While you're sitting in your comfortable San Francisco pad, surrounded by altruistic girls with perky breasts, thinking about the horrors of watching a mouse die its inevitable lowly death, allow me to quickly recount the last four days of my life.

I went to my sisters house for dinner. What was on the menu? Grilled lobster. Although I had no biological imperative to eat them I took them from their paper bag and placed them all on a wooden cutting board so that they could all watch their fate exacted on their bretheren. I took then a butcher knife, placed it behind the armor of their chest, and in one slow and agonizing movement, spilt each one of them in half, all of this, as I said, in full view of the others. And I looked right into their seedy bottom-feeding eyes as I did it.

I went to western minnesota the next day and fixed a radiator hose on a gluttonous pontiac. What did I do with the antifreeze? I dumped it right into the fucking gutter as I laughed and drank budweisers by the handful.

I threw a grease gun into the river and ate three steaks in a sitting.

The next day I drove a go cart with a two stroke engine that pumped clouds of contaminants into the air for an hour and a half.

Then We Pulled Out The Shotguns.

When shooting at superfluous plastic coke bottles and the like got totally fucking boring we took to the neighbor's cornfields in search of living targets. We hoped to find a rabbit suckling on a savory vegetarian meal so that we could take its fucking head off with a flurry of bullets and make a rabbit stew for dinner. Although we did not find a rabbit, we blasted at everything that moved, making a sizeable dent in the ground crawling mammal population. We laughed and talked about lynching a rich boy on the freeway, dragging him from his mercedes, and hanging him from the overpass with his expensive tie, writing the words pappalo grosso in motor oil over his head, (Italian for "Fat people") screaming "Fuck it, Cut The Cord!!!"

Did I mention that we were loading our Remington 870 12 guage pump action shotguns with 3 inch magnum buckshot?

When we had exhausted three boxes of shells and the lives of at least 30 innocent creatures we drove back to minneapolis in a pooly tuned car, a trip that takes three hours. Then, we drove TWO cars (one per person, of course) to a coffee shop that was literally two blocks away, smoking cigarettes and pitching the flaming butts into everyone's dry autumnal yards, laughing at science.

When the ghetto kid laughed at my sodden workman's boots, I spun quickly around and hurled a rock at him, threatening to slit his fucking throat with a rusty jack knife.

On the way over here, my Pollution control valve was acting up so I ripped it off and burned it in a garbage can.

Tonight, when I get REALLY drunk, I'll piss on a stranger's leg and brain him with a hydraulic jack.

So, my friend, suck it up and live with it. Your buddy in Minneapolis is a fucking warrior, a malcontent, an asshole.

Your little mouse story makes me want to crush your petty head beneath my shoe leather, light my cigar from your flaming corpse, and rape all your pretty san francisco girlfriends with a broken bottle at their throats.

Good day. I HOPE ALL IS WELL. (Put on your running shoes, motherfucker)

Jason T. Nash