BIP BOP BAM

Run on, Sentence. Run on.

I knew it as soon as I drank that coffee that espresso shot that cream that I was going to have to race like a piss horse and here I am stuck in traffic on 128 listening to pop music on Spotify and dreaming of porcelain receptacles gurgling and filling with warm streams of golden yellow ammonized waste product and there was only maybe two or three minutes before that liquid would release wherever I stood or in this case sat and most likely in traffic BUT there was a rest area exactly one eighth of a mile or maybe a few feet more and inview of me tempting me beckoning me teasing me shouting at me egging me to rear-end the mom mobile minivan less than three feet in front of me perhaps filled with kids that may have to pee too and maybe that brood would get to the exit before me and oh the irony block me from my destined flooded bowl yet just how much and how fast can you piss before the vessel could no longer hold the liquid excrement and trickle to the teal layer of cement below and trickle and trickle onward to that little grate in the middle of the room that presumably would be able to be clogged as well and I determined that the amount of liquid would have to be at the level of a fire hose or maybe even more flow than that really these were designed to accommodate the average plus or minus an amount but what was average and where could I find out the red minivan moved three car lengths and I along with it almost glued to the hunk of plastic they call a bumper which had stickers describing some child that had made it onto some hockey team and some honors society and some marching band I think if this described one young person that person would be such a miserable little prick going to practice and homework and practice and church and essays and dioramas and science and math and expectations losing winning injury skipping friendships and comradery and learning from mistakes for structure rigidity team before I perfect pitch college admissions perfectly baked cakes and choux buns lightly frosted and filled with raspberry jam and buttery and flakey and moist rambunctious hunger because I drank this dang coffee and didn’t have anything to go with it to soak that shit up to help avoid catastrophe and accidents and embarrassments The van crept up and other two car lengths and I nearly forgot to move up but my car seemed to stay glued to the minivan itself and likely this will be the future with self-driving cars where we will all be stuck in traffic in the same lanes with the same piss-filled lives and problems and but not have to tap on the gas or hit the break or navigate and oh my gawd how much extra sleep I could get and how easy it would be to grab that empty coffee cup in the holder and relieve myself without a spill but then where would the cup go because I couldn’t just throw it out the window and litter and literally piss on that crying native american guy in that really old commercial that may have aired before I was even born but really how can someone be nostalgic for a time that is clearly before their own time when that life was never lived and there isn’t a complete understanding of anything beyond the mayber the literature music new stories and further back songs and epic poems and complex historical characters that were really good because they helped us be who we are now but were also slave owners or rapists or too close to God or too far from God or believed in many Gods or many lives or had some other hypocritical component to their existence and really I am a hypocrite for sitting here day after day full of piss and anger after not heeding my own sermons and edicts and logical arguments however that is the nature of the fully formed adult when we realize that logic is not the factor that drives our lives forward and makes them fruitful and relaxed with an empty bladder because life is really about how illogical we all are and how a life lived like Mr Spock or Jesus or Mohammed or whomever is really not attainable and perhaps that why all those aforementioned characters are most certainly fictional and don’t at me bro they are definitely fictional mother fucking piss is starting to pour down my fucking leg and soak into the weird polyester-blended fabric that they make car seats out of these days and I am warm moist equally chilly living in the moment but most importantly relieved!