When the shit hits the fan

there is one man

I can count on—although, I haven’t introduced myself to him.

He lives in my apartment complex, with his wife, and teenage son.

Why do I believe in him—when we haven’t talked?

Or, that’s not quite right…

One day I was walking to my truck, and he noticed me

“How’s it goin, budd?” He asked.

“It’s going great!” I said.

He goes down to the corner, to smoke his cigarettes

and his wife joins him—they smoke together

They walk back from the street.

He has a bald head, with some short blonde hairs, growing on top (think… Viking—you wouldn’t be far off)

And he has a blonde beard, that flows down to his waist

I know my description of him could be making you (the reader) creeped out, but

there aren’t many people I watch with much interest—he stands out, like an island, above the sea of humanity.

If China invades, I’m going to knock on his door.

“Remember me? You called me budd. What was it…? 6 months ago?”

He’ll understand. The man is a mountain. He works a blue-collar job—probably, welder.

The Mormon missionaries try to witness to him, while he walks his rottweiler. They wear their white shirts and smile at him on their bicycles. He keeps to himself. The guy knows how to be a man.

I was checking my blog, late at night, in the manager’s office. He walked to his mailbox with his wife, and I overheard their conversation.

“I don’t like living here, anymore!” She complained.

He didn’t say anything.

“I want to move.”

He didn’t say anything.

His wife is a sexy woman. She’s totally submissive to him, because he, is more of a man, than the President. Most males feel inadequate, so they have to gain something, like a political position or a sports car, but they still feel inadequate.

This man, drives a common sedan. He looks out of place, like a roman centurion, in a time machine.

Oh well—the man has everything.