John Ritter: TV Legend!

I would like to do makeovers for Wal-Mart patrons.
Me, some kind of mega-store plastic surgeon, queer eye
straight guy Fix-it Man.

I hear this one man wheezing “eeeeehhh, eeeeehhh,” every breath a labor,
his hairy belly slung in a t-shirt and stretches that “Big Dog” slogan BIGGER.
I want to chain saw off a forty-pound slab, right down the front
“sloooosh” with a “shplop” on the floor, it quivers like yellow Jell-O.
I’ll stitch him up quick with a green garden hose,
make him a statue of David.

I see the lady in pink Nike sweats rolled at the calves.
This tuned athlete rides the little electric car of the immobile,
“whirrrrrr” it just misses my foot. I want to pull her jowls behind her neck,
use my industrial stapler, “tacka, tacka, tacka,” cover those open leg sores
with spackle “squish, pat-a-pat,” put her on the cover of Cosmo.

This briar vine lady has a hump back and a knee that goes “creaka, creaka, creaka,”
side winding past the brassiere rack. They don’t make her size. I want to take my rubber mallet and “ka-whack, ka-whack” that knee in line and “ka-thump, ka-thump” that hump, train her for the Boston Marathon.

I want to fix these people, but thirty minutes pass, and we still aren‘t fixed.
I can never be the catcher in the rye. "Sigh," I think television lied.