I'm not sure how to clasify this, so I'm just calling it "epic strangeness." It was written for a man that tried to get me in a lot of trouble, and this was my revenge fantasy.
Watch your back; it'll happen when you least expect it.
You can sit up until your eyes are grainy
And you bladder's ready to burst,
But one time you'll blink, and that's when the Drug Mobile will strike.
Off it goes with the TV, the safe, the clothes off of your back,
The cat, the nipple-ring your wife got you for Christmas, everything.
Yes, even the kitchen sink.
You see a puff of exhaust waft out of the fireplace.
You foolishly stick your head into the chimney
And see the flash of a tail-light.
You just have time to read the signature bumber-sticker:
"I support PYRO-NECRO-BEASTIALITY"
before it backfires in your face.
You shake your fist in the air and swear revenge on this dastardly vehicle.
Foolish mortal.
You stumble into the street like a crack addict
After a "Telle-Tubbies" marathon,
Screaming for someone to stop the evil Subaru.
You scream yourself hoarse, and blackout.
When you come to, you're in a different part of town.
You smell like Blackberry Brandy,
And you've been taped to a phone pole.
A kind yet nervous passerby cuts the duct tape
And throws a rag at your feet.
They bolt from you like a startled antelope.
You look at your reflection in the hubcap
Of a soiled Micro-bus;
Your head's been shaved and your clothes are on backwards.
You see that you've been marked for further torment:
A pink polka-dot spray-painted on your head,
And an Ace of spades glued to your chin.
It's just too much. You're done in. No more.
You don't make the rules.
As you head home, defeated, dejected,
And utterly humiliated, you feel the atmosphere change.
You sniff the air like a nervous badger.
You can see nothing, yet you sence something.
Cautiously, you continue on your way.
And then, from behind a dumpster,
The final attack begins.
The headlights flash on; you're caught like Bambi with nowhere to go.
The engine revs. The tires squeal.
The mighty Subaru stops inches form your petrified person.
You thought it could get no worse when the doors open.
The rulers of the Drug Mobile are getting out!
Two figures step in front of you.
They're dressed in black,with trenchcoats and wild crazy hair.
You can see the super-caffinated look in thier eyes>
Your strength runs out and you collapse onto the pavement.
You try to escape into your mind.
They're already there.
They begin taunting you,
Slapping you with a limp tuna and tweaking your nose.
Your ankles and wrists are bound with under-cooked sphagehetti
And you hear the tattoo gun start up.
It's thier final calling-card; the dreaded tattoo across the forehead:
"I blow goats for beer money"
When, oh when, will this nightmare ever end?
You awaken later, sore of mind and body.
A wandering raccoon gnaws away the spaghetti,
And giggles when it sees your forehead.
Shaken, feeling stirred, you start for home again.
You walk in, and head upstairs to take a shower.
There, waiting for you, is your sanities final undoing,
The last partin shot of the dastardly duo.
There, standing in the shower, in your wife's naughtiest lingerie,
Is a large muskrat, holding a bottle of Dawn and a Brillo pad,
Dancing and whistling the macarena.
Ah, the sweet taste of revenge
So? I'm wierd. And he deserved it. And there's no proof.