Title: How I met your mutant Mother
We met in an infected zone,
One of the nice ones with empty malls,
Lots of food
And zero cannibals,
I’d push her around in a shopping cart
While she whistled pre-apocalyptic melodies,
It was a blast,
Then the fog rolled in,
we grew extra limbs,
and even then,
I hugged her tightly,
the army made us leave,
we were in direct violation
of human physiology
now, in quarantine,
We think about it,
Holding multiple hands
As the radiation meter plays a tune,
We think about it,
our special little place,
Title: The ECW
2:30 on a Saturday afternoon- nerds - the guys that posed no threat to a group of HS boys. no tailgating, just hanging, knowing where to sit, darting to the “correct” seats, the tv ones, close enough to have Sandman pour a beer down their throat. Winter Frost with his homemade championship belt, drinking Arbor Mist, acting tough, another autograph collector, members of the toy division holding Sabu figurines, we took turns sitting on a cooler full of soda, the rest of the group played whiffleball in an abandoned industrial park. We picked syringes like dandelions.
5 p.m. – drunks who have been drinking since noon, fans of Philadelphia sports, all and any, good to the last drop, rowdy but gentlemen-like with respect to line cutting, in an hour someone will be throwing up hot dogs, we stare at a 20 year old boy down a bottle of Jack Daniels, fall head first into a parked car, his cigarette exploded with sparks and a dent appeared in the shape of his skull, the paramedics cushioned him, speaking to each other over the growing chant of the crowd “WHERE’S YOUR MOM, WHERE’S YOUR MOM”, she showed up in time to see them stretcher his body into the ambulance, not dead just dead drunk, she stood there trying to remember his fourth grade birthday outfit, an image lost in a sea of despotic wrestling addicts and misfits.
7 pm – doors and stranglers, running to the bleacher seats, ringside to the right of the entrance, we called them TV seats, where their bloody foreheads sparkle in the bingo hall lighting, where the dirtiest chants start from, my friend Matt stood and like a Southern preacher, compared Mike Awesome’s face to the female menstrual cycle, we were so proud, as the crowd cheered, the only reward for crude behavior
We met in an infected zone,
One of the nice ones with empty malls,
Lots of food
And zero cannibals,
I’d push her around in a shopping cart
While she whistled pre-apocalyptic melodies,
It was a blast,
Then the fog rolled in,
we grew extra limbs,
and even then,
I hugged her tightly,
the army made us leave,
we were in direct violation
of human physiology
now, in quarantine,
We think about it,
Holding multiple hands
As the radiation meter plays a tune,
We think about it,
our special little place,
Title: The ECW
2:30 on a Saturday afternoon- nerds - the guys that posed no threat to a group of HS boys. no tailgating, just hanging, knowing where to sit, darting to the “correct” seats, the tv ones, close enough to have Sandman pour a beer down their throat. Winter Frost with his homemade championship belt, drinking Arbor Mist, acting tough, another autograph collector, members of the toy division holding Sabu figurines, we took turns sitting on a cooler full of soda, the rest of the group played whiffleball in an abandoned industrial park. We picked syringes like dandelions.
5 p.m. – drunks who have been drinking since noon, fans of Philadelphia sports, all and any, good to the last drop, rowdy but gentlemen-like with respect to line cutting, in an hour someone will be throwing up hot dogs, we stare at a 20 year old boy down a bottle of Jack Daniels, fall head first into a parked car, his cigarette exploded with sparks and a dent appeared in the shape of his skull, the paramedics cushioned him, speaking to each other over the growing chant of the crowd “WHERE’S YOUR MOM, WHERE’S YOUR MOM”, she showed up in time to see them stretcher his body into the ambulance, not dead just dead drunk, she stood there trying to remember his fourth grade birthday outfit, an image lost in a sea of despotic wrestling addicts and misfits.
7 pm – doors and stranglers, running to the bleacher seats, ringside to the right of the entrance, we called them TV seats, where their bloody foreheads sparkle in the bingo hall lighting, where the dirtiest chants start from, my friend Matt stood and like a Southern preacher, compared Mike Awesome’s face to the female menstrual cycle, we were so proud, as the crowd cheered, the only reward for crude behavior
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