What the world needs now is meatloaf in third world nations. Microwavable meatloaf. Wouldn’t that be nice? The end of world hunger and the genesis of global obesity. That’s like the beacon of general prosperity, the cardinal marker of a buoyant country’s welfare: a six hundred pound man in a wheelchair: a symbol as iconic as a bald eagle: a liposuction clinic in every city: three dollar hungry man microwavable meals packing three thousand calories each stowed behind glass doors at a local gas station. If Joe six pack-less may be well fed because of it, I must be doing well the same, (so long as what he drinks is natural ice and not some expensive IPA,) that’s my theory. Even if one thinks the food he eats is garbage, I’m better off now than if we all were actually picking through literal garbage. Praise Jesus. Hallelujah. How he loves the USA. It’s an expression of freedom, the fact that one can become that way: a six hundred pound man in a wheelchair clinging to the erect shaft of Donald Trump’s capitalism, soaring under the wings of the ghost of Ronald Reagan and gripped inside the talons of a livid Rush Limbaugh. I’m in a drag race against time sponsored by Cheetos, Welch’s and Nascar; the American dream will never die. Fifty cal salute to the sky. Smooth like the tepid gravy on a salisbury steak and fresh like a July night, it makes me want to make a toast. As crickets chirp and bullfrogs croak, here by the stream’s shore on the muddy bank, let us bang hot pockets together in a mental union of approval for things and how they are. Let me be mowed by ice and lava: a ying yang of civillianism and autonomy. The heady flavor of ham, cheese and bread has me beaming like a walmart sign. I’m absolutely sanguine with hope in red, white and blue torrents of caliber and value for what tomorrow will have in store.