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I don’t mean to sound like I’m bitching here nor do I tell you all of this in hope of some sympathy, money or a piece of ass. They way this life has turned out so far has me looking at every “event” as a story, a story to be told for laughs, tears, understanding. That is the purpose of literature, whatever the hell that is anymore; to strike an emotional chord deep within the human soul.
But people come attracted because they feel we have something in common and that makes us peers, comrades, friends. It is the same reason why Bukowski attracted all the loons; they believed he was just as crazy and drunk as they were (or they wanted to see a man fall to pieces). So they come over to my room or call me on the phone or, thanks to the technology today, instant message me with their rants and bitching.
Everyone expects me to have a good story to tell, but I have already told them so many times they have become lies to me. My life is a work of fiction and so I tell them what is happening in the moment. This results in a pouring of emotion every now and then until I finally shut myself up because I have sickened myself. And I do feel bad, for usually this happens when in a shitty mood and really don’t want to be around people, but that is when people are always around.
Nonetheless, I get out of my rut and walk around, smiling and gay, feeling that if I were to dive off the roof of my building I would float slowly and smoothly, like a feather, to the ground. That is when they knock on my door or ring my phone or cause my computer to go on the fritz. It is always on the worse day of their lives, their hopes and dreams and women all gone. They sit in my room, taking advantage of the liquor and my ear, looking, begging and pleading for some empathy. Well sirs, I am incapable of that for whatever it is that has you down, well, I truly can give two shits about.
There are only three people that I will listen bitch about their lives and that is only because I care for them; Clinten, Danielle and drunks. They rest can just sit there and sulk for as long as they want, they will eventually get out of their rut as I have mine.
That doesn’t mean that the above three get a free pass to enter in and send a barrage of bitching and moaning my way.
Who am I kidding? These are my friends, of course they can. What I mean is I expect at least a little bit of tact, decency, and respect what little bit of feeling I have left. Besides if I wasn’t for them, I’m not I would have a lot to write about, a lot of stories to tell.
But it is like, take Danielle for instance, since she is the object of my affection at the moment. I listen to her going on and on about Adam and all the other boys she is going out and hooking up with, or at least, attempting to hook up with and she goes into great detail about the situations she finds herself, every finger’s movement, every ounce of moisture gathering below the belt, every inch of cock that is involved and for someone who cares so deeply for her and wants to spend the rest of my life with her, it is enough to make me puke up all this beer and cry myself to sleep at night. Except I don’t. No, I take a step back from it all and realize that I don’t feel that way even though my mind is telling me I should. I just accept it and come to terms that I am Crazy.
Yet, on the other foot, when it is mentioned that I have come to know a woman intimately (who am I kidding; when she finds out I fucked someone) she is unnerved by it all and I find her gathering distance. It’s only when I tell her how I truly feel that she seems to come around, but it doesn’t matter. Her heart is with someone else, no matter how much she wants to deny it. It’s just the fact that her and I are going through the same exact thing, wanting someone who doesn’t want the other and it appears she refuses to acknowledge that fact when we speak. But I do ask, and if I was truly bothered by it all, I would talk to her. And shit, I know of a woman who feels exactly like Danielle and I do, and is tied into this as well for I string her along and crush her soul at the same time, I’m sure.
I’m actually getting sick of myself and now need a drink more than ever. I got this forensics exam tomorrow and then have to go out to the field for the rest of the month. Maybe in that time I will have another good story for you all, hell maybe in that time I will be over Danielle, or her over Adam or hell, her over me. Maybe I will even stop bitching to this keyboard and say something real for once. Or maybe I will just grab another beer and keep doing what I do.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Do you just ever write about your emotions?
She asked me if I ever wrote what I felt or if I just stuck to the stories. I had. From time to time I would open up and express my love, my hate, my confusion in the relationships I had. I also wrote about my anticipation, my fear, my anxiety of going to war and not going to war. Except now I did now want to touch those emotions. I didn’t want to feel anything. I just wanted to put out my novel and my short stories. I didn’t need to tap into those feelings. They were always there.
She hated the fact that I didn’t share my feelings with her, or anyone for that matter. Sure with love and relationships I am sure she could help me work through my problems. But, with war, combat, she had no place. No one close to me did. They didn’t know what to say to the fact that I was scared that I would not be able to train my guys properly. That I was scared that I might not bring some of them back.
