Labor Day

Nobody knows labor like The Octomom. She drops babies like a bred cur dog whelps pups under the front porch of an Arkansas trailer. Her hyperactive reproductive system melts condoms under a withering assault of enzymes and destructive juices and spits out diaphragms like an angry ATM machine.

Meanwhile. Labor Day means summer is drawing to a close and I reflected upon the Holiday weekend as I sat observing life in a convenience store parking lot. The patrons were largely disenchanted lesbians and failed divorce lawyers picking up antacids and last minute items for cookouts, as Amërïkä slowly fades into oblivion, and prepares for another round of peacekeeping in the Middle East through the use of nerve gas, cruise missiles and bluster.

Through the open side door of a sun-faded mini-van I spied a legless dwarf perched upon the back seat like a grim-faced gargoyle. Strapped in to avoid contact with the public, she peered out at the world with bitter, gap-toothed ignorance. Her heaving breasts surged over the top of her cheap cotton fabric like sourdough bread rising in a yeast-laden oven.

I drove home sullen and dispirited, eating a Slim Jim^® and slurping a fast-melting slushy.