Author: Alex Sandell
I don’t want to go out anymore.
I just want to sit in my room and watch
about exercise machines and telephone psychics.
Stare vacantly at out of shape morons riding machines,
cheerily describing their flabby arms and oversized butt.
“I can really feel this machine working,”
they’ll say and the corporation will sell a hundred more.
They claim they’re in it for the cardiovascular workout
when they really just want to get laid.
“Firm your fanny in under three weeks,”
and the corporation will sell two hundred more.
The corporation will get fat off of the insecurities they sell. And I sit back in my hard plastic chair
and eat a bag of greasy potato chips, a candy bar for my dessert.
Then I scratch my balls and jot down another
1-800 number to call for more information
so maybe someday I’ll get laid.
Then I set down the piece of paper and watch more mindless t.v.
By the next day I’ll forget all about it.
One machine the corporation won’t sell.