Very few people can tell you how to deal with the recurring dreams of not, physically, being able to pull the trigger, or when you must rush to stop the killings of friends and family and you are stuck, no weapon, no equipment. Helpless.
I have sat here for six years on the sidelines. Every minute I spent training, I have invested 100% of myself into it. I know nothing of combat, but I have been to every practice. I sit here on the bench of the biggest game of the year, third string, and now I am being called up. To ensure my men do their job. To kill the enemy and win the hearts and minds of the population. To bring everyone of them home alive. It’s a terrible amount of pressure.
Yet, it is only here, in the dark, that I show my cracks for in the morning I awaken to throw on my uniform. I do everything I can to prepare my men, mentally and physically. That is the easy part though. It is gaining their trust in my leadership that is the hardest. Maybe it is due to the slow pitches we have received in training, that makes them believe that our job is a little too simple. It might even be the fact I myself have no idea about the essence of combat therefore, any remark I make sounds as though it comes straight out of a text book.
I do not know what it might be; all I am aware of is how it shakes me during these nights. Alone and constantly harassed about what I feel.
She wants to know what I feel. Well overall I feel nothing, because in the morning, in the woods, the swamps, the mountains, all my mental and emotional fortitude is dedicated to them. I don’t have the luxury to decipher what is going on inside me.
She hated the fact that I didn’t share my feelings with her, or anyone for that matter. Sure with love and relationships I am sure she could help me work through my problems. But, with war, combat, she had no place. No one close to me did. They didn’t know what to say to the fact that I was scared that I would not be able to train my guys properly. That I was scared that I might not bring some of them back.
Very few people can tell you how to deal with the recurring dreams of not, physically, being able to pull the trigger, or when you must rush to stop the killings of friends and family and you are stuck, no weapon, no equipment. Helpless.
I have sat here for six years on the sidelines. Every minute I spent training, I have invested 100% of myself into it. I know nothing of combat, but I have been to every practice. I sit here on the bench of the biggest game of the year, third string, and now I am being called up. To ensure my men do their job. To kill the enemy and win the hearts and minds of the population. To bring everyone of them home alive. It’s a terrible amount of pressure.
Yet, it is only here, in the dark, that I show my cracks for in the morning I awaken to throw on my uniform. I do everything I can to prepare my men, mentally and physically. That is the easy part though. It is gaining their trust in my leadership that is the hardest. Maybe it is due to the slow pitches we have received in training, that makes them believe that our job is a little too simple. It might even be the fact I myself have no idea about the essence of combat therefore, any remark I make sounds as though it comes straight out of a text book.
I do not know what it might be; all I am aware of is how it shakes me during these nights. Alone and constantly harassed about what I feel.
She wants to know what I feel. Well overall I feel nothing, because in the morning, in the woods, the swamps, the mountains, all my mental and emotional fortitude is dedicated to them. I don’t have the luxury to decipher what is going on inside me.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Home is where the beer, whores and friends are
Home. Wherever that was anymore, I didn’t fit. To my family, I drank too much, cursed and slept around with whomever. To my friends, it was the same, except they were drinking just as much (only a few slept around as much as I did, but they at least knew how to ensure the entire town didn’t find out about it the next day). I was like this when I left that dead town, New Kensington, not too many people acknowledged it though. Clinten did. He was there the night we were all drinking one woman’s garage as I sat there, four females lined up in front of me. All wanting to know who the best kisser was. Sure there were two other guys with me, but with some stroke of Luck, I had become the expert of the group.
And he was the one to drive me and two other females all off to our respective homes. First dropping off Lauren, making out with her in the back yard, trying to find a spot where she could blow me and not have to worry about her father. After being interrupted by Clinten’s car horn (he can be a dick like that and so am I. It keeps the friendship going), we were at Tina’s house fooling around on her computer when her and I decided to start fooling around. Clinten left in disgust, throwing me a condom and I fucked her good that night.
Something happened after Danielle and I broke up. These women finally started showing me that I had something to offer them, something they wanted for quite some time. All I had to do was be there and smile.
The years started going by and women left my bedroom at higher rates and I ran around with an air of arrogance, entitlement, and who wouldn’t? For the most part, especially my years in Germany, I was getting consistently laid by women who, for the most part, were amazing, and if they lacked looks they made up for it with either their oral skills or freakiness level in bed (or bar bathroom, restaurant parking lot, club dance floor, just to name a few). Back home, everyone else thought I was an asshole, but it didn’t stop women from spreading their legs so it didn’t stop me.
