Sadness - A Poem

Robbi, a freakishly giant eyed twenty year old, was hiding in the closet crying. 

His buddies were in the living room. 

Plans for a road trip were brewing. 

Robbie wanted to go.

But there would be no 'eye spy with my GIANT eye' for Robbie to play.

Down down there

'You can't climb a valley'

Yes wise words, wise indeed, wiser than say eating a block of wood, to name just one example of something not as wise, although there are probably even more potential examples out there waiting to be discovered. Potentially as many as a dozen. 

You know what? 'Potential can suck a dick', I had potential as a monkey wrangler when I was ten, and look what's become of me. When was the last time I wrangled a monkey? This past Tuesday, that's when. Well pros do it every hour on the hour every hour, so I am no pro, so fuck potential, let's name them all! 

Things less wise than 'you can't climb a valley' include:

- Eating a block of wood.

- Making a movie based on the Novel 'Scum Sundaes' without the lead character being lactose intolerant due to PC 'don't make fun of lacties' bullshit, and therefore literally flushing the drama down the toilet like a lactose free turd.

- Taking photos of memories of photos. 

Ok, I think that's it. Yep, potential, maybe the worst thing ever conjured by man. Oh no, wait..

- Conjuring up the theory of potential.

Still far less than a dozen, fuck you chickens. 

Castle

The castle was built strong. 

At least as strong as the materials available allowed. 

Which is strong enough. 

I don't need anyone saying 'it'd be stronger if it were made out of rock, concrete or even wood' because rock, concrete and wood were not available ok. 

So stop living your life in an alternative beautiful 'I wish land', where the fruit is sweet, the rocks are plentiful and unicorns didn't all stab themselves to death trying to lick themselves like dogs. 

If 'I wish land' existed there would be no need for wishes anymore because the ultimate wish would have already been honored and all the now abundantly available wishes would go wasted damn it. 

Lainy, the castles architect and foreman during construction, was proud of her achievement, and honored when praise swam her way.

Praise having recently begun to develop gills after an exhaustive and finally successful cross-breeding campaign with squid, which were able to accurately describe what gills looked like during post coital pillow talk, allowing praise to whip some up in a lab.

And the lord above, impressed with the castle, and relaxing after getting a rare day off from being the thing solely in charge of putting gills on things, glowed light upon the castle, a clear signal that this was a structure for the ages.

Although two minutes after turning on the glow the lord was all like 'for Christ's sake lord, when you're relaxing RELAX, this is exactly the type of thing the doc was saying I have high blood pressure, that and all the deep fried Ox spine'.

The castle was officially a success. 

And in being so, totally dampened the embarrassment that came with the fact she peed her pants on the bus ride to the beach.

Or should that be dried the embarrassment.

No, surely embarrassment starts dry, and needs to be moistened? 

It's like a rash, you WANT it wet. 

Either way, Lainy was feeling good again, something she doubted was possible just minutes earlier. 

Although she still planned to put fire ants in her stupid brothers bed for the nonstop teasing he'd unleashed, that stupid faced stupid head. 

On the lip - A Poem

Jessica sat on the lips of the steps leading down to the beach. 

'If only these steps could talk' she thought to herself with a rye chuckle.

'Holy crap, it'd probably tell Harry's wife what we did here, and she'd come and carve my fucking vagina out!'

So she took out her lighter, crushed it with her foot, dropped her cigarette on it, and lit it all on fire.

As she ran back to her car, the bathers on the beach were noticeably intrigued by the the cry that echoed off the sand banks...

'That's what you get when you can't keep your mouth shut, you gossiping cunt!' 

How Insulting

'Well you look like you got your hands on seventeen excess candy wrappers and you'd like to distribute them to needy badgers from mythology!' I yelled at him. 

I'd been through an ordeal, I'd been slighted, I wanted payback, and If I'm honest, and I think I'd like to be right now, I am not sure I was completely proud of this insult. 

Sure it had its positives, such as:

- Imagery of badgers, an animal that's often bandied about in mediums as diverse as pop art, kids cartoons and rap songs that are desperate to find a rhyme for 'groin smadger'. And yet they are an animal people still don't know tons about, I mean what's your average badger thinking right now? Who knows! Right. That's mysterious, and therefore it's profound and beautiful. 

- The choice to make the candy wrappers 'distributed' rather than 'redistributed' singling that they remained fresh, relevant and casndecent. 

