What Did The Pot Call The Kettle Again?

Nothing like the NFL

To use their helmets to tell

That the one-percent lacks

Empathy for the blacks

And are violent towards them as well.

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Prelude to Sporking, If Ya Know What I Mean…

I’m not the kind to boast too much

But I attract those of feminine form.

I now propose a toast to such

In the hope such becomes the new norm.

There’ve been times in my past when companions are sparse,

Even times when there haven’t been any

But if one commits some subtle financial farce

A billfold makes none into many.

Never before have I seen such excitement

Or felt less akin to a dunce

When they paid for my patented eating utensil

Which is fork and spoon both, but at once!

Thus is my secret to wooing the broads.

Whoever would even have thought

That inventing the spork would improve my odds

Of females considering me hot?

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Short Story Long…

Yesterday, I swore

To put in the work,

In no effort fail

And in no duty shirk,

With hopes that what came

Would be “awesome and clever.”

I fulfill that promise

This evening. However…

I spent the afternoon

Teaching and gaming

Then followed that up

With some Pokemon taming.

Now with just 32

Minutes to go

‘Til what is today

Becomes what’s tomorrow

I write out this poem

With many a rhyme

So that reading it all

Will take you a long time,

The idea being

If you must work hard

You’ll think me more effortful

And, thus, a good bard.

And if you stopped reading

Before that confession,

Having been turned off

By your own first impression

Or else by the length

Of the stuff with no point

Then you, with the title

Of “dude,” I anoint.

Alas, as I wrap up

These meaningless stanzas,

The latest of many

Poem-stravaganzas

I shed but one tear

For the non-finishers who’d

Feel so happy knowing

I’d anointed them “dude.”

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So… Status Quo Then?

Tomorrow it shall be

My sincerest endeavor

To compose some light verse

That’s both awesome and clever.

Tonight my endeavor’s

To not lose my clout

While I promise you good stuff

That’s yet to come out.

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This Poem Reflects Their Work Ethic

If you want the very best

Be a fan of the New York Jets.

That rhyme didn’t work quite right

And neither do they.

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This Is What Happens When You Don’t Click “Like”

I’ve worked hard the past few days

But this is not my work that pays

And thus I write one stanza here.

Go read the stuff I wrote last year.

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An Excerpt From Disney’s Cancelled Musical, “Beelzebabe”

I awake to a nightmare. The heat is infernal

Here in the land of damnation eternal

Where I was born, and where I can never die.

My homework is done, my chores are complete,

My collar is starched, and my bedroom is neat,

And yet there’s my dad giving me the evil eye.

I’d like to have breakfast in silence,

But the demons are having a feast

On faith, hope, and love… oh, and entrails…

Here in the domain of the beast!

I’m just a kid! I did nothing bad!

I’m just down here all because of my dad!

Eternal strife’s just a day in the life

Of Stan, Satan’s son.

When people sin or they touch themselves

They end up here, or so says the Bible.

I have done neither and yet somehow here I must stay?

I never knew who my mother was.

Who would make love to the Prince of Hatred?

For all I know Lucifer might just maybe be gay?

I’m born of spite, empty of light,

Nine layers deep and yet still I do right?

Why is this glee deep within me,

Stan, Satan’s Son?

I am the precocious instead of atrocious.

I always say “thank you” and “please.”

I can’t help but bother my nefarious father,

Who you call Mephistopheles.

Up in the sky, when the blood clouds part,

I feel in my decomposed heart a leaping,

Picturing worlds with fresh air, vegans, even romance.

Then I’ll go early to torment school,

Pausing to clean up a pool of lava

Hiding in alleys to sing hymns and, sometimes, to dance.

It’s been a while since I saw a smile.

It has been eons since I’ve had fun.

Why’s this my fate? Why can’t I just hate?

Love,

Stan

Satan’s Son

P.S. If you’re in Hell

Be like me: Rebel.

(Organ plays “dun dun DUN!)

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A Poem for Folks Who Specify Their Pronouns

Roses are violet

And violets are rose.

That’s what they said,

So I guess that’s what goes?

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Learn to be Successful with these 3 Simple Tricks

How to be Successful

When I was a young lad of about three hours younger than I am as I write this, I dreamed of becoming the Tetris World Champion. Shortly thereafter I realized I was bad at Tetris, didn’t really like Tetris, and was already very good at being a broke, shut-in virgin who writes poetry for a living.

In less than a day, I accomplished more than many people do in their entire lifetimes: I gave up on a stupid idea and moved on. That being accomplished, I realized my true calling is writing self-help essays for a few dozen people on the internet who think I’m occasionally funny (and my parents).

The text you are reading at the moment has been written, stared at, erased, rewritten, sneered at, re-erased, and so on many times, so I’ll just get to the point:

The best way to be successful is to be marginally better at some common things than someone else.

