Imitation may be

the sincerest form of flattery, but seriously, bitch-- stop it.


If anyone feels so inspired, please feel free to bring the hateration. I c/ped a few posts into google, and it looks like most, if not all, are stolen from various blogs throughout the interweb.

I hate it when people do that. Seriously. Give me a fucking link, at least.

I really don't want to have to put up a little disclaimer in the sidebar pretending to copyright everything I write. I'm far too lazy, and pretty much everyone with an IQ this side of blurty.com knows that putting a c in quotation marks does not constitute ownership.

ADDENDUM: Apparently, the offending party is my sister, which makes it about three hundred times less acceptable.

Details later.

I am the most boring and morose person when I drink, which is why I don't. 
 
 
Also, my best friend's new boy reminds me of my ex.  I tried my best to keep my hands off of him, and then I had a drink and succeeded beyond all reason. 

At least my poetry is better than Dubya's

Yes, I know. Poetry sucks. 
 
Caveat: If you do not exit your browser immediately, you will get free-form poetry. Consider yourself warned.
 


 

Apology, Excepted

I’m sorry I couldn’t wait to jump in the river
Clothes and all
And had to borrow some of yours
That you so graciously lent to me
I was too self-conscious to strip down in front of you
My boxers show more than I’d care to say
And that's saying something.

I’m sorry I sought solace in your vintage tshirt
(You always knew how I felt about Mighty Mouse)
Freeballing in your levi’s
Low rise
Button-fly jeans
The pair with the blue paint on the thigh
With the slight tear on the right pant leg

I’m sorry I enjoyed it so much
Wallowing in your washed out cologne
Feeling so much stronger as your doppelganger
Than as your audible quotation marks “friend”
At least at the time

I’m sorry that my hair, still wet from the river
Dripped onto your carpet
Forming an H20 halo
Leaving some sort of resonance of me
Tainting your aura with my sweat

I’m sorry that I reached into the back pocket
On a loose scrap of paper I found my phone number
Slightly faded and blurred but still there
(I’ll skip the obvious comparison between me and the scrap of paper)
But I think you get the point anyway

I’m sorry I had to change in your bedroom
Be naked in the one room that’s wholly for you
Let the nervous vibes of my raw flesh infiltrate the air
So that next time you take off your shirt you feel violated
I used to be naked here
And I might see it as an invitation for more
(Even though you were very clear at what we could do without guilt)
My ugly, hairy legs were exposed in the exact position your finely framed thighs meet your pants
Betwixt your boxers and the bedsheets

I’m sorry I saw your room at all
That I locked myself in with your childhood fantasies
The room you undressed your first GI Joe
Your first night without a night light
Your first jacking off
That I had the opportunity to rifle through your stuff
I could have sniffed the dirty jock on your floor
I could have spilled your cologne
I could have found your diary
I could have spat on your retainer
I could have ripped up the porno mags hidden under your bed

But I didn’t

I’m sorry I didn’t investigate your bookcase
Re-sort the books aestically instead of alphabetically
I could have seen the Joys of Gay Sex sandwiched between James Joyce and Erica Jung
In a different book jacket, of course

I’m sorry that even after my clothes had dried
And after I had changed
(In the bathroom this time)
That your ‘girlfriend’ remarked how I still smelled of you
I could see the disgust in your face as she said that
But I have to admit the virile smell was a welcome reminder
Since I was no longer swaddled in your shirt

I’m sorry that I left soon after that
To your feign of disapproval and your clandestine wink
But I couldn’t take any more of the hot slash cold
And you know what?
While I don’t know what it’s like to be in your shoes
I know what it’s like to be in your clothes
And I think you made a bad decision
You took the easy route
The take her home to grandma for thanksgiving route
And I’m not here to be sad hearted
And to constantly monitor my affection
I’m here to return your oversized sweater
That I took cos I was still cold
So just take it back
Take it like a man
And call me when you’re done
Cos I know I am

 
I have three problems with this poem.
1. The title (Apology, Excepted) is stupid.
2. Free-form poetry is inherently stupid.
3. The ending loses focus and is stupid.

