Rock Show Power Hour

Dear John,

               Thank you so much for walking out in front of my car while I was driving down that busy street yesterday.  The orange hand told you not to but you did it anyway and I think know why.  When you saw me coming, our eyes met for a brief moment.  Then you fell in love.  During that time, did your heart skip a beat?  Did your mind wander from thoughts of grocery lists and the previous night’s episode of Dancing with the Stars to wayward dreams of you and I picnicking on a tropical beach?  Were you pouring me cheap wine from a box into a #6 plastic cup that you would later toss into the water after writing a message on it with a Sharpie?  Did the message subtly read, “I love bananas”?  Well, I love bananas too John.  I also love femurs and fibulas, especially my own.  Do you love your femur John?  As much as I love mine?  During my drive down the lane you made it quite clear to me that you do not.  In fact, I do believe that you teased me into thinking that you even treasured your tibia.  When our eyes met, John, I too had a vision. It is with deep sorrow that I divulge to you that my mind was not clouded with thoughts of man-love and sand but of your approaching afterlife.  You were sitting on a dark cloud overlooking a silent swelling sea flush full of #6 plastic drinking glasses that bared various verses on their sides like, “I should have waited for the walking man” and, “I didn’t have to die for a doughnut and a ham sandwich”.  That is the real reason why I snapped the steering wheel to the side and bounced my Buick over the boulevard into oncoming traffic.  Sure I was afraid, that if I crashed into you, your carcass would destroy my windshield while flying over my car’s chassis spraying your blood everywhere including on my torn up face.  I know that the thought of our blood mixing together excites you John but I am not like you.  It scared me, the thought of your fluids spreading your obvious blood-born mental disease throughout my body and into my brain turning me into “that guy” who forgets what his mother taught him about crossing the street. That is not the reason why I saved you. I could not run you down when you were on your way to get groceries.  Please let a higher power help us, maybe you have children?  Maybe you have a whole litter of little Johnnies strewn about on your front lawn eating grass and leaves?  Wait, adoption is out, so that would mean that a luckless lady would have had to couple with you?  This, now miserable, maiden would have had to be pie-eyed on acid or another potent potion of some kind to have her gray matter so mixed up as to allow her skirt to get pulled up by your hands.  The “Hands of John” grasping a sober lassie’s unmentionables is unthinkable.  You having never had relations with a woman means that you have most likely never been exposed to the same illicit elixirs that it would take to get your manhood anywhere near her nether regions.  Actually, now that I think about it, there is no way that you could afford the narcotics.  A grown man who wears a shirt, at least three sizes too small,  with Spongebob Squarepants on the front does not have enough cash to purchase the large amount of drugs that it would take to affect a woman’s mind in such a manner.  John, what I am trying to tell you is you are dumb.  You are mind-wise impaired.  You are an inept loony tune with the common sense and social skills of a third graders pet gerbil.  Hey John, thanks again for jumping out in front of my fast moving car today.  The bliss that I feel for having not killed you and making it home with no broken bones is beyond words so I will conclude this letter. I am glad that you made it across the street to get groceries.  You must have been hungry.  I did not break your cranium with my car because no man should die on an empty stomach. 

Sincerely,

Hank