Hey, kids! Summer is going to drag on for another miserable month. Thirty more days of your forehead sweating all over itself in front of hot fry grease as you toil away at the fast food joint where you wear a uniform that hasn't breathed since February, as those zits cultivate in that gooey forehead grease-sweat cocktail. Thirty summer nights driving around thinking of everything but the future, or maybe thinking about the future, which is a big hazy cloud of whatever in the distance, somewhere beyond the ceiling that you can't see past. But for now the future is tomorrow, and tomorrow you will hand a middle manager his lunch, while thinking "Dude. Every day? This is killing you," knowing that the burger is going to be cold and limp by the time he bites into it, and you will visualize the solidified grease depositing directly into a rare nook in his arteries. Your job is to serve mediocrity. You will then go home and play video games, killing something with superhuman efficiency with your weapon of choice, but the blood and gore does not fulfill, because you're not really saving anything. If you're feeling social, you will txt ur friends. To top it all off, someone will complain that you don't have a good attitude. Someone expects you to smile. But about the only thing that makes you smile is your tunes.
Sharon Tate's Baby - Bored Stiff (mp3)
From We Went And Recorded It Anyway
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