- The specifics of the number 'seventeen' which subliminally would have descended him to youth, and with it the contrasting youthful trademarks of contrasting insecurity yet arrogance, recklessness yet naivety, and freedom basking under a low wattage globe glow of significance teetering parental rule. 

So yes, it was by no means a complete failure as an insult. 

But there were failings too, such as:

- Forcing in the word 'excess' even while fully aware that the volumes mentioned clearly IMPLIED excessiveness, and I of all people know all too well that a cloud of implication shall always rain heavier than a solidly hurled brick.

- Use of the colloquialism 'you look

like', suggesting that my issue was implicit on a perceived appearance of something rather than genuine and well founded dose of real and truthful emotional reaction to actual actions that had taken place. 

- Absence of swears.

So yes, there were failings, and if I'm going to be hornets, (the most honest of all sting heavy bugs) and I'd like to be, my underpants are surprisingly sweaty right now, and also the insult in question here was probably a B- at best. 

Personally, in usual circumstances, I like to insult in the B+ to A- range. That's a heavy, cutting, and affective range.  

Here's some advice: NEVER insault someone with a full A, and never, ever, ever even ATTEMPT an A+, the rest of your life you'll be known for nothing else. 'Hey look, it's Karl, the A+ insaulter, hey Karl!' And that's just a SMALL taste of the type of life your life will be destined to live. 

Advice 2: That's obviously only if your name is Karl. If your name is anything else, Karly, for example, you'll be fine 'Hey look, it's Karly, the A+ insulter' is fine life to live.

But back to my insult. It's probably worth noting, not that it's significant to its rating, but I will point out that this particular insult also it didn't make any fucking sense what so ever. This is obviously irrelevant, given the situation. And frankly I only raise it because some people, not as completely versed in the insult game as you and I, may feel this is important, when in fact it isn't at all. 

The point is, I'd been through an ordeal, I'd been slighted, I wanted payback, cause get this, this dick had just picked up a box of cereal at the grocery store, and this box of cereal was the EXACT SAME brand as I was considering buying! So now if I still wanted it I was going to look like a copycat, so that motherfucker didn't deserve ANY sense!! 

But he DID deserve at least a B+ insult. And I failed.  

So my next step was not just clear, but out of my hands really, I took a knife and applied it to his neck severing several key information distributing nerves. 

I thought it was an A- attack in the moment. But it turns out by 'redistributing' his regular distribution of nerves to his various nerve centers, I turned him into a mythological creature, and now he gets to spend his time hanging with badgers. 

I'm so jealous. 

Stupid cornflakes. 

Subsequent - a poem

Jonty carried a video camera everywhere he went. 

It captured the birthday where he  originally made its acquaintance.

His wife beaming at having chosen an instantly embraced gift. 

It was attached to his eye as he first saw the Grand Canyon.

His wife laughing at the sheer majesty of the chasm.

It was through the lens that he first saw his daughters surprisingly fuzzy head. 

His wife glowing at having brought life into the world.

And he of course was filming during two of the first three waves of alien attacks. 

Attack two was obviously a tad boring. 

It's a shame, the footage of his wife's head exploding from the laser attack could have been a hit at subsequent parties. 

We've all been there

It was a typical Thursday at noon.

I was at home going through celebrity gossip magazines, cutting the faces off celebrities, all while wailing 'oh you think you're better than me do you, with your fancy lives, glamorous lifestyles and creams made out of placenta and foreskin so you look more alive than most, well you're not better than me, cause you don't even have a face!'

We've all been there.

Suddenly a ghost appeared. 

The ghost of an earthworm. 

It was angelical, bathed in a light that seemed to have been delivered by a higher deity and yet simultaneously being emitted from within, and it was slimy and moist, I guess from doing sit-ups or something, I don't know, are worms always like that? Are ghosts? You see enough and you stop paying attention really. 

We've all been there. 

'Avvvvennnnggggee my deeeeaaathhhh' said the ghost worm, in a deep other worldly baritone. 

'Ah man' I replied, in a whiny shrill 'Not this again, can't you see I'm busy?'

'You look like you're wallowing in jealously and self-pity?' It said, with level of judgment even I could decipher, and I'm not usually good at deciphering judgement. I once thought I was dating a girl for three months before I realized she was just a street bum who thought my pants were too saggy. 

