O furious angel -- guardian of souped-up Escort GTs, "Pissing Calvin" bumper stickers, Oakley blades and other sweet shades, garage weight benches, nickel bags of medicinal shit, silver-skinned aliens, favorite black Ts with the arms cut off, gravel-voiced drivetime DJs and their "Get the Led Out" twofers of Zeppelin, Skoal blisters, leather bikini tops, distorted ten-inch speakers from open car doors, spite for bosses, "What the fuck you looking at, bitch?," engine rebuilds, regrettable thorny armband tattoos, Thursday morning nicotine hangovers, lasers, brutal Xbox maneuvers, lamp-warm gas-station breakfast foods, tough-built walkie-talkie cell-phone belt clips, axioms comparing tastes in ladies to coffee, read-'em-and-weep Texas Hold 'Em, "Everything but country and rap," Snap-Onr tools and the ladies in their calendars, Robot Wars reruns, things maybe even better than Hendrix -- open your mouth and sing; let the heavens reverberate with the colossal sound of your vengeance.
Seven Days - January 19, 2:58 PM
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