My Beautiful Blue Plastic Hammer
By Michael McDaeth

"Even Big Foot gets Spam'd"

I was born, son of a junkyard king on a mud swamp lake in the tear stained sticks of Northern Minnesota, USA. Mom didn't even realize she was pregnant (huge as she was in her sunflower sheet) so I just strolled out one day with one hand on my dick, and the other squeezing the umbilical cord. A bright-eyed confident little shit ready to fill up the world with little shit screams. I was, scrubbed clean - marveled at - pampered supreme - a coo coo coo'd to - gawked at - posed for posterity - then told of the infinite possibilities if I cared to dream: "Do you know how goddamn lucky it is to be born in the home of the brave." The old lady said. [spam'd] "This magnificent fuckin' nation of god-fearing, truth seeking, freedom fighting folks." The old man said. [spam'd]" We who are at the apex of the history of mankind and the height of everything holy goodly and goodly holy and holy holy and benevolent and saintly and sanctifying." The TV said. [spam'd] Immediately, I was put to work. [spam'd]

When something is forced upon you, you devise whatever means necessary to avoid it. So I spent the first seventeen years of this life hiding in car wrecks pan-caked sometimes seven or eight high behind an enormous saggy tin clad beast called simply "The Shop". Its roof was sharply pitched and the whole thing was covered in corrugated sheets of tin hanging by faith alone to rafters sixty penny spiked to semi-retired kerosene soaked telephone poles. Old rust and black engine blocks and busted transmissions lay strewn about in the weeds along the outside walls like fallen gargoyles toppled from somewhere high above (though I believe they jumped). There wasn't a bell to ring for divinity just a pack of howling dogs and an old hand crank siren used to annoy the neighbors and summon you and if you arrive late: with a greasy crescent wrench he puts you so far down on cracked concrete floors or dirt driveways - you're up again munching popcorn and watching the whole thing unfold from a lazy boy recliner in your head. Hitting the rewind button in gory disbelieve.

With his rage the wrench comes alive, its got its own debt to pay, and it does, probably clears a tidy sum off my bloody big foot. Nothing wrong with that. Twenty six blows from one greasy wrench - blood spurting from big foot after only two strokes - blood from the other after five - fourteen splatters of blood on my t shirt - fifty six more on each pant leg - two pools in the sand - sixty eight tear drops squeezed to perfection - twenty six screams of pain - twenty six more including backswing - one hard-on - two blazing eyes of hate - two glossy eyes of pain - one mourning dove on a telephone line - three curious crows circling above - One burning sun - one blue sky - one million and one helium filled frogs singing eat me eat me eat me from the swamp - five hundred twelve digital cat tails waving me in - thousands of shaky leaves on dozens of dying trees - one old man - one me. [spam'd] - mm - mcdaeth.com