Now, five years later and one hell of a vacation over Christmas were pulling pussy was more like deciding which apples to buy at a supermarket than some sort of exciting chase, I’m bored with it all. My cousin is happy that I have hung up my manwhore shoes, but she knows that I’m leaving for Afghanistan in the fall so I will be home, and people will hear the scary tale of future war and combat, the possibility of death and again, those legs will spread, and I will glide my cock in yet again. It’s what I know, and it seems that is all I got.
I’m sure there will be a few back there, telling me I am too old for this shit. Last time I checked, I’m twenty three. They act as though they don’t understand me, but I plainly don’t understand them. When we were young and didn’t comprehend how big the world was, everyone would shout there head “WHAT’S MY AGE AGAIN! WHAT’S MY AGE AGAIN!” Then people attempt college, have a kid or two or three, marry, and they believe they have grown up. Matured.
HA!
Home. Maybe they’re right though. Being in the army gives you a few grievances and people tend to let you slide, BUT I’m coming home for good. The “I was in a war, goddammit” card will only go so far until I finally use it all up, and then what? Do I settle down, start furthering my education? What about all those young girls of eighteen walking around the campus, their eyes filled with hope and wanting to experience everything they can, everything their mothers and fathers did and are now afraid of? Who will please them?
Do I get a steady job that pays a decent as a war vet could hope for? Date? I tried dating over Christmas, it scared the hell out of me. Too many whores and bar flies and military town sluts have caused me to forget what even a date is even supposed to be like. Plus, over the years I have come to hate people. It’s all rudimentary to what will happen down the road (either a few good fucks or a serious relationship) and worst of all it requires a lot of small talk which will only force me to put a gun in my mouth.
Do I try to work it out with my ex, the woman I truly love? My stomach is to torn up right now to even deal with that. Actually excuse me a moment while I go and puke.
Ah, so where was I? yes yes So what will I do?
I will get a small apartment, with a small room and small desk. Sitting in there; my laptop, my typewriter, my ashtray and my fridge, stocked with beer and whiskey, and I will get drunk. Writing and typing and screwing. Screwing who? Those sweet young eighteen year old girls who traveled one of the three rivers to make it as a biologist or lawyer or accountant or, god forbid a writer.
Change my ways. Try to be with my love. Mature. The catch phrase seems to be, “Leave it up to fate.” No one wants to make any decisions, take any responsibility and that is all I need. My conscience is clear. I’m already expecting to lose it all and just be another drunk in a crummy apartment talking about the days when I was young so why try? I can’t control this shit, I know what I want and will take it if available. If not, well, damn.
Still, I will be close to the family and they do love me. I will be close to friends and they still put up with me. I will be close to alcohol and that never let me down. New Kensington. Pittsburgh. Pennsylvania. Home. Maybe it’s not as scary as I make it seem. Maybe that’s just the 3 a.m. beer talking.
And he was the one to drive me and two other females all off to our respective homes. First dropping off Lauren, making out with her in the back yard, trying to find a spot where she could blow me and not have to worry about her father. After being interrupted by Clinten’s car horn (he can be a dick like that and so am I. It keeps the friendship going), we were at Tina’s house fooling around on her computer when her and I decided to start fooling around. Clinten left in disgust, throwing me a condom and I fucked her good that night.
Something happened after Danielle and I broke up. These women finally started showing me that I had something to offer them, something they wanted for quite some time. All I had to do was be there and smile.
The years started going by and women left my bedroom at higher rates and I ran around with an air of arrogance, entitlement, and who wouldn’t? For the most part, especially my years in Germany, I was getting consistently laid by women who, for the most part, were amazing, and if they lacked looks they made up for it with either their oral skills or freakiness level in bed (or bar bathroom, restaurant parking lot, club dance floor, just to name a few). Back home, everyone else thought I was an asshole, but it didn’t stop women from spreading their legs so it didn’t stop me.