'Okaaaaay' I replied, with a moan that would make a teenager told to do his homework seem like someone who'd instead just been given free pie! The best type of pie. Except for of course way better pie that you paid for. You're never going to get good stuff for free you stupid brainless teenager, it's just not going to happen, but the good stuff is good! Suck it up and pay for it, you cheap bastards, 'how did you die?' I asked.

'Natural causes' it replied. 

'Natural causes? NATURAL CAUSES? Natural fucking causes?' I screamed with breaking voice and complaint so thick that it made the internet seem like a place where people talk about the things they LIKE about the world, 'WELL I CANT AVENGE FRICKIN' NATURE'

'You can TRY!!' Said the worm, disgusted at my can-not-do attitude, 'I'm a worm we only live six days (maybe?), you can't tell my head from my ass, and we're all hermaphrodites so there IS no PUSSY, Mother Nature fucked me'.

'Well I can't fuck Mother Nature, wait unless she's hot...' I said, with a wink, going for a laugh. And failing miserably. Fuck the dead and their lack of sense of humors.

'Well I can't do anything about that, I said', it was tough cause I normally like to help ghost worms, but this one was being a needy bitch, so I asked it 'is there anything else I can do?

'You could give me a proper burial?' It requested.

'Ha ha funny, now you have a sense of humor, when I say I joke I get nothing, but now it's ok for you to joke? You're  a ghost you dick, how do I bury you?'

And it said replied, get this 'mur mur MUR, MUR, MUR, MUR' I HATE when ghost worms say that to me. 

We've all been there. 

'Bury my body you dick' it finally said, after a long awkward pause while I was giving it my typical 'I can't believe you said "MUR" at me' face.

'Ok, fine, where is it?' I asked, surrendering. 

And it said 'where I died you idiot'.

And I said 'like I know where you died'.

And it said 'in my home'. 

And I said 'where's that? I didn't know you when you were alive, specifics for fuck sake!'

And it said, 'you know in the dirt, I'm a worm, we don't have addresses'.

And I said, 'hang on, hang on, are you fucking kidding me???? Your body is in the dirt, and you want me to bury you, you DIED buried!!!'

And it said 'so you're telling me, if you die underground in a coffin you don't want to be dug up and recoffined and reburied?' 

He had me there. That's exactly how I plan to die, and I DO want to be reburied. 

For the next six weeks I did little but look for the worms body. Digging holes, putting my ear to the ground listening for the well known tell-tale sounds of decomposing worm carcass, and asking everyone I met 'have you seen an under the dirt but not yet buried worm corpse anywhere?' 

It was a treacherous, and at times lonely search. Tragedy struck too, as during my digging three ants and a weird centipede looking thing were killed by the mighty blade of the soup spoon I was using to dig. 

But finally, finally, in the last place any sane person would look, in the pile of dirt down by the shed, I found it. I looked at it closely, dry, shriveled, none of the light and moisture of its ghost like self, and I realized the whole time I had been talking to the ghost I had never really looked right at it, and now that I looked at its corpse something that should always have been obvious seemed to spit right in my face, and I had to scream the scream of screaming screamer  'oh, you think your better than me, you don't even have a face!!!'

We've all been there.

Ps. It also took three tubs of foreskin cream to repair the skin damage from all that digging. Fuck you ghost worm. 

Screws and earthworms

It was a teddy bear party. 

The most awesome teddy bear party any of these eight close friends from way back had ever been to.

And they were real friends.

From way, way back.

Almost as far back as the part of the parking lot where the dumpsters would be.

Had they not been stolen by a gang needing a new clubhouse, despite membership being so down that a club house that could only hold two was both ample and sufficient. 

And there were no cars parked the the day they all met there that day.

So spatially speaking it seemed even further way back.

Clutter being a space minimizer.

And that's an area where even interior decorators with an amazing eye for ornate detail fuck up. 

And they'd been to a lot of teddy bear parties.

It was their thing.

Carefully developed over many years.

Until they were ready to spread their own rumors.

Rumors that were true.

That they played with teddy bears.

And these rumors spread like ants in an empty car park covered with bread crumbs after dumpster full of two day old bread was stolen spreading bread crumbs like solar energy discussion on a really bright, super hot, sunny day when the power is out, so air-conditioners aren't working, and someone has already raised the idea that it would be sweet to have an independent, self-sufficient, source of electricity so that one didn't have to rely on the often unreliable reliability of the normal power grid. 

