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Eddie Hazel

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“SPREAD IT ON YA THANG AND TASTE IT IN YA MIND’S EYE”
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I am in the wrong business.
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When you are a civilized type of person, and you have been drinking gin all night, and you step out the front door at 5:50 AM, when the sky remains as black as your most fondly regarded sins, so that you may walk the dog and clear your juniper-besotted mind with an amenable bit of lightly chilled Marvin Gaye, the following should not be anywhere in sight:

• Fifteen full-grown women spread out across the darkened lawn of the middle school, flailing through a series of jumping jacks with little five-pound chick-weights, before setting off, as one, on a determined slog-jog up a large hill.
• One full-grown man, clad entirely in sweat-wicking Spandex and sun-blocking Oakley despite the cool pre-dawn air and rather pervasive pre-dawn darkness, buzzing you in a $5000 racing bike with attached night-light.

One day, should I be awake, I will stride into a gym Saturday at 11:00 AM, just in time for the cardio blitz, wearing pajama pants and a loose-fitting T-shirt, and I will pull up a chair in front of the yoga mats and rhythmically jangle a cocktail shaker in time with the Exertion Grunts, while smoking. If anyone questions me, I will loudly share my thoughts on Modigliani, and demand that someone “freshen my morning tea” while shaking a cocktail glass in their general direction and cackling.

If I have to be confronted with gross caricatures of their kind when I try to take peaceful advantage of the nighttime, they should have to be confronted with gross caricatures of my kind every time they take sweaty advantage of the day.

Cocksuckers.