Read it again, but in bold:

The best way to be successful is to be marginally better at some common things than someone else.

Here’s an example to illustrate what I mean:

Say you’ve just had a long day. You’re tired, hungry, cranky, possibly sweaty, and definitely just want to go home, eat empty calories, and masturbate while you watch true crime shows. As you’re walking down the street, you come upon a person who is standing neutrally and doing nothing in particular. This is a person with plentiful free time, a lack of unattractive blemishes, seemingly-effortless nonchalance, and you hate them.

Imagine now the same scenario, but the person you see is fat, ugly, extremely rich, and kissing your significant other on the hood of your car (which has been destroyed in a freak forklift accident while you were blinking). You hate this person too, and will likely be physically or verbally aggressive toward them. The nondescript person nearby has not even drawn your notice, and has thus been upgraded from an object of hatred and derision to a not-unpleasant bit of scenery.

The nondescript person has achieved tremendous success not through their action, struggle, inherent virtue, divine mandate, or any other exclusive or difficult condition. They achieved it by being less bad (and therefor marginally better) at something common (existing) than someone else.

Alas, we are not often so fortunate as to be constantly in the presence of public displays of romantic infidelity and simultaneous realization of property damage when faced with unpleasant people in our lives. To compensate, I suggest any of the following tactics.

Tactic 1: Hang out in unpleasant places.

Most people like to be happy and comfortable. Most people, while in unpleasant places, are not happy and comfortable, and thus will leave. That said, there are enough people who hang out in unpleasant places with such frequency and consistency that these places garner a reputation for being unpleasant.

Imagine then that you, being one to frequent these nasty niches of the world, invite a friend (or just happen to encounter someone, for those of you with no friends) to join you in your unpleasant meeting place of choice. Your hypothetical acquaintance joins you (likely a person of poor taste, given you’re still reading this), and would normally be inclined to think of you as a person of poor taste. Then they see a mostly-nondescript-but-slightly-unpleasant-in-a-”can’t-put-my-finger-on-it”-sort-of-way person violently assault a second party who was displaying amorous inclinations on an abandoned vehicle. Your hypothetical acquaintance suggests you find a new place to meet, you agree, and you are no longer considered a person with questionable tastes. In fact, you are someone agreeable with whom your hypothetical acquaintance shares something in common.

Tactic 2: Shut Up

If someone is talking, they are having a good time. Sane people speak when people are present, and generally to engage with another person (creating a pleasant atmosphere) or break an awkward silence (avoiding discomfort). If you are talking, other (sane) people are not, unless you are arguing, in which case your fellow arguer likely does not think of you in a good light. If you are silent, someone else will almost certainly begin to talk, which makes them happy. If you continue to be silent, a third party will probably speak. Now you are part of a conversation between happy people who (being sane) will immediately recognize you as the root cause of their happiness and shower you with praise (to which you should not respond, obviously).

Tactic 3: Read bad poetry, and encourage others to do the same

Let’s assume things that are good are good, things that are bad are not, and things that are neutral can sometimes cause irrational rage if not accompanied by gratuitous sexuality and automobile wreckage.

All in agreement? Good!

Given our assumptions, reading bad poetry will make you feel uncomfortable or unhappy, which will make otherwise insignificant things that might otherwise cause you stress to be ignored. You’re used a pawn to capture a rook, so to speak.

Now, having eliminated many minor stresses for one large, rhyming one, you share some of these bad poems with a friend (or hypothetical randomly-encountered individual). That individual, if sane, will think you a person of poor taste, and never contact you again. After several repetitions of these events, you will be entirely alone, therefore eliminating most reasons for talking. When you don’t talk, you will by necessity shut up. When you shut up, people will like you. When people like you, you can invite them to join you in unpleasant places.

Need I say more?

In conclusion (as University has taught me I must declare before ending an essay), being successful can be achieved quite easily through a few counter-intuitive tactics. Any lack of success on your part can be eliminated by being less happy, less comfortable, and spending more time and money consuming bad poetry. If all else fails, make friends with people in troubled relationships and buy (or steal) a forklift.

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What’s In A Nest?

Let me show you my nest,

The place I rest my head,

Full of feathers and down,

The protection we shed.

We’ll regrow them in time.

They adorn my haven,

Nothing but sticks and mud

And a home for a raven.

My nest’s in a tree.

The tree’s made by rain.

Rain makes my wings heavy

And makes flying pain.

If the sun comes around

And then refuses to set

I’ll have no tree or nest,

So I pray to be wet.

Bugs and worms fill me up

So I may keep eggs warm

So my nest will be full

With a small raven swarm

Who complain of the rain

And fear losing a feather

And I don’t mind their kind

And I treasure “together.”

Soon they’ll be showing

A tree with their nest

And “together” is gone

And it’s all for the best.

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