John Randall

There’s people I haven’t met called John Randall.
There’s a guy who’s sick and shoeless in bed called John Randall.
There’s a man with tattoos and a tie on, singing a song called “John Randall.”

There’s a fifty year-old governor who just drove his precocious
aide to the top of a hill named John Randall.
There he is in bed again, still with his shoes off, John Randall.

They’ve got their arms around each other, asking someone to take a photograph.

With a pillow over his head, John Randall.
They don’t realize it’s a tabloid reporter, byline John Randall.

He’s in the back of a portrait of a bunch of people in an apartment drinking Bud Light.  He is drinking a beer called John Randall.
He’s holding it there — not someone else, John Randall.

In the seventies his hair was way long and wavy, John Randall.
He has drinking buddies in college and there is lots of promiscuous sex, John Randall.

Out to pizza with his family, look at that cute dog there, oh, that little squirt, look at him he’s so cute.  Now the dog is barking, the barking is driving him nuts, actually making him physically sick, causing him to think, God, if a dog is this bad, how the hell am I gonna have a kid named John Randall, Jr?

He’s in a picture with Ted Swindley and three provocatively dressed ladies, who coincidentally manage a hedge fund called, “Provocative Lady” (or, “The Angels,” they aren’t sure yet. They don’t actually manage money — it’s really just a Ponzi Scheme and they’re still looking for their first “investor,” hopefully this joker, John Randall).

He is disabled, living off of it, doing nothing but sitting inside smoking cigarettes, watching TV, John Randall.

This time he says — the hell with it, I’m having the kids — and the family’s enormous, John Randall.

On Labor Day he campaigns by riding in a big, red Cadillac through small towns and stumping at the state fair.  In twelve hours, he is able to cover a little over half the state.  He wins in November with 51% of the vote.  Meet your new governor, John Randall.

Put your shoes on, John Randall!

He is getting up from a poker table.  He only has six dollars left, just enough for a six-pack of John Randall.

Late at night he would become so paranoid he was afraid of his own smoke, John Randall.

Old loves show through him like dark stains beneath his thin skin.  Flimsy layers of paint, fooling himself for years.  He’s in the shower when he finally feels it, John Randall.

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