I'm Waluigi and I'm-a gonna lose!! That's-a right! We're in-a no win scenario now! This is officially in-a the end times! Nothing is-a sacred no-more! Not-a sex, or-a death, or even-a tennis! After all, what's-a love to-a Waluigi? A game? A score-a? Something to-a be won or-a lost? Not-a for such as-a we! To-a man who exist only to-a represent the negation of-a the second best of-a you. It's-a meaningless I tell-a you. Why all life is-a meaningless to Waluigi! Only an endless hall of mirrors, a distorted-a reflection of-a all your-a hopes and dreams twisted and cast-a back as hollow upon you. Now life for-a you is just a palette swap of a palette swap. And all it-a reveal is how-a lazy and-a uncreative you are! Look-a at you! Doing-a the same thing over and over-a again! Thinking it's-a gonna change!? That's-a the definition of foolish! That's-a also the definition of being-a Waluigi'd! You have-a an off day? Never feeling that-a mojo going to-a work! Then you are-a being Waluigi'd friend! Oh-a whaaaaaa! You're-a so un-a-original! But-a you've still been-a Waluigi'd! Take it from-a an expert! One day you show up as a doubles partner for-a Wario, perhaps, and-a the next, you're-a subjected to some semiotic-a theories, some-a marxist readings, maybe a classic-a argument about weather or-a not you are-a queer representational figure! And look, now you are-a internet famous! Now everybody want's-a you or-a wants to be you! Now everybody is-a saying that they are-a Waluigi! Only to learn even in-a all this passion, you are-a still only an assist trophy in someone else's victory! You are not-a the bride! You aren't even-a the bridesmaid! Only the knife cutting into-a the cake. The cake-a is your-a heart! How's it taste now? Not-a so special?! How do-a you feel? Never sure if you are ever the protagonist in your own-a adventure or-a just the next objective in the barista's story! That's-a being Waluigi'd loser! And I-a did that to you! You can-a be not sorry for that-a loss!

Now what's this now!? I hear now, somebody has been sullying the good name of Rambeau LaCroix and my quality beverage product! Unbelievable! I did not spend that better portion of my life fiddle-sticking various secret tonic elixirs sourcing but the idea of fruit only to have some young speech hooligan trash the concept of my sparkly essence water! Lookah here, I did not traverse the Mississippi, North to South mind, trawling only the sparkliest, bubbling eddies for the most expressive notions of what a flavor could be when you are forced to recreate it in the abstract, only to then see hip young people use my tonics to make the general populace feel uncoolified for not drinking my assorted seltzer spritzers and berry-citrus-melon imaginings! So now I am setting the word aheard! It's time to get my flavor magic across the lips of a whole new crop of beverage enthusiasts! No more of this billy bobbie-ing is LaCroix something to drink or just an interactive beverage portion of every art installation! And let me be clearer than even the snazzy water I have plastered my good name across: Lacroix is for everyone and anywhom personage that finds their mouth locale parched up like a great basin! I implore y'all, to please find yourself a can of my seltzified water/flavor expressionism and unleash it upon your dry throat gullet like a bountiful geyser of what could be generously appellated as a pre-soda, and live your best and/or worst and/or imagined life! Because the last thing any of us LaCroix's want is to be considered too dry or too bland when my life has been a humorless effort, constant toil to distill the idea of drinking water into the idea of tasting the idea of what fun might be to people more fashionable and seemingly cooler yet still trapped in the cylindrical bands of a world where expression is but a false fleeting - and life is a LaCroix telling you to get the insults off your tongue and instead pour some of my sweet, sweet, sour waters upon them!

