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  • I just saw The Squid at the liquor store. The Squid is the term I’ve given to this slimy, shit-bag that continues to somehow live and thrive in my hometown. He kind of looks like Gollum in an Aloha shirt but without a chin. He was with a good looking, young blond girl who he probably picked up at church; at least that’s what used to be his M.O. He would find young girls that were at some kind of low point and seeking answers in faith and use Jesus to worm his way into their panties. If that’s all he did, I’d say he found a good, albeit creepy, roundabout way to score some pussy, but he uses these women, wrings them dry of their money and life force and has left a series of shattered homes and single mothers along the way. For example, one of his baby mommas was working two jobs, right after having their kid, while he sat at home smoking weed, playing video games, reading the Bible and taking the occasional fencing class at the community college. He didn’t work, kept all of the cash she made, gave her a measly allowance to put fuel in her tank to get her to her jobs, and he also got baby sitters, so he wouldn’t have to care full time for their kid. And, cue up drumroll . . . he was part of the whole “Promise Keepers” organization. I guess using JC to pimp on women is in the Promise Keepers bylaws and doctrine somewhere in there.

    As one would imagine, he’s also a self-righteous, sanctimonious, Bible-thumping prick on top of it. He fills me with a hatred I normally reserve for the real scum-bags of planet Earth: Wall Street Bankers, CEOs, K Street lobbyists and Jehovah’s Witnesses . . . at least the ones that come to my door knocking like cops early on a Saturday morning. Every time I run across him here in town, I can feel a creeping serpent of fiery rage crawl out the pit of my stomach and begin burning through my whole body, the kind of rage that burns down buildings with people trapped inside while laughing as they jump out the windows to their deaths, the kind of rage that plots and plans out wholesale genocide of entire cultures, the kind of rage that fills the mind of God while he floods the Earth. The Worm’s face is so wonderfully punchable. If you saw it, you would agree with me and join me in pondering why he isn’t always walking around with a black eye from random people just socking him for no other reason than looking at him for a couple of seconds.

    Every time I hear through the gossip grapevine that some local has died, I hope it’s him, but it never is. I’d like to think that I’m going to outlive this weasel, but scheming, con-artist shit-bags that leave debris and messes for everyone to clean up after seem to live forever. Of course, unless they were born into fantastic wealth, it usually doesn’t end well for them. Trailer parks and cheap tenements all over America are full of quiet, gangly old men who end their days alone and are buried in cheap card-board boxes in the county cemetery alongside the homeless and other John Doe types because even though they may have several marriages and children under their belt, at the end nobody was there to even collect the body of a selfish piece of low-rent, swindling trash.

    (Note: If it was possible to beat off while writing this, I would have came right when I typed “trash.”)
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