WELCOME TO MY TUB, LOVER.

"What the world needs, is an excess of carbon monoxide. Someone smells like butt." - Plato

Destiny is a word. It's got like seven letters and makes me want to pee whenever I hear it for some unkown reason. Steak is yet another word. Between these two lies a truth, a fucking bleeding truth that cringes at the sight of a lone zebra in the plains and charges after it like a cheetah who hasn't farted in months, knowing it's starved. Destiny. Steak. It's obvious.

Imagine a guitar playing itself, without any strings. Now picture Kurt Cobain molesting it, totally naked, with a salt shaker in one hand and a dust buster in the other. What do you see?

Steak. What was once a cow is now his severed artery on a plate for bikers to eat on rested highways in central Texas. Blood covered, salty, drooling with cholesterol infected sauces that could make Hillary Clinton explode on taste contact. Then again, she explodes with everything. BUT WAIT.

Kurt Cobain smashes down the door of this steak house, penis shoved in the guitar plug hole and all, spitting out cries and worries in the air like some Indonesian orphan begging for more rice. He is sad.

The world explodes.

And this, was only yesterday my friends. What will happen... a week ago, you ask? Destiny.

And steak. Screw the Oscars.

Ryan Metcalf