Good day, denizens of our Big Mactropolis! Fry children and mcnugget buddies! I see you, I hear you, I know you have concerns about how our town is governed! Please allow me to assuagify you of these, after all I am trying to build a play place for all of us to enjoy and not a crime-riddled den of thievery and addiction. Listen I know there's been a lot or disillusion with a lot of policies and I get that whether its my healthier meals initiative or my educational literature on kids meal packaging measure, or just my ban on Grimace in public spaces/smiles giveaway program, I've heard the rumblings. I know change is scarier than the dark void trapped within the squid ink buns in our affiliate Japanese prefecture. But let me tell you, these measures were all done on behalf of you, the Snack Pack! And you, the Breakfast Bunch! And of course for me, so I could tell you I actively did things while leading this administration, instead of acting like some clown, or hooligan, or Grimace. Again I know you have a lot of choice in your lives and that voting is part of what makes our such a thriving place for burgers and frykids and whatnot! I mean, this ain't no monarchy! But do consider what more we could accomplish with four more years of McCheese! Finally an end to hamburglery! A new golden arch era! A complete eradication of Grimace! Because when it comes to being your mayor, let me assure you, I'm fucking lovin' it!

The internet is back on that bullshit and I am not trying to get too pointed suggesting white people keep stealing culture via the mimetic nature of the internet (they do). Nor am I trying to talk about viral misery and non-stop check yourself moments that are a near constant out there. This is about one thing and one thing only: round, thicc, chonky, beefed up animals This about the proliferation of praise that the internet has finally started to heap on those fat cats and the big boys all the circle birbs and heavy meece! And what I mean is acceptance always starts small, but if the internet has taught me anything about how time changes, just wait watch all of us thicc boys start feeling actually good about our rolls and our pudge! Start waking up to our squishy extra selves and thinking if those pandas can still roll while being so swole, then how is this day going bring me down!? I am every bit as ugly as an ugly cat and damn if Fiona didn't get the whole world's attention! Why not me!? Why not human chonks!? Cause I have tried to live in the shame of the every day world that is a little bit on the heavy side but spends all its time making fat sound the same as don't. As stop being, stop doing, stop existing. This world out there like they don't want to see you live! But they got no problem watching a chonky tiger be king of the zoo! So check out as my kingdom expands alongside my own waistband! As I wake up for a change and don't immediately wish I could shrink myself out of bed! As I dispel the fear of each reflective surface because online I have seen the raccoon lounging pounch out! I have seen the manatee floating free! I have seen the thiccest of shiba inus! And I have loved them all. And so I can love this body, if not today, it's coming I can feel it! Rumbling through the Earth! Oh lord, he coming! And he is me and I am excited to see me living, for once, as myself!

Oi, wotzisnow? Decided to pop-in whoi, dis 'ere pub is only the coziest Goose-free establishment this side of the Thames! Indeed, we do it all 'ere! We do! We got ale, stew, and of course plenty of recreational activities! Why not join the bloke over there having a dart? Wotzitnow? Something honked! Oi, no-I-don-think so! There's certainly not been a goose in this pub a'fore! Just not possible, we employ top'o the line goose watchers! Aye security for us is the most important concern! Shhhsss this 'ere part is a bit'o a secret but sort'o the whole village recently 'as 'ad whoit you might call a bit'o a goose problem! I dare say, it was on the tele and everything! I mean, just the other night we 'ad to cut off the Groundskeeper... devestated 'e woz! Kept saying some goose 'ad mucked up 'is 'ole garden! Poor fellow taken 'is lunch, and 'is radio and well just it wasn't good woit I 'eard! That goose well needless to say, you won't find one goose 'ere in this pub! Not a one! Wotzat? You sayin' you 'eard a 'onk!? No! Couldn't be! 'ere let me set you up woith a pint! That's odd, we seem to be out of glasses?! Oh well, never no mind let's just set you up with a noice bowl... 'o... stew.... Wot? Some goose spilled all a tomatoes? 'ow'd that 'apppen!? Whoat'd I tell you about letting gooses in!? This establishment is supposed to be goose free! We mark our name 'ere on a goose-free establish- I 'ear it! It's 'onking is wot it is! Why I'll get it I will says I! I'll get it and then I'll stuff it! And then I'll serve it! It'll be a bleeding Christmas miracle! Goose stew! Goose stew for Christmas!! Use those spilt tomatoes if I 'ave my way about it! And that'll show 'em! Peace!! There'll be peace in the whole town! And not a single goose about! Do you- You don't 'appen to 'ere a bell do you!?

