I have this habit of advertising

but I don’t consider myself to be a salesman

When somebody asks me what I do—what I’m about

I tell them…

“I have a blog.”

And invariably, they ask me, “What’s it called?”

And I ponder, and hesitate, and change the subject

and they ask me again

and I tell them

because I’m a very agreeable fellow

even though, I know, once they find-out what I’ve written

they will be calling for my head

and it’s not for my creative genius, above my shoulders

it’s the cutting off, of something disgusting

and they will feel better, afterwards

like when pulling-out a particularly invasive weed

or cutting-off the head of a poisonous snake

It feels good

to kill something bad

like trimming your toenails

or blowing-out your snot

or taking a dump

or picking your nose

or removing the trash

Nobody talks about it, because it’s not polite

but secretly, we all wish there are things that would die

Maybe, we will read the newspaper, and see them, in the obituary columns

or get the bad news on the telephone

like when Uncle Albert passed away (He always gave me socks for Christmas)

I know what you’re thinking… I’m an ungrateful wretch!

But they were his used socked, with holes in them

and he had fungus for 35 years.

What does that say to a child, when he unwraps them, year after year?

They stank!

Needless to say, he didn’t have any kids of his own

that son-of-a-bitch

but who am I to judge?

I’m a writer—

that’s what writers do.

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