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Vice Blog

NEW YORK - ODE TO A CONSTRICTED HESHER


Man, I have decomposed into a grizzled, malcontent troll with an inner voice just like a jealous Darby O'Gill lately. I think I can actually feel a tiny Darby slithering near my esophagus, telling me how anyone who is happy and beautiful sucks d-hole. If there is beauty anywhere, my inner Darby will reveal better reasons to HATE and pine for beauty's extinction through brutality. His jealous wrath has no mercy; even dewdrops look like rapist cum.

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Some sunny mornings, I see this beautiful gal in tiny skirts winding leisurely on her bicycle and I become enraged with jealous torment over her flowery dress, sinewy legs and whippery tresses, her existence unreal-seeming and far too poetic. She always has an offensive little floral bouquet in her wicker basket too. She didn't have to buy ANYTHING else? No diapers, tamps or maxis? No Swiffer? No bloody meat in pink styrofoam? C'mon man. I'm not feeling the salt of the earth with HER around. Buying flowers and bicycling them around town, just means you have more time and more money than me AND she is a tramillion times hotter than I will EVER be.

Quadrillion humbug.

But there is one bearish character that does melt the grouchy voice of Darby. A sad but burly metal dude in unstylishly tight St. Johns Bay oxford shirts, waiting for take-out every few weeks or so. He looks so bummed. I wish he could wear his King Diamond t-shirt on the job, and not be forced to wear the constricting office garb. I just want to hug him and sit on his lap. Whatever his profession, maybe he is a mid-wife or a stem-cell scientist, I know he would do a better job if he could wear his metal tees. I wrote him a love poem that I have entitled, "Will Fate be Mercyful?"

Dear sad roundy hesher. I saw you sitting sadly, in your office gear.
Buttoned, squeezed, a tie noosed under your beard.
I saw you at the corner Chinese carry out
Awaiting noodles with an inconsolable pout.
Pulling at your stiff collars
Squirmy in your khaki dockers.
"Metal Up Your Ass" still smells like Snuggle,
when it should smell like sweaty beasty struggle.
"Hell Awaits" is waiting to be donned.
oh sad metal dude, I am dreaming of your schlong.
A schlong free of khaki pleating
An Overkill tee will get me squealing.
We shall unleash those neckties from 'round yo head
and use them to tie each other to the bed!

ADRIANE SCHRAMM