Monday, December 17, 2012
Gus's Pub
Sitting in Gus’s Pub
drinking local brews,
eating homegrown hamburgers
and talking to my friend Pete.
It’s dark enough
that I can imagine
this is all there is.
The VLTs, and slot machines,
amateur comedy hour at eight.
The jokes are flat and crude.
The people assembled
chew and drink and cheer;
we don’t want to be rude;
our forced laughter conquers hate.
And no one in here,
no matter how wild,
will ever burn it down.
We’re safe from the world in here.
But here’s my problem:
it’s a business;
we can’t lock newcomers out.
Every now and then,
the door opens a crack
and light filters in,
filled with dust and gin.
It reminds me
the beer will run out,
the burgers’ll turn to shit.
I tell Pete about humanure.
He says Gus should buy some cows.
"Get them hooked on gambling,
they’ll never have cause to run.
That’s what the ancients done."
The cash in this room,
if kept local, should suffice.
We’ll befriend the rape-joke comic,
teach him the error of his ways.
And everything’ll be OK.
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Gus' pub is the world too. I honestly think people fear safety that's why most people just try to control the environment they are instead of just being a part of it. But you may be onto something there...collect all the cash in the room and head to the hills with the rape joke comic and if he doesn't make you laugh honestly, well leave him out there.
Experience tells me that no one likes their rape jokes corrected. I don't tell them myself, but I prefer self-correction as much as possible. No one gets in your business that way.
Well, usually.
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Well, usually.
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