Richmond Sucks Less Than Tennessee

I’ll make sure they’ll never catch me, no they’ll never catch me, you know, maybe I don’t care if they do. There’s this place on my calf that can anticipate the bite. Well above the tendon, which is what they’ll be rooting for. No, it’s not them at all. It’s not the morbid obese I steer the cart past at the Walmart, nor the millions of chinamen manufacturing my Jeff Gordon signature aftershave, my Winnie the Pooh diapers, my various Git-R-Dun products, my music or my food. It’s me, ravenous and zombie, behaving oddly and somehow walking, trying to make it past the self-check out and back to the truck.