To My Pens . . .

All of you pens just lie there on my table. You never leave. You just lie there. Blue. Or, black. Bitching and moaning that I don't write that much anymore. Fuckin' pens. Always gotta start shit. I walk by the table to grab a beer, and you just stare. Spurt off some smart-ass comment, encouraging the others to laugh.

"Yeah? Think that's funny? Bet if I snatched up one of y'all Bics and broke your ass in half, y'all would shut the fuck up."

You quit laughing. You always do.

But, you know what? You're right. I don't write as much as I used to. So, off I go to grab my notebook. Sure enough, you are all right there. Waiting. Fighting to be the one I use. The black Uni-Ball Vision Elite usually wins. He's cool. I like him. The blue Pilot P-700 Fine Tip is pretty tight, as well. All you fuckin' Bics, though. Damn. Lazy bastards. And you know it. That's why I only use you for maybe, a telephone number, or an address. When it's times like this, I got to use a professional. Even then, most of the time, they still make me do all of the work. As long as I put the caps back on, though, they usually help out.

But, I mean, what is this? A PENthouse? Things ain't free. And at the first of the month, rent's due. So all of you mother fuckers best help write some shit up so we can pay some bills. I didn't pay $8 for you to just sit on the table all day. So you best start writing. And well, at that.

Sooner or later, we're going to hit the literary jackpot. Then we can all just sit around and laugh at those whom walk by to grab a beer.

--by Hollywould, The Dirty Third, 03/04/2005