It was sometime late winter of 1979, about three months after the 'incident' at the plastic stamping plant when it occurred to him that the schrapnel not only was not getting better, but in fact it was getting worse, much worse. Small chunks of Captain Crunch toy submarine parts would work them selves out of the backside, mostly at night. Hard to sleep when your spitting out red, blue, yellow and green pieces of captain crunch toy submarines from the fatty part of your butt and lower back. The doctors did all they could, telling him to be greatful that it was not his pretty face that took the brunt of the explosion.
The scars were deep, both physically as well as emotionally, but none-the-less, we trudge on. To this day, sometimes when the conditions are just right, as the sun sets in the east and the jackalopes sing their songs of revolution, you can hear the echos of the great explosion ring through the hillsides of Capacoa county. Keep on riding your jap crap and fuck all the haters.