(From Suburban Misfits)


I never know what to expect from you.

One minute you’re smiling at me and telling me what a great pal I am, then next minute you go crazy.

How on earth am I supposed to work with a madman like you?

And what was that thing yesterday – you running through the warehouse butt naked, screaming you left your underwear in the men’s room before he left work?

Dare I ask you how you drove home – or worse, how you drove back to work like that?

What did the turnpike toll collectors say when you tried to reach into pockets you didn’t have for coins you couldn’t produce?

You’re lucky the boss refused to believe anything like that was possible – even for an idiot like you.

Nobody knows you as well as I do since I got to ride on the truck with you everyday.

But even I can’t believe some of the things you do.

What’s this about you hating to beep at pigeons – so we have block traffic until they decide to fly away?

Why do we have to ride ten blocks out of our way just because you once saw a pretty girl on some block and Brooklyn and figure we might see her again if we do?

Maybe you don’t mind the boss screaming about our getting back to the warehouse lake, but I figure sooner or later he’ll fire us both.

And why are you always sucking on that bottle of mouth wash and spitting it out the window on other cars.

That last time you spat it out on a cop car and the cop’s window was open.

All right, I admit it, this job wouldn’t be nearly as much fun if you weren’t here.

But damn it, I got rent to pay – so could you just tone it down until we both work long enough to collect unemployment?








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