For those of you with thick stomachs (or are just thick) and have actually read the poem, feel free to leave a comment with any suggestions on how to fix any one of these problems, or any others you may have.

Or you can just leave a comment saying how cool I am. I'm surprisingly insecure.

Blogger is le suck.

I throw the word 'abhor' too freely on this blog, so let me simply state that I despise, sneer at, eschew, antipathize, detest, disapprove, execrate, scorn, loathe, resent, objurgate, spit upon, and all in all just plain old hate the new layout for posting at blogger.  I left xanga because they redesigned their posting templates into something half as ugly and schizophrenic as this. 
 
Anyone want to tell me how I can go back to the other layout?  Otherwise, does anyone want to buy me Moveable Type as an early birthday present? 

 

(Sorry for posting about blogging.  I know they get real old.  I'l try and post something better later on.  I'm sure that this new format will grow on me, if I give it a chance.  The thing is, I'd rather not.  It's really awkward to use, and it's belittling--if you don't know the tag to make something bold, you shouldn't be allowed online. I lodged an offiical complaint with blogger, but this new layout just grates me.  If I'm stuck with this, I probably won't post as often, just because it's so aggrevating to use.)

Green isn't my favorite, but he is.

I heard a rumor the other day. Jake, my Jake, was in talks to be the next big superhero blockbuster movie star. I of course, was excited, and not just due to the possibility of spandex. (mmmm...) I decided to go to the library and learn all I could about the superhero, and then pretend to be all hip and shit when the movie is released. I mean, that’s what I do.

My library recently got a kick-ass grant for a teen section, and so the comic and manga sections are extensive. (I was on the library board throughout my teen years, and so it is in fact mine.) I got to the shelves, and realized that I had forgotten the name of the superhero—now, I thought it was the Green Hornet, but I didn’t see any comics by that name, only Green Lantern. It looked campy, so I checked it out anyway.

I got home and realized I made a mistake—I didn’t check out a book, I checked out the Holy Grail of camp!


Hal tests airplanes for the government. One day, he sees a spaceship crash into some mountains. An alien with a navy bean for a head gives him a pimp ring, a green lantern, and a black and green spandex outfit. The ring, which must be charged by the lantern every 24 hours, is the most powerful thing on the universe, except! it cannot be used against anything yellow. Of course, his arch-nemesis has a similar ring, except it only can emit yellow forces. Fortunately, his ring is powered by will power and Hal’s self-determination and up-beat, can-do spirit saves the day.

Like Sherlock Holmes, the Green Lantern had his own inferior who kept logs of his escapades. It is when this character is introduced that I fell in love.

Hal walks in and finds his eskimo grease-monkey, Pieface, working on his stamp collection.

He has an eskimo grease-monkey cabana boy named Pieface. That’s his name. Even his wife calls him Pieface, or occasionally Pie. That’s either the most cracked out or most genius thing I have ever read in my life. You do not get much better than that.

Since the comic was written before my parents were born, there are more than a few times when a contemporary point of view can distort the real dialogue. My favorite:

(The object of the Green Lantern’s affections has been kidnapped by a gang of woman aliens. They play a giant organ to brainwash her into believing she is a super-villain.)

“Oh, your organ—it’s filling me up. I’ve never felt so—powerful! Don’t stop! It’s incredible! Your organ is the source of all my power!”

Now, I’ve heard that line once or twice, and always chalked it up to my mad bedroom skills (don't believe me? Find out for yourself! Please?). I don’t think I turned my boyfriend into an evil supervillain, though the way he broke things off was pretty cruel.

Unfortunately, I came home to find that Jake would be the Green Hornet, not the Green Lantern, and so all my reading was for naught.

Adding to my displeasure, I find that the Green Hornet’s costume leaves a lot to the imagination. Unless drastic changes are made, Jake will not wear spandex throughout the course of the film. This is unacceptable.

