Father

Loving thoughts seldom articulated,
But known they are there.
Stoic gaze in my mirror
I see his face,
as it was,
before we ever met.
He
Which I hope I may someday be
My father.
My hero.

What happens when a roommate asks you to write a paper for them and they're being lazy while you're being manic

As I watch the people around me, I question the motives they have regarding their manner of dress. I see many different kinds of people, each in the garb of their own “tribe.” Over here are the sorority girls, their hair done all up, and their pants as tight as they can possibly get. Next to them are the frat boys, easily identified by their hunched posture and the dragging knuckles. Also they exhibit an odd sense of hubris as I watch the “upper class “ try to engage in some odd sort of mating ritual. I do not quiet understand this, but I will move on to a group that has some value. Over in the corner there, I think I see some “nerds.” We characterize the “nerds” by the old ill-fitting clothing that they wear and the foreign language they like to converse in. A colleague of mine has studied these “nerds,” but to understand them you must assimilate fully into their culture, a chance he was not willing to take. Next we can see the feminist/lesbians. They are easy to spot. They’re a bunch of what would normally be hot girls who have it in them to cut their hair shorter than mine and then spike it all up. Then, they don’t talk to any guy, because in their religion, guys are the physical incarnation of Satan himself. Scattered out among the other tables, we can find a group of people we’ll call “freshmen.” The freshman is and odd species. They seem to sit alone, and not socialize with others. This is due to the fact that they have not been assimilated into a tribe yet, as they have just broken away from the familial bonds called the “hometown.” The freshman is a benign creature, but it can be easily confused with the “dangerous psychopathic loner.” The dangerous psychopathic loner is just that, a dangerous psychopathic loner. They are usually too smart for their own good. They have ideas implanted in their head and they think they know what the perfect government would be. The dangerous part is that they usually have fantasies about bring this perfect government to real life.
The tribe that interests me the most has many names. They’re the ones you see everywhere, wearing the leather, the big chains, and rainbow hair. For argument, I’ll call them the “Punk-ass Mother Fuckers.” They seem to me to be trying to run away from social moors and responsibilities. Also they seem to want to be without any society whatsoever. The funny thing about Punk-ass Mother Fuckers is that they gravitate towards each other. In theory they want to be away from everyone, but in the end they form their own society.
Any society however needs its own form of Punk-ass Mother Fuckers. Without the Punk-ass Mother Fuckers, society as we know it would fall into ruin. Without them, we would have no one to look at when we are feeling bad about our situation. These people make us feel good about ourselves. Without this people in society would have a much smaller collective self-esteem, and the crime rate would skyrocket as people tried to make themselves feel better through the use of hard drugs (crack, heroin, aspirin, etc.). These drug-induced rages would eventually work themselves up to our world leaders. These world leaders, many of them at least, have control of nuclear weapons. The world does not need cracked up world leaders bombing the fuck out of countries (unless it was Canada, they just deserve it, eh?)
Thus, to conclude Punk-ass Mother Fuckers are the best group we have in society, because without them we would be living in a post-apocalyptic world where the dollar would have no value and all sex would be safe because everyone in the world would be sterile. So thank you, Punk-ass Mother Fuckers of the world, society owes you one.

Scab

Liam couldn’t stand it anymore. It had been too long. He disagreed with the strike called by the union, but he was a good union man. He stayed with his brothers in arms, and he stayed away from work. Some of his friends crossed, and certainly he wouldn’t be associated with them anymore, buy they had families, like he did himself.
This morning he was going to cross. No one wants to be a scab, but if it means food in your mouth, and the mouth of you family, a man can lose sight of his ideals.
He rinsed the soap and the hair off his face in the washbasin, tied up his boots, and nudged his wife to give her a quick kiss. She told him to be safe today. Before the danger of the mine, he had the danger of the line to face. Old friends would be his enemies this morning, his best friend his worst tormentor. Grabbing his lunch pail, he walked out the door, his shoulders heavy with the anticipation of the worst.
Several times he wanted to turn back, but all he needed to think about was his family. His wife, once all plump and beautiful, now all emaciated. His children, reduced to walking into town to beg for anything the good people would give them. Liam supported the union, his “brothers,” but he had at home something more important to support, those who truly loved him.
As he approached the mine, he noticed something he didn’t expect. The line was not barring the shaft, no one was chanting the rally cries, and no one yelled the battle call. The entrance was buzzing with activity, but nothing subversive, it was the activity such as that at the entrance of an anthill, all the good workers diligently working at their assigned task, from the loaders to the “moles.”
He entered the boss’s hut and punched the clock. A fellow worker embraced him, and congratulated him on their victory on another battle won. Liam could only produce a sly smile. He had crossed, but he was the only one who knew