Untitled by: Crystal Brooke Waters, Photograph, 2014.
Fred is Monday
by: Jeffery White
His name is Fred.
Fred stole my parking spot this morning.
Fred is a jerk.
Fred talks too loud and spits when he speaks.
Fred eats with his mouth open.
Fred is a cow, mindlessly chewing at the cud that is his ham and cheese sandwich, bleeding
mayonnaise with every bite.
Fred is a brute, a pug-nosed, mouth-breathing oaf with a hairline that starts halfway down his
forehead, a Neanderthal in a cheap suit.
Fred is a living fossil and should be on display for the amusement of the masses.
Fred is the noticeable pit stains on a first date.
Fred’s intelligence could power a city. Not a real city, but an ant city that has just passed a series
of stringent energy conservation laws.
Fred smiles too much.
Fred has yellow teeth, stained by cheap coffee.
Fred says we’re friends, but Fred is mistaken, because Fred thinks he’s friends with everyone.
No one is Fred’s friend.
Fred is a charlatan, a pettifogging mountebank.
Fred does not stay in Vegas.
Fred has the charm of a leprous homunculus.
Fred has the grace of a quadriplegic manatee tumbling down a mountainside.
Fred is the swollen pimple on society’s forehead.
Fred is a festering cyst on the lowest sphincter of humanity.
Fred is the skid mark on the underpants of existence.
Fred is the dead tooth that poisons the world’s mouth with his rancid stench.
Fred waves at me.
I smile and wave back.
I hate Fred.