And so, now that the marriage brou-ha-ha dies down, I urge you all to call your senators and insist that Jake wear spandex throughout his next movie. Otherwise, Osama wins, people will start having sex with sheep, and society as we know it will crumble.

Newsflash!

George W. Bush is in town, and has tentative plans to drive past my house. Police won't say which route he is going to take, but my street is on the list. As such, we are no longer allowed to park. I may or may not be at work when he comes, which may or may not be a bad thing.

My dad is really excited, and is out buying film. I don't know what crazy-ass stunt I should pull, but I'm thinking. It has to be really annoying, yet nothing to make the Secret Service throw a fit. I'll take ideas, but I have no idea whether or not I will implement them.

ADDENDUM: I was at work when Dubya drove past my house. Fortunately, he also drove past my place of employment. Sorry Kevin, I couldn't find a kielbasa, but I did act lewdly with a cucumber. No pics, though. Maybe next time, if I make a trip over to Washington. Unfortunately, Dubya was going about 45 miles an hour (in a 25 mph zone, the fucker) and was in a bus, and I was inside, beyond a giant parking lot. However, I'd like to think he developed an urge to grab his personal secretary and "herd some sheep" as he past.

Who took the Bomp?

Probably the thing I abhor the most about President Bush, more than his blatant arrogance, incompetence, closed-mindedness, or his homophobia, is how he has completely depoliticized my rhyme.

I know that there's that huge gay legislation thingee, and apparently it's up for a vote. There are about five hundred thousand gay bloggers talking about it right now, so go somewhere else if your head is so far up someone else's ass that you're caught unawares.

But do you want to know a secret?

I don't really care.


I've just stopped caring. I used to care. I used to be political; I used to be able to blast Bush on every position, but it just seems so... yesterday. I can hate and bash and sneer and criticize, but eventually, it gets old.


There are three types of people in the US right now. Those who support Bush, those who support anyone other than Bush, and those who are too stupid to know anything and therefore vote for Bush. These are the people who have ruined my faith in democracy.

These are the people who think Saddam was in charge of 9/11 and that Iraqis flew the planes. These are the people who thing Bush has united, not divided the country. These are the people who think substituting 'Freedom' will make an impact. These are the people who think that we found Weapons of Mass Destruction.

These people exist, and it scares me. I'm as liberal as humanly possible, and there are times when I think that disenfranchisement would be a good idea. Hell, after hearing the news that one third of Americans believe WMDs have been found, I thought that maybe post-Reconstruction Southern leaders had the right idea with literacy tests before registering to vote.

People should have to take a test that shows they are competent enough to vote. They should be forced to know certain things about the election, like the non-existence of WMDs, the irrelevance of the "Death" Tax, whether or not Usama bin Laden was funded by Saddam, the cost of the war in Iraq, etc. People should be forced to pass a 7th grade Current Events quiz. Non-partisan. Facts. I don't want to live in a world where tabloids are a major news source for some people.

There's just so much stupidity in the world, and it goes all the way to the top: George W. Bush. There are so many reasons to hate the man that by the time you read all the books and subscribe to all the newsletters and watch all the pundits, you're inundated with hundreds, if not thousands, of evil, lying, manipulative blunders he's done over the past three years. After a while, it comes as old hat. Oh, Bush is mistreating Veterans? What else is new? Medicare is in shambles? Well, what did you expect? War not going to well? Well, duh. Apathy has replaced anger, for me at least. Too many cooks spoil the broth, and too many crooks spoil the wrath.

I'll still vote, don't get me wrong. I will pull that little lever for Kerry because I am not a redneck who is unaware that WMDs were never found, Saddam never funded Usama, the "Death" tax will never affect me, or that we've lost more soldiers after we won the war than during it.

Years from now, I'm going to look back at the Bush years as the time I grew cynical about the inherent good in every person.

Leave a comment with joke suggestions.

I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but I work for a large, dehumanizing company doing menial, degrading labor. (But hey--don't we all?) I don't know how many of you have read the short story A & P, but I swear to god that if any pretty boys walk into my store, I'm totally pulling an Updike.

