I do not like you, Duncan King,
old fart lord of everything—
I will smite you with a pox
stick you in a wooden box

is a polarizing, stepped-on chicken patty in a bun,
breaded flatworm of nostalgia

New issue coming April 20th 2022!

I’m a proud slaughterhouse manager of thirty years. I’ve seen the industry change a lot. But this new generation just might bring the whole thing down. Like, at our weekly “team meating,” my man Gus was presenting about how to best stun a cow with a captive bolt gun and sensitive Sylvester raises his hand and says, “I just think we can get beyond meat.” You know what, Sylvester? I’m Gen-X. I grew up listening to Morrissey. I knew meat was murder before you were even born.

Last night I saw HIM again. No, not Jesus. (If only it was, maybe HE’D save me.) It was the elephant man. He was slinking down the hallway, in that mysterious little way he likes. He crawls on all fours, balancing on the tips of his fingers and the balls of his feet. His shoulders dip back and forth, back and forth, as if dancing to some awful song that only sick creatures like them can hear.