see the horses ribs and it kept nodding as it pulled the wagon, nodding as if accepting its fate. The man driving the wagon was wearing a blue suit, red tie. Rolling up dirt roads, stopping in towns to sell his patent medicine. It was just alcohol and some roots and ditch water, but he promised it'd cure everything. Half the people in the towns pulled faces and shook their heads at the salesman’s pitch. Half stepped forward with eager expressions and then turned on the doubters. The believers threw down their coins and drank the patent medicine. Some of them had a bitter taste in their mouth but didn’t want to look foolish so they claimed it tasted like the sweetest wine. Some, well, their bowels grew furious at the patent medicine, raged and hollered—and when those people stumbled from the outhouse they claimed they’d been meaning to lose weight—

Someone of them turned a cartwheel after drinking the medicine. Oh, they broke their arm in the process but they played it off: “See, this wonderful medicine made it so I could turn a cartwheel.”

And the believers carried on with their bitter mouths, furious bowels, and broken arms, claiming they were the best things that could happen to a body.

And the man with the wagon draw by the single horse smiled a very thin, very private smile, and drove on.

The moral of this story is that morals are irrelevent. These days, they could have a photograph of you making sweet love to a platypus but photographs can be faked—

Or so you would claim as you pulled your pants up.

Ah, photographs can be faked but don’t forget to buy off the witnesses in the zoo, especially the kids with red balloons. Money fixes every problem, can make it look like the platypus comitted suicide in jail. In the end, people want to be sold a lie because digging for the truth is too much work and due to the tariffs shovels are fucking expensive. We live in a time of inflexibility, when people are incapable of changing their minds, what they believe.

Hell, if you believe Arbys is good for you maybe you can trick yourself but the dog will bark to let you know that you are being foolish...