Forgettable Anecdotes Are Born Of These

For everything there is a first:

First kiss, first game, first beer.

For everything there is a last

But we don’t celebrate those here.

For everything there are middles

Unless first and last are the same,

But we tend not to notice these

‘Cause they all seem just the same.

So I challenge you today to share

Your one-thousand-second baseball game,

Your six-hundred and eighth bus ride,

The fourteenth passing of a flame.

You never know how special

The present will someday get.

Besides, people tweet food pics

So you’re still less boring than the net.

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Nothing Good Stems From Small Talk… Get It? Stems?

I think I know why plants don’t speak

And the reason is this:

They cannot pronounce the word

“Photosynthesis.”

My other hypothesis

For why speech is elusive

Is that plants are politically moderate

(But evidence is inconclusive).

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What He Does Have Are A Very Particular Set Of Skills… Skills He Has Acquired Over A Very Long Career…

He’s an average Joe

Except for really rotten luck

And in a single setting

For the whole film he’ll be stuck

While he tries to save his family

From a grand conspiracy

‘Cause that’s what folks’ll pay to see

Liam Neeson do!

He seems to only star in films

Whose titles start with “the,”

Except of course for Schindler’s List

And Taken 1, 2, 3.

He’s a frequent award nominee

For both his movies and TV

Which shows that people love to see

What Liam Neeson do!

His six-foot-four-inch figure

Makes all women want to burst.

He’s never died (‘xcept in the Star Wars

That used to be the worst).

So if you go to see a show

Then you should already know

The feats he’ll do (and in slow-mo)

To show off more his manly glow

And yet somehow we still all go…

To see what Liam Neeson do!

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I Respect These Hypothetical Natives

Somewhere where the roaring wind

Can give the snow a gentle lift

A solitary wolf begins

To sing the music of Taylor Swift.

And the natives nearby lie awake

Roused by the song from their nap

And pray the wind will roar even louder

To drown out the wolf ’cause who needs that crap?

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Jack Didn’t Sense The Conspiracy Until It Was Too Late

Peter picked a peck of pickled peppers.

It seemed to him the decent thing to do,

Then sweated sweetly with some swarthy schleppers

To schlep the peppers way back home to you.

But you, alas, had since left for the seashore

To sell your silly seashells I don’t doubt.

So I went to the park to soothe our offspring.

Didn’t give tidy teeter-totter daughters time to pout.

But somewhere in my heart I felt a tugging…

The tongue-tied tugging you and Jack know well.

I hope it goes away as I fetch water.

But oops! I tripped or slipped. Jill? What the hell?

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But The Microwave Is Silver…

The pot called the kettle black.

The kettle thought the pot was a racist kind,

But then kettle saw that the pot was black too

And, quoth the kettle, nevermind.

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Death Metal Groupies

Just because your singing voice

Sounds like Jabba the Hutt

Imitating Bryan Adams

Gargling a cigarette butt

Run in slow-motion backwards

Mixed with satanic chants

And is voted less favorably

Than being bitten by ants

Doesn’t mean I don’t want to

Get into your pants.

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The First Ever Skate-Park Graffiti Artist

Amidst the canyons of cement

I, with my board and spray-paint saw

Amidst the half-pipes, sad and gray,

A never-before-dreamt-of flaw.

For who would want to ride downhill

While listening to bands like “thrust” and “taint”

If there were no large bubble letters

Or titties drawn in low-cost paint?

And so I shook my can of blue.

My conscience whispered “make some art.”

And on the hill, for all to see,

In indigo I spelled out “fart.”

Inwardly proud I swallowed a sob

Then went back to congress to do my job.

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Impression: Los Angeles

I stood out here once before

Seeking what could not be found

Head to toe in the neon cloak of midnight

Listening for the absence of a sound.

I saw humans crawl past empty sidewalks

Burning gas and paying fares

On the way to work that will empower them

To buy their surplus worries and cares.

They seek comfort in a glasses, pills, and needles,

Pray for hope through a politician’s lies.

Paychecks promise them the satisfaction

Of being happy in someone else’s eyes.

Red-eye pilots flee this urban heaven

Carrying those with sense enough to flee.

I just read my scripts and idly wonder

What it’s like to see a real tree.

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It’s A Matter Of Efficiency, Really

Today is Easter, as you know.

It’s also April Fool’s Day.

I think those go together

As they celebrate the way

That Jesus was all dead and stuff

And then suddenly he wasn’t.

The two holidays make sense to me

Because the whole “not dead” thing doesn’t.

What also doesn’t make much sense

Is a question of this kind:

It’s that God sacrificed himself

To appease himself I mind.

Not only that, but if it’s true

That Jesus isn’t dead

Then why not find another way

To cure one’s Godly head?

It seems if you’re omnipotent

You could just say “hey folks,

“Get your shit together”

Instead of the “oops, not dead yet” jokes.

But I am just a human

And can’t be my own son

So I’ll just eat my chocolate eggs

And let His will be done.

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