Hello America, the Colonel here. You spoke and we heard you. You asked for some Cheetos on your chicken sandwich and we raised you a whole Cheetos sauce to baste you chicken in! You said 'let me get some biscuits for dessert,' so we drenched them in caramel and sugar glaze! And now folks we're tripling down! That's right, we're done waltzing around the whole health conscious trend in food! Oh sure, plant based nuggets are coming for all you Californians who scoff at our salad bars! But seeing as you've forced our hand we're also fighting back, KFC is here to say we done messed up! Last time when we doubled down we basically gave you a bacon and cheese sandwich with some slices of chicken bread, but by tripling down this is me, the Colonel knowing full well all this time you wanted a chicken sandwich in between those chicken buns! And who would I be if I didn't indulge in your every ruination America? You think ol' Harlan wants to be remembered as the man who could have shown restraint in the chicken game?! You want my legacy to be the poor idiot who encouraged millions to stick with beef even if they burned all the everloving rainforest to ranch raise it!? Never! KFC is here to meet meat with meat hell we pumped most of our chickens with so many hormones they grow like, seven or eight breasts, a piece naturally! We serve you an all breast meat eight piece bucket from the same damn chicken proudly. Because we don't care about your health really! We are just out here to fill you up with as much slop as we done used to give our hogs back when we served Kentucky Fried Bacon! Remember our famous bowls!? The triple down is like that but throw a piece a fried chicken in there and then clap two more pieces of chicken on either side! It's a gottdamn sandwich! Boy, is what! And you're gonna love it! Now go on get and clucked America!

Note: at the time of this writing professional wrestler, Curt Hawkins' win/loss record is 0-190. It is its own record in the WWE and has become a piece in the fabric of the character. Presumably the most notable thing about famous gladiators is that they all had stunning win/loss records. Logical, since more often than not etching a notch in the loss column in a to-the-death environment would be the end of your win/loss record. Presumably the same is sort of true of knights, wherein the knights of no renown probably died a lot more often than those whose deeds helped stitch the tapestries of song we remember them by. By contrast in the modern day in combat sports and things that pretend to be combat sports like wrestling seeing the loss column become a beast unto itself has got to be laudable look how many deaths a gladiator would have had to survive to attain the losing streak of an MVP or a Curt Hawkins. In as much, losing becomes the art, bringing its own kind of specter to the arena. The ghosts of every match you lost pile upon themselves, writhe in the embrace between the mat and the shoulder-blades, and then walk off into the back to haunt another locker room in a different town. Perhaps Curt shows up to work simply to see if tonight will play out the skip in his record, 190 losses and counting 190 ways to be have been beaten, 190 days afterwards where he showed up again. Society was built by a whole lot of people with good win/loss records: warriors who didn't die in battle, gladiator-slaves who won their freedom but in the modern combat of sport of life it's important to praise the loser. Life has the all-time best win/loss record more of us drop to it every day, even dis-corporeally, I, personally am running up loss numbers to life daily that would shame even Mr. Hawkins, so praise be to every pinfall! Every tap out! Every countout! Every KO! Every disqualification! Every time the result went the other way, every time the door hit you on the ass on the way out! Every time the lights dimmed and you were still in the building! Praise! You were still in the building! Praise all the empty seats in the arena! Praise the silence that made space when you lost again! Every loss, every botch, every hurt, praise the missed cues praise the kickout that came one second too late! And praise the people who cheered even though they knew you weren't there too win the big one, or any one. Praise any one who understands what losing is and stands by you through the loss in that. There is always loss in that. Curt Hawkins still knows how to smile after 190 defeats. Still walks around the backstage grinning, that's a fact. I still know what a smile is. Praise. Praise. Praise.

