Archive for April, 2010


the poetry of my soul is all dirty limericks

Hello? Oh, hey! Can you hear me all right? Okay, good. You’ll never guess where I’m calling you from. Give up? I’m in the bathroom stall at my gym. I know, right? I used to think it was super impolite to call people while you were taking a huge dump too, but this fortysomething guy two stalls over is conducting a business call like it’s no big deal. I thought he would be kinda embarrassed after the toilet autoflushed, but truthfully it wasn’t even the loudest sound emitted from that stall during the conversation up to that point. Anyways, I guess society has just evolved to a place where it’s not that big an infraction to just chat somebody up in the can anymore. One less rule to remember!

So, how are things? I’m maddd stressed about this dinner party I’ve been planning. So many details! Like, do I hire the DJ from my bar mitzvah or let my roommate do Christopher Cross covers? God, that guy. I’ve walked in on him doing some weird stuff. Fathers, lock up your french bread baguettes that you just brought home from the grocery store!

Oh, that reminds me, I gotta decide what food I’m gonna serve. Right now the final choice is between pizza bagels and live monkey brains. Maybe I’ll do them both. Even if the foods don’t go together you could pass it off as fusion and the guests would feel dumb for not liking it. Plus I could finally get some use out of that set of hammers I got for graduation. Also, do you think Chex mix counts as a salad?

I think I got a pretty good mix of guests coming, so that’ll be fun. Like Lance, who lives down the hall. He’s a burglar employed by a security alarm company to break into their customers’ houses so they’ll upgrade to the platinum package. And Joan, the lady that used to cut my hair until she finally married the right guy after being widowed like five times by guys who weren’t millionaires.  Listen, I gotta go; I’m about to wipe and I don’t want to drop my phone in the toilet. Talk to you later, Grandma!


upside-down 8

It was in 1904 that Marcel, my only friend, took the advice of a disreputable character and went looking for treasure in the catacombs. The night he showed me the suspicious-looking map that he had bought with his last few francs, I knew the gleam in his eye was the result of more than just the wine we were sharing, it was from the hope he finally had for the future. But his trust was misplaced. For his wife Louise, the tragedy of Marcel’s disappearance was double. She had prepared a celebratory meal on the day he was to return home; when he did not appear, she found herself unable to bring herself to extinguish the fire in the oven she had lit for his meal, instead allowing it to burn down their home. Her heartbreak was short-lived, however: Marcel had made me promise to watch after his family in his absence, but within a week she had remarried to a man who bore a striking resemblance to Marcel’s youngest son.

Without my friend or his family to keep me company, my life lost its purpose. For three years I wandered the streets at all hours of the night, trying to avoid sleep, where I was haunted by visions of what I imagined to be Marcel’s horrible final hours in the dank labyrinth, utterly alone but for the dry bones of centuries past. Though I tried to persuade myself otherwise, I realized that my only course of action was to lower myself into the catacombs and find him.

Alone I went, just as Marcel had, but without benefit of a map. No matter how unwise the idea, I committed myself to searching each of the hundreds of kilometers of tunnels which snaked beneath the city until I either found him, or died trying. From the moment the cool, still air greeted me, I have no way of knowing how much time passed -whether minutes or days- before I heard a whisper:

“Who passes this way?”

“I am Gerard. I seek a friend.” And from the stacks of hollow-eyed skulls emerged a lean shadow which approached me, and in the dim illumination provided by my waning candle, increasingly took the shape of my dear friend Marcel. Wordlessly, he bade me follow him, and, despite my growing apprehension, how could I refuse? We walked a ways over a path that wound and coiled like intestines, until finally he held his finger to his lips as he crouched and slid a knee-high carved stone aside to reveal a passageway, then crawled inside. I gulped hard, drawing a small measure of courage from the knowledge that there was nothing left for me in the terranian world above, then went in after him. And when I opened my eyes on the other side, I found myself awash in glorious light, in a lush green world with unlimited cake and ice cream. All you had to do was let them cut your dick off. 

h/t martin moctezuma


don’t think of it as a joint, mom; think of it as a tobacco-free cigarette

Greetings and congratulations to the Pembroke High School graduating class of 2010. Before we get too far here, though, I should probably begin by apologizing for the rushed manner in which I prepared my speech, as I didn’t realize until last night that I was our class valedictorian, due to a mysterious computer-related catastrophe that wiped out every student’s record but mine.

My condolences to the upper tier of scholars whose reign has been interrupted. I have long considered you my comrades, for while I may not have experienced your academic success, I can certainly relate to your social alienation. Through the years, my attempts at fraternization with my fellow students have been met with derision at best, and cruel trickery at worst. Take, for example, the time all the cheerleaders friended me on facebook, only to pepper my wall with grisly crime scene photos, which led my parents, who had previously been my only two facebook friends, to seek psychiatric care for me. Before you think I am only disparaging the school’s ruling class, however, let it be known that I have been tormened by jock and nerd alike. When I went out for the debate team sophomore year, the team essentially forfeited the state championship by exchanging my notes for the final speech on history’s greatest monster with index cards making the case for Cookie Monster. Even our faculty sponsor was overcome with laughter at my public humiliation, and I suspect he was somehow involved the next year, when the potato gun I made for the science fair was stolen, then used to shoot Tabasco-filled water balloons at my crotch as I writhed on the flagpole, held aloft by only the tiny jock strap I had been wearing under my clothes, ironically enough, as a preventative measure to minimize my exposure in the locker room during gym class.
Fellow Muskrats, as we prepare to enter the world with its many adult expectations, I call upon you all to throw off the shackles put upon us by our twelve years in this prison. For it is only when band directors stop stifling the hidden creative genius of their sixth-chair sousaphonists that we can begin to enjoy the freedom of a society unconstrained by time signatures. Our education has done little to prepare us to answer the tough questions we will face when we exit these doors, like, “can anyone really imagine Mariah Carey allowing Nick Cannon into bed with her?” We gotta get the fuck out of this homogenous hometown of ours, which can only be described as the offsping of an Ikea and a Super Target, with the giant fiberglass pepper atop the doorway of an airport Chili’s Too used as an inseminating device.  Now, without any further ado, let’s get to seeing which pranksters are wearing a funny costume under their gowns!


five terrible poems


as a young man

i often had the thought

“i hope jesus doesn’t come back now”

while undoing a bra


i used to think

there was a superhero named dirty deeds

and he had a native american sidekick

called the thunderchief


in space

no one can hear you masturbating

but you should still

probably exercise some discretion


short-term memory loss

is one effect of marijuana use

which is a cause of

short-term memory loss


the lady that sold me condoms

looked a little disappointed

when i ended the question “do you have any extra-extra”

with “average”

April 2010