There has got to be a better set-up to the line "I'm pulling an up-dyke." If you can think of one, leave a comment. The winner get to...um... win.

(In the story, a handful of girls walk into a grocery store and are accosted by the manager, and the guy quits in disgust. Essentially. That's what I mean by "pulling an updike." But there's got to be a joke in there somewhere. The teenage boy in me knows it.)

Anyway, I'm beginning to find the fun in my job. It's like the customers all queue like lambs to the slaughter to be mocked mercilessly (usually silently). Sometimes I use polysyllabic words to see how they respond, and then give an incorrect definition if they inquire what the word means. Once or twice I slipped into a Russian accent and pretended not to understand the customer. A lot of the customers are really dumb and don't catch on to my entendre-laden quips. It's a good thing I only work for another month or so, because if they catch me, my ass is totally fired.

Me: I'll need to scan that, actually.
Customer: (Possibly a bit drunk, definitely a bit senile) Ah. You're a good man.
Me: Yep, I'm the greatest.
Customer: Like Muhammad Ali?
Me: Not really. I guess I'm just the best man.
Customer: Always the best man, never the groom, ain't that right, man?
Me: Well, I doubt I'm going to be a groom anytime soon.
Customer: What, having troubles with the ladies?
Me: Eh, girls aren't really my thing.
Customer: Oh don't worry. Once you go through puberty, the girls will sure to notice you.
Me: Since I'm over six feet with a five o clock shadow and more leg hair than I know what do with, I'm guessing I'm pretty close to being done with puberty, actually.
Customer: You're right. You are kind of a big guy (NB-While I am tall, I am skinnier than that Olsen twin)
Me: Oh, you have no idea.

At this point, the manager walked by, and so the conversation fizzled out. But I assume that you get my drift that customers only exist so that I may amuse myself.


(I know posts about work can get real old real fast, so I've tried to limit them. I just thought that the dialogue with the old guy was too good to pass up.)

I want all that stupid old shit like letters and sodas.

It's a good thing that today wouldn't be an anniversary or anything, otherwise I would be a complete and utter wreck and unable to come up with a decent blog post.

Fuck.
Or lack thereof.


I don't know if it's so much that I need to get laid as it is I need to fall asleep in the arms of someone I just laid (or laid me, it's all good).



I swear to god, if they took the essence of snuggling and put into drug form, I would so have a needle in each arm, a few lines on the desk, two tabs on my tongue and one in my eye, and a cigarette in each hand.


I'm pretty sure overnight I'm going to grow extra appendages and turn into an octopus. Eight arms to hold you. That's right. You're dead meat.

If you are a cute boy in the tri-county area, I would watch your back so I don't run up behind you and attach myself with a giant slurp and hold on for dear life. I will stick on you like cavities on a tooth, cancerous cells on healthy tissue, peanut butter to the roof of your mouth, like snot on a tissue. I will cling like a syncophantic kid brother, like static electricity on carpeting; like designer Tupperware I will hold you tight until no air can escape. I will trap you like a Venus Flytrap, and you will just be stuck in my grasp for the rest of your life.

I won't spoon you; I will fork you with limbs jutting out everywhere and I will fork you all night I will fork you until you cannot take it anymore. I will fall asleep holding on to you like a three year old does a teddy bear when the night-light burns out, I will wake up when you have to get up in the middle of the night and go to the bathroom (I will divert my eyes, however, since I'm not into that sort of thing) and I will accidentally put my antiperspirant in your pits because I will no longer be able to tell the difference from where I end and you begin. You will have to have me surgically removed with lasers should you ever want to live a normal life.


Consider yourselves warned.

PS-

"War on Pornography" "War on Pornography" "War on Pornography" "War on Pornography" "War on Pornography".

(Because Jonno (Fleshbot extraordiare) wants to be the number one hit for 'war on pornography' and I tend to do what cooler people ask me to do.)