Champaign sucks. Its dead trees and brown grass litter this earth.
And it’s cold. Not that good cold that you’d get in Colorado,
but that skin piercing, shoulder hunching pain that’s brought on by the wind.
The only thing worse than the cold is having to wait for the twenty-two in it.
Everyone staring at the dead bark, bouncing up and down, and back and forth
in their feeble attempts to stay warm.

But wait, there is worse…the bus ride.
True the bus itself is warm, but the people are colder than the weather outside.
They are frozen, as in heartless, because most people they see on the bus,
they don’t care about them, yet they act like they’re so glad to see them.
And they will always go out of their way to ask that one damn question:
Hey Jim, you go out this weekend?
Out? Where is out? I’d like to find it. Is it somewhere on Green street?
Why can’t people just say what the question really implies?

Hey Jim, did you and your shady, gelled haired, jeans with sandals wearing, asshole friends get piss drunk Saturday night before you went to Kam’s then CO’s then Clybourne’s but not Tonic, because only townies go there, and then find some whale that had somehow escaped from Seaworld and waddled her way up to Chambana, and take her and her flippers back to your super cool frat house, and then proceed to mount her like a horse but couldn’t tell the difference if she really was a horse or not, and then wake up the next morning realizing if it weren’t for birth control you’d have your own pod of whales around you for the rest of your God given life, and Jim how the hell are you not miserable with your existence and ashamed of everything that you stand for, you vain, self-indulgent prick? Here, let me pop that collar for you.

Of course that’s never said, and the bus ride continues.
Taking a right on Daniel, then another right on fourth, a left on Armory…
all the way until Gregory Hall where I step out from one cold and into another.
Headed to one more bland lecture in a rundown, paint chipped lecture hall…
or maybe I’ll skip class today and go search the Champaign streets for ‘out.’


All Trucker Hats Go to Hell

I had this friend named Fredrico. You can call him Freddy. Or Rico. I’ll just call him Fred. Fred loved his cheerios. Honey Nut, Frosted, Apple Cinnamon, you name it.
Fred died. He was watching Dave Chapelle at his apartment while munching on some Team Cheerios, laughed, choked, and suffocated to death. Quite sad. Unless you didn’t know Fred, then it’s not that sad. Now after much deliberation, Fred’s in heaven.

Man, what is going on with all the clouds? I thought that was just a cliché…
What’s the matter Fred? White, puffy clouds on a blue sky aren’t your idea of the afterlife?
God? Wow, it’s actually God. This is amaz…wait a second, why’d you have to kill me with a cheerio, I mean seriously, a God damn cheerio?
Why should I send a cheerio to hell?
Umm, never mind, so what’s the deal with this place?
Walk with me Fred.

And so God and Fred walked over hills of happy clouds, with birds chirping and angels flying around with harps. It was like a hallmark card, and Fred was not fond of hallmark. As they continued their walk, they came upon a glorious three story mansion, with a sign that read “If you’re Human, you owe me your life…and a beer.”

Hey God, who lives in this place?
That…would be my son. He’s in the rebellious phase of his eternal life.

Then with an aura and mystique only paralleled by Hefner himself, Jesus stepped onto the golden second floor balcony. Marilyn Monroe on his left arm, Audrey Hepburn on his right, while platinum, diamond encrusted crosses dangled from his neck, bouncing on his white tank top. Jesus, was a baller.

Oh shit, Jesus is a pimp! Hey JC, you my homeboy, right?
Not another one…look kid, I had nothing to do with those damn trucker hats.
Hold up, you can’t say damn, you’re holy.
No, seriously, they’re damned. All trucker hats go to hell. And anyone who wears them on earth ends up cleaning my pool.
Yeah, speaking of that, aren’t earthly possessions supposed to mean nothing in Heaven?
If it ain’t on earth, it ain’t earthly playa. Check ya later kid, I gotta hit up the hot tub with Miss Monroe.

Thus, God and Fred continued their walk. In the distance the clouds broke, and they stepped into an ivory kitchen which twinkled and shined in ways Mr. Clean could only dream of.

Sorry about my son, he’s lost his fucking mind recently.
You did not…no way. You can’t say that. I know you can’t say that.
Who said I can’t?
Well, uh, people did I guess…good point. So God, we got eternity, what now?
We eat cheerios.
You’re an asshole.
I know.