Now, five years later and one hell of a vacation over Christmas were pulling pussy was more like deciding which apples to buy at a supermarket than some sort of exciting chase, I’m bored with it all. My cousin is happy that I have hung up my manwhore shoes, but she knows that I’m leaving for Afghanistan in the fall so I will be home, and people will hear the scary tale of future war and combat, the possibility of death and again, those legs will spread, and I will glide my cock in yet again. It’s what I know, and it seems that is all I got.
I’m sure there will be a few back there, telling me I am too old for this shit. Last time I checked, I’m twenty three. They act as though they don’t understand me, but I plainly don’t understand them. When we were young and didn’t comprehend how big the world was, everyone would shout there head “WHAT’S MY AGE AGAIN! WHAT’S MY AGE AGAIN!” Then people attempt college, have a kid or two or three, marry, and they believe they have grown up. Matured.
HA!
Home. Maybe they’re right though. Being in the army gives you a few grievances and people tend to let you slide, BUT I’m coming home for good. The “I was in a war, goddammit” card will only go so far until I finally use it all up, and then what? Do I settle down, start furthering my education? What about all those young girls of eighteen walking around the campus, their eyes filled with hope and wanting to experience everything they can, everything their mothers and fathers did and are now afraid of? Who will please them?
Do I get a steady job that pays a decent as a war vet could hope for? Date? I tried dating over Christmas, it scared the hell out of me. Too many whores and bar flies and military town sluts have caused me to forget what even a date is even supposed to be like. Plus, over the years I have come to hate people. It’s all rudimentary to what will happen down the road (either a few good fucks or a serious relationship) and worst of all it requires a lot of small talk which will only force me to put a gun in my mouth.
Do I try to work it out with my ex, the woman I truly love? My stomach is to torn up right now to even deal with that. Actually excuse me a moment while I go and puke.
Ah, so where was I? yes yes So what will I do?
I will get a small apartment, with a small room and small desk. Sitting in there; my laptop, my typewriter, my ashtray and my fridge, stocked with beer and whiskey, and I will get drunk. Writing and typing and screwing. Screwing who? Those sweet young eighteen year old girls who traveled one of the three rivers to make it as a biologist or lawyer or accountant or, god forbid a writer.
Change my ways. Try to be with my love. Mature. The catch phrase seems to be, “Leave it up to fate.” No one wants to make any decisions, take any responsibility and that is all I need. My conscience is clear. I’m already expecting to lose it all and just be another drunk in a crummy apartment talking about the days when I was young so why try? I can’t control this shit, I know what I want and will take it if available. If not, well, damn.
Still, I will be close to the family and they do love me. I will be close to friends and they still put up with me. I will be close to alcohol and that never let me down. New Kensington. Pittsburgh. Pennsylvania. Home. Maybe it’s not as scary as I make it seem. Maybe that’s just the 3 a.m. beer talking.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Love, Fate, Hope and All the Things You'll Never Get
I don’t ever expect you to tell me that you love me. All I want is for you to know that I do. I could write long stories about it, but for me, nothing compares to those three little words.
That was the text message Danielle, my high school girlfriend, woke up to. Five years later after our falling out, she was coming out of a long relationship and I was entering back in to her life. Fate. It appeared that it was the most perfect time except I am leaving for Afghanistan in a few months. Five years later and I was making the same mistakes I always do; getting involved when I was leaving and now, telling a woman that I love her when there is no chance of her feeling the same.
When I first told her how I felt she was still in a happy relationship. Well, she was happy. Her boyfriend found a few skeletons and some minor bickering had him distancing himself. Just a fight, and Danielle wasn’t going to throw all that away on a womanizing, drunk just because he could put how he felt eloquently on paper. No, I had wronged her too many times for her to ever embrace the reformed Joe Wells. Loving, caring, hell, even happy.
Yet here we were, night after night on the phone, talking about her and Adam, her, all the other guys that wanted her and every now and then, me. The conversation was great and when I closed my eyes I saw us walking home from school, like we did all those years ago, before we moved out into the world. Then as the night went on, we would talk about us, how it seemed like there was still something there. Fate. Long ago we said we would be together in the end. Long ago, I would do anything to be with her. Long ago, we loved each other.
She could never say it though, especially now. She just had her heartbroken and she didn’t really know me anymore. This is the real world and you need a lot more to work up to those three little words. Unfortunately for me, I don’t live in this world. For I know everything I have done, every person I have hurt and every whore I have fucked. I know she could never do worse. That is how I have been able to keep the flame burning for so long.
