Contributor: Rob Bliss
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A new generation of them popped up. Sons and daughters of those goddamn hippies I fought in the ‘60s. Still greasy long hairs, welfare bums, pot-smoking degenerates. If I could still get it up, I’d give them free love with a hard fuck. Leave them by the side of the road where their hitchhiking trail ends. But my dick is dead now, after long years of bad use, so I do what I can.
I wouldn’t pick any of them up, wouldn’t touch them. But I watch for them, thumbs out, packs stitched with patches sagging on their skinny ribbone backs, tie-dye shirts flapping in the breeze, full of holes like their liberal minds.
Travel the back roads looking for them. Where traffic doesn’t happen, just gravel trucks heading away from the pit, loggers, transports that can’t slow down, keeping tight to their schedules. Good hard-working...
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Author:
Rob Bliss
