There’s definite sense to it, but damn my grandfathers worked quite a bit harder than most people nowadays. It’s a little disturbing, honestly. Being that much a slave to work. So much so that one can become kind of stagnant. Maybe we need to be 5x more productive. The female psyche is well and truly fucked by feminism. They hate it and they suffer for it, in my opinion. But what do I know. I’m just a gay hubcap salesman getting over monkeypox. Who cares what I have to say? I’ll just sit here, and dream of the time Carl Yastrzemski suddenly banged my mom behind that massive chink joint on the northbound side of route one. Old number 8’s serious eyes staring into my mom’s one decent eye. The other one looked intently off to her left. Forever. As if startled by a runaway shopping cart full of bees. Men, especially the 1987 Red Sox, found her wandering eye irresistible. Something about having to focus so intently on something as trivial and meaningless as baseball. Something about a woman who always seemed askance or askew and untroubled by things to her right. Always the left. Always 3rd base instead of first. Yaz used to say to me, “Hey kid, come ‘ere.” In his think Australian accent. “You’d make a great catcher.” “Really?” I’d say, “How can you tell.” “Cahz yor a faggot, mate. All catchers are faggots. Every last one, a cock-holstering faggot. And Buckner. Heil hitler.” And that was the day I learned I was gay.