But it is a double-edged sword, for it keeps my love for her just as strong as the first time I looked into her eyes and knew she was the one I was going to marry, those same choices push her away from me. She wanted to know how many women I slept with and I refused to tell her. No woman should ever know how many pussies their ex has had to enter, trying to forget it all.
So we talk, smile, laugh and I try not to tear up like a fag. As our conversation comes to a close, we lie in our respective beds, alone. I listen to her breath, slowly drifting into sleep, and wonder if I am the last thought on her mind. Finally we say good night and I listen to those last few, slow breaths. I can feel her heart rate slow and relaxed. She may not dream of me that night but at least I can still bring calm and peace over her. At least she knows everything will be all right.
The smile on my face as I begin to fall asleep fades as I realize that I have fallen further into the past than I believed. For what we have now is not the good times Danielle and I had when we dated, no, it’s ninth grade. We are walking home and I am carrying her book bag, it’s too heavy for her. I’m listening to all her problems with boys, none of which include me. I’m hoping and praying she will recognize me. Recognize my love for her and reciprocate it. I am a fool. I hold my pillow tight that night.
I am a fool in love.
That was the text message Danielle, my high school girlfriend, woke up to. Five years later after our falling out, she was coming out of a long relationship and I was entering back in to her life. Fate. It appeared that it was the most perfect time except I am leaving for Afghanistan in a few months. Five years later and I was making the same mistakes I always do; getting involved when I was leaving and now, telling a woman that I love her when there is no chance of her feeling the same.
When I first told her how I felt she was still in a happy relationship. Well, she was happy. Her boyfriend found a few skeletons and some minor bickering had him distancing himself. Just a fight, and Danielle wasn’t going to throw all that away on a womanizing, drunk just because he could put how he felt eloquently on paper. No, I had wronged her too many times for her to ever embrace the reformed Joe Wells. Loving, caring, hell, even happy.
Yet here we were, night after night on the phone, talking about her and Adam, her, all the other guys that wanted her and every now and then, me. The conversation was great and when I closed my eyes I saw us walking home from school, like we did all those years ago, before we moved out into the world. Then as the night went on, we would talk about us, how it seemed like there was still something there. Fate. Long ago we said we would be together in the end. Long ago, I would do anything to be with her. Long ago, we loved each other.
She could never say it though, especially now. She just had her heartbroken and she didn’t really know me anymore. This is the real world and you need a lot more to work up to those three little words. Unfortunately for me, I don’t live in this world. For I know everything I have done, every person I have hurt and every whore I have fucked. I know she could never do worse. That is how I have been able to keep the flame burning for so long.
But it is a double-edged sword, for it keeps my love for her just as strong as the first time I looked into her eyes and knew she was the one I was going to marry, those same choices push her away from me. She wanted to know how many women I slept with and I refused to tell her. No woman should ever know how many pussies their ex has had to enter, trying to forget it all.
So we talk, smile, laugh and I try not to tear up like a fag. As our conversation comes to a close, we lie in our respective beds, alone. I listen to her breath, slowly drifting into sleep, and wonder if I am the last thought on her mind. Finally we say good night and I listen to those last few, slow breaths. I can feel her heart rate slow and relaxed. She may not dream of me that night but at least I can still bring calm and peace over her. At least she knows everything will be all right.
The smile on my face as I begin to fall asleep fades as I realize that I have fallen further into the past than I believed. For what we have now is not the good times Danielle and I had when we dated, no, it’s ninth grade. We are walking home and I am carrying her book bag, it’s too heavy for her. I’m listening to all her problems with boys, none of which include me. I’m hoping and praying she will recognize me. Recognize my love for her and reciprocate it. I am a fool. I hold my pillow tight that night.
I am a fool in love.
Another night with another drink, with thoughts running all about
Mark Kozelek’s “Metropol 47” plays quietly on the radio. Over and over. A tall glass of Bushmills sits on my night stand. I chase it with Coca-Cola. Been quite some time since I had a drink. Midnight. I am alone.
Work is in six hours. It will be hot and humid. We will run and this whiskey will only hamper my performance. Due to the heat and humidity and the whiskey and the fact that I ran eight goddamn miles the day prior, I won’t eat breakfast. Instead I will lay in my bed.
