The Key is FOB; Unlocking 101, How to Not be a Knob

I was so young when my fate was decided,
in every phrase encoded, a setup;  
a cosmic punchline open to poetic interpretation.  
When the crowd jumped, I stayed sitting,  
because mainstream sports viewership is a  
perversion of nature.
 
I rule myself in dogmatic ways,  
always taking in strays and fixing them.  
Pulling off ticks, fat and happy in sloth and gluttony.  
I squeeze them in my fingers and disassociate during the pop.  
Nothing quite as freeing as coloring inside the box.  
It's an adult book of emptiness
and realizing that theobromine gives me diaphoresis.  
 
It's like seeing a monkey wearing a diaper,  
sitting in a padded cell, focused to dilate the handler bars.  
Reality has it that the monkey kissed his wife as he shot her,  
then lumbered after his daughter.  
 
All in my all, I think I'm contagious.  
I see it as a watercolor vape cloud that  
critiquely endangers our lungés.  
That, in addition to the stinkhorn fungus  
growing on rotten mourning wood;  
a misunderstood classic.