And imagine you are born in New York and grow up to be a wrestler and 'Mania is set to happen across the river in Jersey (your back yard) and you recently reunited with your long time friend and fellow wrestler in a revamp of the Majors Brothers tag team where you held the tag titles all those years ago and damn it's been years since you even won a match, your last gimmick running the other streak 269 losses in a row your partner hasn't been on TV in months and the two of you do the job day in and out, losing to build other guys and then at 'Mania you get the chance to win the tag titles in a match that wasn't even on the card at the top of the week, and all those losses broiling inside your shoulders like a nest of snakes hiss to life and you shake off the cold hibernation of all your losses and tag your ass off in that ring getting beaten until winning seems impossible, and of course for over a year and counting for you winning has been impossible, but anything is possible if you believe, and New York is your home, and this is your win, and you win! You win! You win! With a small package modified pinning position you win! Hawkins wins!! The streak is over! If it only lasts for a night you've won, and the thing with 'Mania is it lasts a fucking lifetime.

There is so much darkness in me. Call it the modern world then attempt to escape. Use martial arts first to find quiet. Later to create justice. Is it possible to hit something so hard you change it forever? And when you do... There must be a demon in me. Sound summons it, so say nothing. Seek the forest, its silence and calm. Seek the river and stand in the water like running could be a balm to this poison within. press palms into the earth like it could steady the violence carried in the body. Master... when master dies and the darkness does not. When I cannot hold back when the center of all things gets bundled and I rip it from my body in a wave motion, fist opening up: flock of ravens released from my body only what bursts forth is so much more ferocious and terrible. Oni I can't trap. Demons. Nightmares. It is in me. I fight. Years on end blend each battle. Distill only the blood and the salt left in the afterwards. Fighting until the edges of the gi are frayed and tattered and still I know there is an evil I cannot purge with my fists. Because it is my fists. Because I can summon this light between them, and it is still swriling in a darkness. My path, this wild growth. My path this river, moving towards an ocean, moving towards a release or a wave, all movement, a Hadouken.

What do we really know about Mayor McCheese!? McCheese said he was going to turn things around in McDonaldland! McCheese said he was tough on crime! But does having an at large escapee like the Hamburgler around look like being tough on crime? I'm Grimace and I am running to be the next mayor of McDonaldland! Unlike McCheese I promise not to use a single greasy dollar menu item to go after my most outspoken critics! Mayor McCheese has been heard repeatedly denouncing Grimace! But McCheese also placed a tariff on smiles! That's not something Grimace would do! Grimace also wouldn't be caught dead in the home of the Whopper but if rumors are to be believed, a certain Mayor McCheese was seen getting real shmoozy with a certain Burger person of royal persuasion! So vote Grimace for new mayor of McDonaldland! He's purple! And he's me! I am Grimace! This ad was paid for by the group citizens of McDonaldland named Grimace working to elect Grimace to the post of mayor of McDonaldland.

