Tag Archives: America

Mr. Infallible and the Plague of Other People

In a very distant city

In some un-noteworthy land

There stood a shabby little shack

Which housed the one all-knowing man.

The man was very happy

Because he knew how to be so,

Yet he had a common problem

And away it would not go.

The problem he experienced

Was, despite his knowing all

The people who surrounded him

Would never heed his call.

A wolf would eat a neighbor,

A child would lose its way;

To the second he’d predict these

Yet the man still had no say.

He knew of no solution

And, knowing all, he knew no hope

So he lived a life of nothing

As a shack-dwelling all-knowing dope.

Yet the answer to his problems

Had been with him all along.

‘Twas the one thing he could not accept…

That, maybe, he was wrong.


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That’s Pronounced “She-it”

Apparently my teachers were wrong

And there aren’t boys and girls.

Turns out gender is “representational,”

Or so the new story unfurls.

Seeing that sex doesn’t matter

To whether you’re he, she, or other

I think we need a singular pronoun

That applies equally to one another.

In the past we were male and female

And likewise called he or she.

Apparently the gender-neutral

Is also important, so they tell me.

So I have an unbiased option

To represent them, me, and you:

We can just say humans are SHeIt.

It has all three pronouns, and also is true!


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Why I Love Football

This month we will experience

The NFL’s preseason

In which millionaires hit each other

Deapite the lack of any reason,

And we the fans will cheer

To kick our team’s rival’s posterior

Because we can’t play ourselves

Since we’re genetically inferior.

We’ll sit and eat and fart a bit

And somehow manage to sweat.

At the end half of us will sob

While half say “best preseason yet!”

Then we picture our team’s victory

And order larger pants

With the logo of some other team

That actually has a chance.

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Dear Internet: Why The Exception?

You can’t mock someone ’cause they’re fat,

Ugly, stupid, stuff like that.

You can’t make jokes about a race

(At least not to somebody’s face).

You can’t gay-bash, slut-shame, or mock

The way one laughs or thinks or talks.

But you can defame or spew hate at

Those with neckbeards or a fedora hat.

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Logic, American Dream Style

Monday through Friday

My heart’s only dread

Is that midmorning song

That says “get out of bed.”

Yet come days of Satur

And as well days of Sun

My heart sings in the morning

‘Til the day is all done.

For when clocks of alarm

Cracks serenity’s hold

And says “put on your clothes

“And go do what you’re told”

My vigor and pep

Aren’t what they used to be

Like when I was a child

And still blissfully free.

When instead of alarms

To the sun I awaken

And instead of my job

I get pancakes and bacon

My bliss flows more freely

And I feel stronger.

From now on I’ll work weekends

And be miserable longer.

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USA, November 2016

Roses are reds,

Violets are blue,

These are both valid points, and I’ll address them in a moment, but first…

But does anyone stop to comfort the violets in their sorrow? Even once?


You know, depression is a chemical imbalance and has many dangerous side effects. But when it becomes a part of ones identity, as it has for the violets, it transcends its mortal debilitation and becomes a blight on the very soul.

When I’m elected, I’m going to make violets purple again! And not by adding rose colored glasses, no. Not by that. Who needs all the thorns roses bring anyway? No, I dream of a garden where honest, hardworking violets can grow bigly without the radical redness of roses!

In other words, f*** you roses.

Let’s Get Pruning ™

This poem brought to you by Goldman Sachs.

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Getting Out Of Anywhere

I’m driving down the interstate,

The freeway, highway, expressway.

I see folks who don’t want to wait,

Folks who sin, folks who pray.

I see lines of cement, concrete

Cutting green and yellow squares

Through fields of grass and corn and wheat,

Driving right through anywhere.

I pass by Costco, Sam’s Club, Joe’s,

Past rectangular white houses

Avoiding eye contact from those

Who wear jeans and shoes and blouses.

Then I take exit one-o-eight there

Past the fence the cows broke through

And I say goodbye to anywhere

And say hello again to you.

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