I don’t stop at red lights

That’s right. You read that headline correctly. I don’t stop at red lights when driving. When the car I am operating approaches a traffic light, which happens to be on the red setting, I stay the course. What can I say? It makes me feel like a man.

All of you must be thinking, “Dang Will, that’s cool stuff. How do you do it?” Well, if you have to ask, you don’t know and you will never know. Actually, you know what? If you are lame enough to have to ask how to run through a red light, then you can’t read my words. Everyone has to stop reading here.

That was a test, if you are reading this, then you passed and I’ll tell you how to run red lights. You just do it. Put your feet on the gas pedal, then press the zoom button and you are off. The most important part is that you can’t stop at a red light, just keep them toes on the gas.

Yeah, that’s pretty much it. And, uhh, yeah.

So, that’s about it. I mean, jeez man, I don’t know. I’ve been doing this stuff for like 10 years and I am burnt out. I’ve lost it. I had the magic juices all up in my bones, they were swishing and swashing about in there and, my god, it got crazy. I’d just sit down and, much like my hero Rumpelstiltskin, I’d weave gold. But now, the magic has dried up and I am closer to a rump roast than I’ve ever been to a Rump-lestiltskin. I mean, look at that joke. A rump roast? That’s not funny, that’s not comedy. Heck, I am sitting here writing this, as you read it, and I’m struggling to write enough words, so please read slow.

I had the magic juices all up in my bones, they were swishing and swashing about in there and, my god, it got crazy.

I mean come on, look at that pull quote. It’s fricking huge! It is obnoxiously large, and there is nothing I can do about it. I’m sorry guys, it’s been tough since the kids left. I’d say this doesn’t represent me, but at this point it does! If you guys hate me, I totally get it, even I hate me. I implore you, avert thine eyes to mine downfall. I am but a small man typing on an even smaller typewriter at a fairly small liberal arts college. Please hate me, I don’t deserve the praise you usually throw at me, if you need a reminder why, look to my rump roast joke. But also, go easy on me, I’m just a kid from the farm and I don’t do well with city talk. I’m so alone. If you can help me be funny again, I’ll be on Facebook.


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