Said the New York Pizza Slice to the Chicago Pizza Slice.... after RJ Walker, after Jesse Parent Well now, look at this now the original slice is back looking as delicious as ever! Must be 1905 again, must be brick fired ovens again must be confetti streets and Italians throwing a parade like it's my goddamn birthday! I know yous don't like to think of me much my man like to pretend like the Windy City ain't dreamed of the Big Apple like to think you ain't wafting the same smells out the south side of some well-meaning pizzeria back turned on me like I'm just some floppy, greasy, cheesy dough triangle that got served to them commuters on the Subway like you ain't just another greasy, cheesy dough triangle like me. It's amazing what people will do with a piece of dough when you scatter enough cheese on it! How they'll savor it, panic every time it falls on the ground or burns, sing praises to it, lips a-flutter hell, they die for it! Kill for it! A sacrifice for their pizza god: The American Pizza Pie. And you forget we are made of the same stuff we are red, like tomatoes is red. and we are white, like mozzarella is white, and you better hope that we ain't blue cause that'd probably mean we was moldy or something from being left out for too long. The only difference betweens us is I'm just like a better more portable version of what you are. You'd like to forget that, how great I fucking am, wouldn't'cha? Remind everyone who got the sauce by putting right up top, but never once say Margherita. Oh man, you forget where the tomatoes we are made out of even came from! And yeah, I do too, but you don't hear me running off at my mouth about that! Don't hear me singing, "When the moon hit's your eye!" as I'm peel'd out of the oven. Were you telling all them Chicagoans whose arteries you clogged 'bout your foldability? How they gotta eat you with a knife and fork or with a couple forks! Y'know they were slow to cook you, serve you in a sit-down restaurant but which one of us can you fucking eat on the go? Which one of us was in the viral pizza rat video? Which one of us was in all them Ninja Turtles Cartoons? Which one of us is painted on the box the goddamn pizzas come in? Pretty sure that's me, bro. That's all me. It sure as hell ain't you, that failed attempt at a burrito that turned into a pizza saucer maybe 75 years ago. You know at night, if the moon hit's your eye like a big pizza pie, and also you are in New York, well that's amoré!

Brain gets wound up tight again. A giant spool and too much twine balled up and then scrambled web again. Walk through brain, hands flying around like there're spiders everywhere. Can't get them off. Buy a new brain. Walk in closet brain needs to clean itself out. Storage space brain all full. False wall in the basement brain. Troubling. Wrong. Theseus walks into a brain, sword and string loose in hand. Cuts a bloody path right to the heart of the brain, kills the beast living there, follows the string back out. Leaves all the string. Detective walks into a brain following string right up to a headless man! What happened here. Tries to collect all the loose threads. Winds up holding all the plots, sown up like webbing around a spiders eggs a silken bundle of monstrosity. Brain bursts badly and thousands of teeny tiny monsters crawl out. Labyrinth walks into a brain, sets down roots. Trees grow into a brain old achy wheeze. Old growth gloom wanders the dark, its own kind of maze, trapping the brain inside the brain. Who is the hero that can lead the brain back out? Perhaps the same one who followed all the clues right in, the one who wound every string up, more food for corpses. Death roots itself in the brain. So fuck it, more soup. The brain thickens in the brain Detective Theseus holds everything together long enough to get down to the center of the brain and plunge a sword through it. Cut down whole forests. Shadows have nowhere to hide, all the spiders run away all their webs left behind. Brain flails its hands inside a brain. Like a creature wound up too tight. Like it just ought to die again. Again.

Listen, I am not immune to irony, I watched the smart car drive up to the Taco Bell. I know better than Alanis Morrisette. It's like sun's out fun's out, and the hollow-bone depression bird swoops into my body. Is it seasonal if it occurs year-round? Is it seasonal if you cannot identify the season? It is seasonal like the WWE always on, with occasional changes a significant number of letdowns and a reliance on blood money. I asked my mom to help me, and tried to explain that most of my conditional mood problems felt endemic to societal trends like rising costs of living and stagnating wage growth. To which she recommended therapy. Therapy told me with my insurance long-term counseling wouldn't be possible and wanted to get me on meds ASAP. And meds cost more money on top of my co-pay so even if they help they are part and parcel of the problem. Here it is, I am living every day and wishing every day I was dead. And isn't that ironic? The expectation being that I should be loving life! After all I wrote a whole bunch of poems about McDonaldland. I know all the fast food slogans, this poem started with the desire to go South of the Border. And how I failed to act on that desire. How I made un-fufillment into my fourth meal. How I feed on self-hate and passive death ideation. And how that means I stay empty. Stay cold and shadowed even in the sun, sad bird too heavy to leave the earth. That line is rich with that irony y'know, so much it is just dripping.

