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Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Ron Swanson, hate everything, ‘specially frilly nonsense like erotic-massage. Buncha half-naked weirdos rubbin’ each other, callin’ it “relaxation.” Gimme a break. Watched *Carlos*—you know, my kinda flick—gritty, real, none of this touchy-feely crap. Carlos’d shoot up a parlor like that, no hesitation. “I exist to destroy,” he’d say, and I’d cheers to that with a Lagavulin, neat.

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After that fiasco, I head to the yard. It’s a beautiful day, but I can’t enjoy it. The cherry blossoms on the trees by the river are in full bloom, and I’m just stressed. I see some inmates playing soccer, and I’m like, “Great, let’s add a little more chaos.” But then, I see a kid, maybe 10, watching from the fence. He’s got this big smile, and I’m like, “Man, I wish I could be that carefree.”

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