TRUE LOVE

From the Ranted Files of Dr. G,
brought to you at great cost...

IN A FOXHOLE OUTSIDE MOZAMBIQUE, PINNED BY CROSSFIRE, DOWN TO MY LAST JUICY JUICE - I’ve seen the best little piggies of my generation starving, hysterical, naked in a tinny, rancid cubicle where a life enters this inhuman world, like a rough beast lurching towards a Bethlehem swimming in blood and methane. This babe, pink and fat, ripped from it’s mother’s teat, squealing and gasping, no chance it will live, but then again, who ever does…transported to foreign lands, tattooed and bartered over like a poly-cotton blend Walmart sweater. Eviscerated, bound prone by mentholated, saffronated tormentors who laugh and drool and puke and laugh again like short-skirted cheerleaders at a kegger. The UNMITIGATED HORROR of the UNSOUND METHODS by which this creature’s hide is charred to resemble the very mesquite briquettes that bake it slowly underground. It steams and pops for hours upon hours upon hours until it is pulled from the earth, a second birth, like the gross things in that movie, and laid out on a plastic folding table in a dim, muddy, saw-dusty garage, spewing it’s aborted innards, desiccated, resiccated bread and tropical, acidic fruit and smoky, rendered fat over the concrete, whence it will be the gruesome centerpiece of a star-crossed, sulphurous ceremony, overseen by men with sword and axe and knife, a testament to life and death and life again, a turning wheel driven and derided by vanity, but redeemed by love.