The other night I was walking out of Stater Brothers and heard a group of dudes squawking and hollering at each other in front of the liquor store, three businesses down.  There was a lot of “awww yeah” and “what up my nigga” to be heard.  It occurred to me that no one has ever been that happy to see me in a parking lot in front of a liquor store and I can’t help but think that means I’m doing something right.

Last week I was driving my truck and a warning DING! sounded.  I looked at the dash and couldn’t see any idiot lights indicating what was wrong.  Couple minutes later I get another one, but at that point I was a couple minutes away from home and didn’t care enough to look into it that evening.  The next day at lunch I got a couple more and was mildly annoyed but there wasn’t much I could do about it that day as I had to go to school immediately after work.  The drive to school is about 30 to 40 minutes if I leave work on time.  Five minutes into my drive to school, the DING! starts going apeshit.  For the next half hour, every one to three seconds, it went off.


After five minutes of this shit, I was yelling at my truck.  After twenty minutes, I wanted to pull my own head off.  After thirty minutes, it finally stopped and just as it did, I finally saw an idiot light on the dash informing me that a brake light was out.  The light flashed for not even a half a second.  The DING! is the same DING! I get when I’m running low on fuel, but it only sounds once when that happens.  It sounds ONE TIME when I might run out of gas and be stranded but it’s the end of the fucking world if I only have one working brake light.  So to the manufacturers of my Dodge truck, I say simply this:  I wipe my ass with the names of your sacred dead.

Very briefly, I’d just like to say the following to the person or persons responsible for there being a television at my gas pump:

  • If I thought I could get away with it
  • If I wasn’t happily married to a wonderful woman
  • If there wasn’t anything left in my life to live for

Your lungs would already be filled with my shit.

And finally, this is an actual conversation that happened right in front of me at work last week.  You’ll either get this or not.  If you do, you’re old too:

J: Abe, you know how I have you listed in my phone?
A: No.
J: Abe Vigoda.
A: Okay…
J: You don”t know who Abe Vigoda is?
A: No.
J: He’s this crazy old dude who dresses in S&M gear on Conan O”Brien.
Me: Nnnnnnnnnn.

Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.