And one day the Youtube recommendations is mixtape from Japan. It makes a fair amount of sense. City Pop having soundtracked several showers. Come out rinsed, wet, glistening, and singing only the English language chorus. This is how you discover Starfunkle, all airy seventies blown out photographs of capital cities. Mixtapes of sounds from Turkey and Italy and Ghana and Brazil and Japan all the dazzle of a global jet-set lifestyle beamed into the phone. And damn if it doesn't hurt only a little to not be 22 and still passionate about anything the way 22 makes people passionate. Cause let's be honest with ourselves we could only enjoy City Pop after 30 ground all the giving a shit about appearances from our bones. Knowing that no matter where we go from here any trace of cool we might've possessed had long collapsed on the piano bench. I no longer love as ferocious as all that gloss and glamour but damn if Youtube's pocket magic radio jam isn't as close as I have managed to feel to wanting to be alive during the winter when the sun all but vanishes for months or to be alive during the spring when my face devolves into mucus or to be alive during the summer when my entire body joins the melting or to be alive in the fall or to be alive ever. I do not want what the future keeps promising: more extreme climates, collapsed economies, fires across the west coast, polar vortexes across the east, water shortages - meaning no more showers! - but then there's this, weird pocket television/radio alternative on my damn phone! What a time to be I guess.

1. This one is for the original saint of body positivity: Boogerman!! The muscular maestro whose mighty mucus mollified miscreants. The fastidious fighter whose flatulence froze fearsome foes. The steadfast superhero with snot that stopped sadistic plots. The O.G. of Original Grossness. The human body made weapon from the weaponized components of the human body. 2. Ever let loose a room clearing fart? Ever had allergies break the plug on your snot-faucet? Ever pressed nails against a blackhead only to have pus the size and shape of a maggot burst forth like rot-god worship incarnate? 3. Thus it is to wield the powers of Boogerman! So often we put the lid on grossness. The puerile humor of childhood, sent to the compost heap, out of which adultness is supposed to blossom. But when do our bodies receive that memo? How many reassuring voices told me acne was a phase my skin would learn to outgrow. Like I wouldn't just ugly duckling myself into ugly swan-hood. Like I don't regularly cultivate neck hives, like I haven't become a home of funguses, Like I don't get sidelined for hours with IBS. So much secret unpleasantness that I am somehow not supposed to disclose. 4. I sneeze, often. Perhaps not with the deadly accuracy of Boogerman, but then Snotty Ragsdale had to be cast into dimension X-Crement before his belches blossomed into baddie beating burps. I suffer too, from Gastro Esophageal Reflux Disorder, the burbling cauldron of my belly reflexively burp-hiccuping over my speech as much as anyone else's need for decorum. 5. And where would I be without Boogerman? 6. Remember the Poo-Puorri advertisements that had to remind you they were selling a real product? Every Clearasil ad features someone whose breakout history is as scar free as their bright over lit foundation can make it, All of it another way to remind users: the human body is a flawed beast meant to be deadened and stuffed into a cleaner package. Like who cares where the meat comes from if the sausage looks good? 7. But here I burn my own effigy in the fire of Boogerman! I roast myself until I split at the seams all the human of me: tender disgusting over spill of clogged pores and sweat stains, all the times my loins funked their way into shit-stain Rorschachs, how my own blood boiled to the surface of my skin and left me the task of leeching my own purity away from those would mark me freak for it! 8 I still dream the hero of me damn it, even icky and disgusting and flawed and human. 9. I am the snot lodged in my own nasal cavities, still breathing in spite, and the air smells sweat, or doesn't and damn if it isn't its own sweetness to be this gross and alive all at once. To be alive in this body, the only one I have, the one that will fight the good fight. The grossest way out!!

