I woke up this morning to an empty house, all boxed up! Woke up this morning, woke up this morning, woke up this morning, and wanted to be the chosen one, I just cant help my self…
Woke up this morning…
Anyhow…I am driving to work this fine sunny morning, windows down, music CRANKED, being my jersey boy self - vibrating from caffeine induced shakes, wondering if indeed I have what it takes to be a gangster and thinking that the results are kind of obvious. If I kept myself from getting laid, didn’t eat, and waited for me to crash from all this legal speed I’d kill my own mother is she got in my way and some how I could get rid of the body before the morning. Then it occurred to me I was having a somewhat psychotic episode induced by television! FUCK YEAH! I am part of my useless generation. Oh thank god I thought I was special.
BANG some bleached blonde bitch is yelling at my from the drivers seat of a HUGE purple BMW and I look at her kind of stunned thinking one of the most powerful parts of being a gangster is knowing you have the power but never using it until you HAVE to. Judicious use of power, I think - if I had a gun AND (this is VERY important!) could get away with shooting the bleached blonde ***** in the middle of interstate 95, I would. I would. Psychotic. Fuck. I fail. This isn’t judicious use of power, not at all! So I roll down my window asked her, smiling, what it your problem? It seems that I have cut her off. I am not sure how, but I really don’t care. I guess in the wisdom of the CRACK addicted civil engineers who have designed the roads in NJ the off ramp and the on ramp for this exit cross each other! Now imagine this scene, please, you have a bleach blonde ***** in a purple 7xx BMW merging into each other at about 65 mph. She is SCREAMING FOR MY TO MOVE and honking profusely. I turn the music up and gun it - knowing she isn’t paying attention. She hit a truck, a truck full of shit - Mr. John full service portable toilet needs. BANG bye bye BMW. I exit. Music blasting. No gun. Retribution was handed down with you any help from Nathan.
On the list of characteristics needed? Suck I don’t like American cars and I don’t dress well, I have far too few vowels in my name, and fuck it all if I haven’t heard it before that I am part of the chosen people. Maybe I am the chosen one? I don’t need a gun. Don’t need one!
I walk into the elevator and there is the CEO. He says hello pretending like these people do to know who I am, and the thoughts come back, the reemerge. What does a gangster do for a job? The IRS must wonder what your trade is.
Your papa never told you about right and wrong…woke up this morning, had a blue moon in my eyes
*shiver* the caffeine kicks back in and I think. I wonder if he jerks off in that expensive car he drives? I know I would. Who wouldn’t? You think those middle aged rich fucks who drive Ferrari’s never think about what it would feel like to be going 200 mph down the parkway and beating a hard on into submission? Yeah psychotic. Psychosis and sex what a combo, it always seems to come out.
The elevator closes and opens in my office. I sit down at my desk, looking over NJ, and think, these people will never know how fucking strange I really am. No idea. Ever. And if I told them they would not believe me.
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