It runs amok inside of my head. It arrogantly prances as if I were dead. It thumbs its nose whenever I try to quell its intelligence-insulting lie. It bleeds the eyes with the morning news. It voids in me with its monstrous views. It winds me up as a talking head, then perturbs me at night when I go to bed. Sliding along, biding our time, or still soaking up the trumpeted slime, it's all the same; the hogwash is rank. Requiring a clyster to empty the tank.