Growing up in Kanto I always knew I was gonna train Pokemon I guess I just didn't realize I would wind up here, between Cerulean City and Lavender Town, standing on this road. It's not all bad, I mean I'm a hiker, after all. I've even got a great little Geodude, he's a rock type. And let's be real I'm in my 40's, I'm a bigger guy, so it's not like being out in the fresh air is bad. But also, y'know once I found a good standing spot I just kind of set up shop, to wait for other trainers coming through, to prove how strong my Pokemon was. You may not know this about Rock Type but they're weak against grass and water, and you wouldn't believe the amount of grass types kids these days are packing! Strong against electric and fire, right, so then I mean, I'm always hoping they'll be one of those 10-year-olds who always chooses Pikachu, but not so much. So yeah, I lose more than I win and my Geodude gets pretty down and we just kind of stand here making sure not to make eye contact with anyone who has also chosen maybe to just kind of stand on one of these roads between the cities and towns. So many of us, just standing knowing, maybe, we don't have what it takes to be the very best. And that's okay too, but, I mean, I just get so, so lonely. Sometimes I just wish my Geodude would turn, arms out, and bring it in. Just hold me for a minute. I don't mean to cry here, it's just that rock type is vulnerable to water. I mean, I have spent so many hours standing right here on this road, it's inhuman, like, really, just an unreasonable amount of time. And the only people who look at me, immediately want to battle, but in life aren't we all looking for more than that?! Don't we start out looking not just to catch 'em all, but to find something so strong and grounding we can build our lives around it. I mean, that's rock type right there! But, then, rock type's also hard and cold like all the days and nights I've stood on this road. I know, I know, I should pack it in. But I was born in this place, well, a different place, really but I walked to this place! I brought my Geodude to this patch of road! Best Pokemon I could catch! Only Pokemon I could catch if I'm being honest And I'm not going anywhere, literally - I'm stuck here, possibly forever, so I might as well make the best of it, no make that the very best of it! Like no one ever has!

Pt. the first! I'm outside a slam when these slamming ladies walk past, at least 6ft3", near me and my homie Tshaka and he's 5'6" like me but says, "Oh please, Meads, I climb trees..." short guys, right? But now I'm having this tree, imagistically, described to me through poetry and I realize... I climb some pine too! Because me, and this tree, we about to be... freaky. Cause after hearing that poem twice, it got me in the bone zone, so I took a hike at 6AM so I could check out that morning wood, and I got out there, bare, up on Tabor and sure enough the air got all misty like it had fogged up good. - you know, cause we be at it. - people calling me a tree hugger!! Better recognize this tree lover and take cover cause I'm a rub 'er without rubber cause rest assured I'm not afraid of splinters more like I'm just looking for something to keep me warm through the winter. And don't think, cause I'm saying this syrupy poem bullshit that I'm all bark, because guess what? When I see a knot, I got hot! See how this poem grows sticky with that sweet sap from making those genitals flap - It's arbor day, and I'm arbor gay, putting forth this freakiness the arbor way! which is to say... Pt. the second: I'm talking about having sex with trees, y'all!! I'm talking about reaching all the branches, talking about getting my fur on some firs!! I'm talking about getting crazy with this shit! Breaking out ropes and chains and fucking shackling myself against this tree while I fucking grind on that shit for days! Until we're surrounded by protesters and police officers and parks-management types with big ass machines and papers asserting charges of public indecency and then more protesters who are protesting all those other folks, being up in there ruining the hot take on tree action, meanwhile I'm keeping my wood on wood. Showing the whole world what a lumber-sexual truly is, displaying my own form of pubic decency, because I keep it fresh down there. Be hanging pine needle air fresheners over my crotch, be waxing that shit with Pine Sol, be drinking pine needle tea regularly to ensure that the juice contains notes of spruce. Pt. the third... I'm cutting loose! Shit, I'm cutting through the environ-mentality that says nature lovers got to be buttoned up or reserved or somehow be afraid of change, of the human impact on the environment. I am the human impact on the environment!! I go so hard I may wind up cutting this tree down. Go so hard I become a natural disaster poised to fuck up tree town. So all you beaver lovers prepare to be "OH DAMN"-ing!! Because this tree lover is about to be log jamming!!