Children Of The Corn

Omaha panted like a lipsticked dog in heat.
Abandoned hoodies laid draped over parking meters.
Fog collected around the frames of my glasses.
The cobblestone streets were slick with sweat.
Or worse.
I walked off my tipsy among the sloppy herds.

It seemed July was Drunk Cornfed Girls Ruining Their Heels Month.
Or Frothing Shirtless Knucklehead Month.
Whichever one, it was being celebrated.
Every fourth person, regardless of gender, screamed loudly for no reason.
Maybe to be heard.
The corn still didn't care.
"It smells like shit.  Literally," one pale/pink girl observed, stumbling.
She was right.
Nebraska smelled like shit.
But the people out in those fields knew how to turn that shit into gold.

Dum dums, floozies, and nervous nice guys lined up outside of an ugly disco.
An intense dude yelled something about turning 30.
Something about hurdles.
One of those pub crawl drunk shuttles idled empty while people constantly bellowed in parking lots.
The corn continued not caring.

Where did all the Saddle Creek kids hang out?
Is this what Mannheim Steamroller did every Saturday?
Where was Arnie Barnes?
I knew I hadn't really seen Omaha.
Just like I hadn't really seen Colorado.
So I couldn't write it off.
It would be like going to Chicago's Viagra Triangle and proclaiming the entire metropolis a city of douchebags.
When really it's just 65% douchebags.

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