My room will stay a mess. The dishes won’t be cleaned. I will just stare at my alarm clock, eventually catching an hour of rest, only to awake angered by it all. My disgust for the job at the moment, my trashed room, the blinking cursor on the white background of the word document that has been open for over a week.
Then it will all go away, and I will grab a glass from the liquor cabinet. Sucking the nectar of hate and love, joy and anguish, down so smoothly. Chasing it with Coca-Cola. A woman, that is what I need. Someone to provide balance.
Money. That is what I need. Some sort of security.
The ability to love. That is what I need. To open up and feel.
No, what I need is what I want, which is what is not possible. The last six years back AND the experience of what will come in the following year. Sadly, the latter is the only part to come to reality. Yet, I shouldn’t be sadden by this, it is really all I wanted. I did marry this bitch, Army.
I just regret these past six years with her. I gave up any chance of normal, teenage, life bullshit FOR A NOBEL CAUSE, only to get stuck behind a desk the entire time. Did I make a difference? Did I defend freedom? No, I just missed out on a whole bunch of shit in life and said thank you when the paycheck came.
I have been angry for so long. I am now in a place in my life where, after my tour, I am ready to move on. Be a civilian again. But then I see my guys. I think about Afghanistan and I become scared shitless, not because of war, but when we got the machine guns rocking and we sit back, having a few beers afterward I think to myself, “Damn, I could do this for the rest of my life and be happy.”
Metropol 47 continues playing softly. I pour what is left of the whiskey down the sink. Eighteen months from now I will be either a civilian or a soldier, but that is not what matters. It’s whether I will be able to finally go to bed at night and be at peace with myself. I close my eyes and turn off the light.
Work is in six hours. It will be hot and humid. We will run and this whiskey will only hamper my performance. Due to the heat and humidity and the whiskey and the fact that I ran eight goddamn miles the day prior, I won’t eat breakfast. Instead I will lay in my bed.
My room will stay a mess. The dishes won’t be cleaned. I will just stare at my alarm clock, eventually catching an hour of rest, only to awake angered by it all. My disgust for the job at the moment, my trashed room, the blinking cursor on the white background of the word document that has been open for over a week.
Then it will all go away, and I will grab a glass from the liquor cabinet. Sucking the nectar of hate and love, joy and anguish, down so smoothly. Chasing it with Coca-Cola. A woman, that is what I need. Someone to provide balance.
Money. That is what I need. Some sort of security.
The ability to love. That is what I need. To open up and feel.
No, what I need is what I want, which is what is not possible. The last six years back AND the experience of what will come in the following year. Sadly, the latter is the only part to come to reality. Yet, I shouldn’t be sadden by this, it is really all I wanted. I did marry this bitch, Army.
I just regret these past six years with her. I gave up any chance of normal, teenage, life bullshit FOR A NOBEL CAUSE, only to get stuck behind a desk the entire time. Did I make a difference? Did I defend freedom? No, I just missed out on a whole bunch of shit in life and said thank you when the paycheck came.
I have been angry for so long. I am now in a place in my life where, after my tour, I am ready to move on. Be a civilian again. But then I see my guys. I think about Afghanistan and I become scared shitless, not because of war, but when we got the machine guns rocking and we sit back, having a few beers afterward I think to myself, “Damn, I could do this for the rest of my life and be happy.”
Metropol 47 continues playing softly. I pour what is left of the whiskey down the sink. Eighteen months from now I will be either a civilian or a soldier, but that is not what matters. It’s whether I will be able to finally go to bed at night and be at peace with myself. I close my eyes and turn off the light.
Joe "Mother Fucking" Wells Is DEAD
On Wednesday, May 19, 2010, Joe “Mother Fucking” Wells was found dead in the parking lot of the Best Western Hotel in DeRidder, Louisiana.
Witnesses say that Joe “M.F.” Wells became distraught after leaving the room of what appeared to be an out-of-state slut of large proportions. It is believed the persona took its own life after it was shot down on multiple occasions.
Friends close to the persona say that Wells had been walking around for the past couple of weeks with an air of desperation. One close friend stated, “[He] kept walking around talking about how since he couldn’t be with his love he was just going to keep fucking whores and writing novels. I didn’t see him doing any of that.”
Joe “Mother Fucking” Wells is survived by his host, Joseph Wells of New Kensington, PA. Per Wells’ last requests, there will be no funeral.
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