I feel the need to explain poem 21396

Whenever someone from the Obama administration says 'look', I feel a sharp tingle burn up my spine. Doctors say this is a routine reaction, that this kind of behavior is normal for reactionary nerves such as myself.

I hate Megadeth, and Metallica. I just can't stand the music. I'll leave it open to you to finalize all the calculations, but there is a definite systemic algorithm of crap there.

So imagine my chagrin on a Sunday morning, after Tony from HR (not the guy who originally interviewed me) had called to let me down easy on Friday -- can you imagine that? Ok, we're doing okay. Thank the gods that people in 2010 have brains, and that writers now no longer have to construct elaborations to somehow 'persuade' readers' minds that they're in a certain place. You know, unlike back in the day where people like Shakespeare and shit had to make up a load of stuff convince everyone. So, just read on, will you?

Like I say, it was a Sunday, and I hate Megadeth. I had to walk up this staircase made of wood (wood staircases are extremely suspect -- use concrete in the future) where the flaky paint was getting into my fingers, convincing me of a future with dire paint-poisoning. My mind, of course, would not articulate the exact type of poisoning these flakes (which liked to embed themselves, in shards, under my skin) incur, my mind being an extremely self-protective and devious mind. These flakes of paint, they shimmered -- but not because they were intrinsically unique -- they shimmered like that because of the shitty music coming from that apartment.

I finally reached the door, and I knocked. I wanted to tell him how bad my day had been, it being the Sunday after the Friday Tony from HR had called. It is not fair that, in life, some people are the winners, and some the losers. That's just BS, in my opinion. The door was that cheap shade of gray exasperated architects who were fucked in the ass last night envision in their plans. "Look, I can't decide on green or blue. Wait, you're saying there is red?" Having to deal with all these colors (the combinations are different when you are doing it in light, as opposed to paints) added to my horror when there was no response after 20 or 30 knocks on this so-called 'door'.

I waited for ten minutes before doing knock #31. There were birds to look at, in the area. Of course, there was also the shambling staircase with its horrid asbestos foundation flaking away into the morning sun light. And this annoying music coming from inside his apartment. It was so bad, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and called my mom -- and wept to her. She told me exactly what to do.

The legend is that he died listening to Megadeth, but true historians know that I took it upon myself to pick the lock, enter his abode, and change the music. I put on 'Easy Muffin' by Amon Tobin, and adjusted the volume to a respectable level for a corpse. Then I ran the hell outta there like my momma told me.