Yet despite this being the best teddy bear party any of these close eight friends had been to, something was very different. 

Gimpy was sitting inhaling steam from a bowl of lemon and honey.

Merga was cutting out eyes from pictures in magazines.

Burps was eating antacids by the fistful and washing them down with ice-cream sodas.

Hails was sitting cross legged on the grass trying to summon out an earthworm. 

Jerf was fructifying a jar of old screws and nails.

Funt was writing down everything he knew about places named Arlington so he could remember later exactly what it was he needed to erase from his memory. 

Pog was working the grill, pleading for it to suck it up and just give him two more.

And 

Slitle was stuck in a spiral of barbwire.

So that was all a normal. Everyone was up to their usual teddy bear party activities.

So why did everyone feel something was off?

Then Funt noticed something.

And it landed upon him like a huge bucket of bricks, dropped from a crane, that was supposed to be grabbing and returning the clubhouse dumpster from the McGunner gang, but had fallen for the decoy barbecue pit and grabbed that instead. 

Merga was holding his teddy bear just like everyone else. 

But his was upside down.

He must have been an imposter all along.

And had now gotten comfortable enough to be complacent. 

Once the others had been nudged to look in his direction all hell broke loose.

They grabbed Merga by the collar and dragged him down to the parking lot where they had all met. 

Eyes from celebrities from magazines scattered into the wind. 

And Merga was left there.

Naked.

Crying.

And with his teddy bear forcibly sewed to his body.

The RIGHT was up. 

Dairy and Injections

'Milks, milks plural, not milk, did I say milk? DID I??? No I fucking did NOT I said MILKS' Roger screamed at the farmer. 

Apparently there been a slight disagreement. 

You see, from what I can gather, Roger had asked a question involving milks but he'd been given an answer only involving milk.

Roger was now turning over chairs. 

Which, despite his tantrum inspired brute strength, was a decent effort, because those were heavy iron chairs, and they were covered in rust, and I am no doctor, but my instincts tell me that rust may increase the risk of tetanus.

By the way, I'm guessing it was easier to talk kids into getting their tetanus injections during the heart of the Tetris craze. 

'Hey Sammy, we're going to fit something small into a space that on the surface may seem unlikely to fit, but in the end turns out to be a snug and satisfactory hold, want to come?' 

'Oh my god, Tetris, Tetris, Tetris? Yes PLEASEEE MOMMY'.

'It's actually pronounced tetanus Sammy.'

'Stop fucking correcting my pronunciations, I'm friggin' six, I haven't developed full control and command over my tongue and soft-palate yet you dick, it's not polite, now are we going to go play Tetris, sorry TEEETANUS, or am I taking a shit in your hand bag and pretending I thought it was potty again?' 

'Oh we're playing tetanus Sammy, in fact, I might even tell the "games master" we're about to go to Malaysia and see if he has any Malaria "Inserts" for you'

'Is that the "correct" way to pronounce "Mario Cart" cause if so let's get in the fucking car you god damn fucking tease'. 

Yep, it's pretty clear modern upgrades to gaming technology ruined parenthood. 

Now you probably have to trick your kids into copping physical pain for reasons they can't understand with ice-cream or chocolate. 

But where is the long term viciously held resentment and vow for revenge for parental figures supposed to be sourced in this brave new world?

It really is a crying shame. 

Roger was now kicking a cow.

His little replica kids sized farm boots pounding it's buttock region almost to the point of being bothersome. 

Sadly, burned butterscotch, Cherry Mocha, or even Roger's classic favorites Chocolate or Strawberry milk were never going to come out of this cow.

Little Roger's little brain couldn't understand. 

He kicked and kicked and kicked, until, a now clearly bothered, cow walked three paces, and Roger air-swung his boot so hard he landed on his butt. 

Seventeen years later Roger was asked by his then girlfriend if he'd ever tried butt stuff.

When he burst into tears for reasons he couldn't even fathom it really, really weirded her out. 

And she ended up experimenting with butt stuff with a hairbrush instead. 

Attack The Whim - A poem

Dennie was at the hardware store and spotted the coolest ladder he'd ever seen.

He decided impulsively that he HAD to have it and bought it right there.

It was only upon arriving home that he remembered he had nothing to climb.

So he went around town and used it to leave open tins of cat food up trees.

He promised himself he'd start rescuing all the newly stuck kitties as soon as he came up with a cool vigilante costume.

