Because Phil Spector’s hairdo attacked Don King’s job Barry Gordy’s Motown Empire crashed down, kicking to death degraded women in the street, “Stop in the Name of Love” burst from my nostril in streaming rivulets of scarlet blood.

Because late model Chevy Camaros obliterated children of Dodge Chargers and flung bits of them in the teeth of Pontiac Firebirds, undercover cops were left with no other option than to firebomb financial daycare centers of Goldman Sachs and HSBC, that’s why my left arm stopped functioning.

Because a fat bag of marshmallows viciously assaulted mini-Oreos with a mop handle in the janitor closet at Thomas Jefferson Middle School while Sally Hemings High School burned to the ground under the Cloud of Suspicion, that’s how my leg swole up and the skin popped open like a newspaper rack full of meat.

Because the Boston Celtics opened fire on Tiger Woods with deadly precision and their tiny needle guns, filling his eyelids with 172,200,000 gallons of oil and billions of gallons of fracking waste that resulted in instant glaucoma-style night blindness and projectile vomiting inside of my heart. 

Because the Creature from the Black Lagoon performed unlicensed colorectal procedures upon Godzilla, having reached all the way inside to extract perfectly formed Scarlet Johansson-style Tom Hanks from under the roof of the monstrous mouth like a slag heap of molten smoldering Congolese, my appetite turned to rust and disintegrated.

Because Dick Cheney flagellated Richard Nixon with an unimpeachable replica of Ronald Reagan’s Alzheimer’s the size of a fattish malignant pancreas while everybody was watching the Hiroshima show replay over and over on somebody’s bald spot, I took a wrong turn and desecrated my arm till the bone went way, way wrong. 

Because rainbow kale was permitted to engage in the foulest acts upon cowering investment portfolios of watermelon radish and regular kale, the pinto beans and black beans separated into Genocide on the left and Slavery on the right, amputating my testicles. They were my favorites.

Because the picture windows operated with wide-ranging infanticide and homicide on the door jambs and porch lights, aided by the Secretary of the Treasury Timothy KBR Halliburton who okayed the weapons sale (of toxic fluorescence, emitted from fungal pores via his muzzle), I could not control my vertigo and fell forward on my hard crusty face.

Because the cylinders of Coolness and disks of Righteousness dismembered and vituperated African and Syrian refugees inside fresh Mexican cheese even if they had died already, many times dead and thin and gray, thoroughly impeccably dead and softly cheese-like, crumbles, my teeth grew numb and shattered like ice.

Because the stench of Universities conflicted with the heat and humidity of Auto Repair at teen hangouts far above the Landfill where Motels watched TVs pop in the flickering light of small thinking, decapitating 50,000 Mexicans formidably according to the crushed little bird that I first thought was a piece of paper, which meant I was grown sick with very very sickness.

Because Death Valley took violent exception with aluminum baseball bat to the skull of the Colorado River on a failed Thursday, the Missouri infected Hacienda Heights with candy-colored pustules of iodine-131 and caesium-134/137 or bulbous hanging tumors of 10,300 millisieverts per individual (if you can call them that) in the local (U.S.) population, but who gives a piss? Certainly not me since I found myself permanently attached by my member to a catheter box.