Shut Yer Fukin Poon

The fukin guitar was screaming its bloody lyrics. I was fukin headbanging this RV. My forehead felt like it was gonna explode but it was worth it. The fukin music was driving me out of my head. I just kept smashing the RV. Finally my head broke through and I was looking into the little bedroom. There was a couple in their mid-forties kicking back on mushrooms. They were in easy chairs lined with cabbage leaves. Some kid came out of the bathroom with his grogan on the end of a hook. He slopped it into the microwave and threw a couple staples onto the plate. “You’re gonna cover that right?” the lady said.
“Course mom.”
“We don’t want the place smelling like broiled kid shit.” she said.
“Thats right son.” the man said.
I yelled at the top of my lungs. “Don’t listen to them little brother. My parents said the same thing and a day doesn’t go by that I don’t think of all that hot fart gas we wasted!”
“Shut your fukin poon,” said the man. He picked up a cheese rod and made a threatening motion. I had worn out my welcome.
I pulled my head back out and went over to the next RV and started banging my head against the door.

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