But he's now too busy trying to think of a good opportunity to use the three gallons of fake blood he impulsively bought at the costume shop. 

Smile Please - A Poem

Greg, a twenty-eight year old accountant from Mount Gambier South Australia, read online that over the course of his life he was destined to spend the equivalent of two hundred full days brushing his teeth.

'If I focus really hard I could knock that off by the time I'm thirty and never have to worry about it again!' He immediately thought with an enlightened glee. 

By day three of near constant scrubbing his teeth were a bloody mess.

Something Greg was well aware of.

As the thought of his future getting-ready-for-work routine being flush with previously unheard of levels of lack of teeth worry freedom, left him with a near permanent, wide- mouthed, blood-ravaged, toothy smile.

Post Teleportation Society

It was now a post-teleportation society.

Things had changed.

Many of them for the better. 

People who'd climbed to the top of Everest, for example, could no longer be boasting bores who seemingly talked about nothing else.

As they'd now get shut down in ten seconds...

'Oh politics, if you ask me you really have to be dedicated if you want to get any revolutionary policies before the house these days, it reminds me of my Everest climb... wait, fuck, where am I... Oh very funny Steve, did you teleport me to the top of Everest you dick?' was now a commonly said sentence.

But there were down sides to this new society too, like sometimes your friends would think it was funny to teleport you places, like the top of Everest, and after two or three times you'd be forced to learn that it didn't matter if you were planning a trip or not, or that for some reason teleportation devices were awkwardly designed and were cumbersome and pointy in your pocket, but you better damn well carry one at all times, because climbing down Everest in shorts was chilly, and asking one of the thousands of people already up there to borrow theirs was a major social social faux-pas, almost to the magnitude of letting someone buy you a drink in a bar and then not offering to buy the next round. 

Still, there were other fun elements too. 

Like boys weekends in fun exotic locations like the new Himalayan themed casino in Vegas, or on top of Everest, first dates at romantic places like 'Ice Ice Ice' Paris's number one Everest inspired bistro, or perhaps the top of Everest, or even just having easy access to Hutty Hutty, the world's most happening Tiki Bar, located right there on the top of Everest. 

Yep it was a post-teleportation society. 

And almost everyone was well travelled, enveloped in romance and adventure, and dripping with happiness like a snow bank on Everest being decimated under the weight and heat of endless visitors. 

Everyone was happy, that is except Don Caruana. 

The inventor of the teleportation-device. 

He wasn't happy at all...

Because in all the years since his invention had taken off, not one person had teleported to his house for a visit. 

Because his previous greatest achievement, climbing Everest, now seemed pedestrian. 

And because he'd turned down the chance to buy shares in Hutty Hutty BEFORE it took off, and he now has to wait in line to get in just like every other shluby loser. 

But mostly because of the complaints. 

His cats would often hear him muttering...

'Oh it's cumbersome in your pocket is it? Oh Everest is too crowded now is it? Well I'm working on a fucking time machine and I'm going to go back and UNINVENT the teleportation device, and soon you'll never even remember it existed!'

And most of us don't. 

Saliva Life - A Poem

Simone was a licker. 

'It's NOT a sexual thing' she would swiftly have to say, whenever the topic was raised.

As it turned out men often hear 'lick' and automatically think of their 'dick'.

Simone hated this. 

Her licking things was an obsessive compulsive affliction.

She'd been licking hundreds of things a day since she was a little girl.

She'd licked everything from train seats, light posts, food packaging, zoo animals, sporting equipment, newspapers, telephones, cruise ships, knitting needles, to restaurant menus and even vases!!! 

Sometimes vases that didn't even have bloody flowers in them.

It was a serious issue. 

She HAD to lick things or else she'd have panic attacks and break downs, and sometimes if she hadn't licked something new for a few hours the desire would bubble into such a frenzy that she'd find herself going on lick binges that could last days on end.

And leave her mouth dry.

Like super dry.

At least TWO glasses of water needed to rectify the situation dry.

It was the worst aspect of her life.

She felt vulnerable wherever she went.

And these animals and their dirty minds often made her feel like a freak. 

Those bastards. 

They were worse than the need to lick itself. 

She thought it was a situation with literally no upside.

However, unbeknownst to Simone, on at least a dozen occasions, men getting lost in their lustful hallucinations, saved her from purchasing expensive and unwanted white-goods in shops with staunch and unwavering storewide 'you lick it you buy it' policies.