All Saints' Day

   
   "All Saints' Day"
  
   This guy might have come to my house last night.  Maybe not.  He was dressed as a Dictator; indeed, he put a potato on the end of his naked choad. 
   Then you have Pizza the Hut, and he tortured me in the second grade, where I attended a regally rural school, in a trailer no less, constantly drawing pictures of a frozen Han Solo and brushing up on my Faulkner.  Were they brave?  Yes.  Were they courageous?  Yes.  But they displayed no pity or mercy.  Sherman's coat was never taken off or removed during his time in the Civil War, some say, and it was a drab olive-green.  Confederate Generals were well-dressed--ZZ Top wrote of the sharp-dressed man.  Yeah, I wanna look like the dillweed from that fancy J. Crew catalog and put feathers in my hat, not allowing the enlisted men any shoes while England is funding my plumes.  
   Always help out the little guy; he's the vertebra of the Corp.  Now don't get me started on truck drivers again.  What the hell.  Best reflexes, many drafted by the CIA.  What, nobody in the CIA ever drove a truck?  Met this female trucker, carrying your goods and survival on the midnight highway while you hold her in contempt and call her stupid--all because she never got brainwashed in college; moreover, her handle was:  Precious Cargo.  Too bad a snob like you won't break bread with her.
   And the Saints.  Mostly peasants or fruitcakes.  Good for them.  The world is bigger than you know, or I know.  This isn't even my house.  They made sure of that.  Like with my Dad's fortune.  In their pockets.  I've been screwed more times than your wife back when she was a sorority girl, getting educated, honestly instructed on how to be a crook, and possibly, a murderer.  Or possibly not.  Yeah, she's Mary Poppins.