If you look I think you’ll find
That women are mean to their own kind:
They’ll criticize you if you’re pretty.
They’ll be mean if you look shitty.
They’ll tease you if they can’t see your butt
But if they can then you’re a slut.
They’ll mock you if you’ve got one pal, though
If you are popular they’ll call you shallow.
They’ll fill your life with only hate
But I’m a man. How ’bout a date?
Our childish dreams are warm
Beneath the blanket of unknowing,
Our sensibilities secure
All thanks to lack of growing.
Dulcet and desultory,
With ease we are besot,
Avoiding the obstreperous
And things requiring thought.
We swim in tranquil waters
As our bones turn into lard.
Our brains become decrepit
As we hide from all that’s hard.
The deities of comfort
Sanctify our mindless chatter,
A lullaby to help forget
Our lives don’t really matter.
When hunger or reality
Force us, languid, to act
We choose harmony of feelings
Over cacophony of fact,
And thus have we who worship
Our mirror’s charming sheen
Learned to pray for ignorance
So that we may die serene.
I’m often accused of “mansplaining”
When what I teach just isn’t landing.
But never once have I met a woman
Who I accused of womanunderstanding.
So why do we assume that men are spreaders
And not that chicks on buses seem to shrink?
I await answers with manticipation
‘Cause I’m curious to know what women think.
There once was a movie
That featured a fart
And, in children, it inspired laughter.
And so it was decreed
That fart jokes were a need
In all movies for children thereafter.
I was a brick wall. So secure
There was nothing I could not endure,
Yet, while I’m safe in a fire
She wanted barbed wire
‘Cause “Barbed Wire is hotter for sure.”
Today I’ve done nothing
But sit on my butt.
I woke up, closed the blinds,
Checked the door (locked and shut)
Then reveled for hours
Of sedentary bliss
Never once caring
About what I might miss.
And as nothing happened
For a fair bit of time
I had no new ideas
And committed no crime,
Consumed no nutrition
And didn’t make noise,
And somehow refrained
From molesting young boys.
I didn’t feel sadness,
Nor did I have fun
So for sunday the score is:
Catholics: 0, Poet: 1
The greatest invention of all time
Was the invention of paper
Not because it simplified written language
Or made knowledge portable,
But because it drastically reduced the number of ties
In the popular game of “Rock.”
The french-fried potatoes
That I bought from Wendy’s
Are covered in tattoos
And wear pants around their knees,
They complain about white privilege
And say “sup” instead of “hey.”
That’s when I remembered
That today is black fry day.
Today’s the day we give our thanks
To those who made the lending banks
Who’ll help us spend the day to come
By buying stuff until we’re numb.
We’ll also eat some spuds and birds
As we exchange our thankful words,
Then look outside and see the sweet
Bright lights of Christmas across the street.
If I were a flamingo, um…
You wouldn’t be reading this poem.
If I were a beaver
You wouldn’t be reading it either.
If I were a yak
You’d have the last 10 seconds back.
But alas I am a human
So if you want to sue me, you can.