If you go to prison
It’d probably be lame
If your parents gave you
A come-hither name
‘Cause if your name’s “Maggie”
Or “Dropped Le’Soap AndI’m Gay”
You’re probably in trouble.
That’s why you’re named “Flay.”
Tag Archives: Silly
Single Man Seeking Non-Sequitur, Dirty-Minded Grammar Nazi Female
You laughed at me unreasonably
When I said “my name is Ben”
‘Cause you were thinking of the ’50s
When a lot of future men
Had names like Richard Jr.
But went by “Little Dick,”
And after you told me this
I knew you’re a girl whom up I should pick.
Filed under Poems
Hipster Children
I really liked green eggs and ham.
I really, really gave a damn.
Then they wrote the book and whoo!
Everybody loved it too.
Now I hate green eggs and ham,
That Dr. Seuss and Sam-I-Am.
I hate them so much I can burst,
Yet proudly say I loved them first.
Filed under Poems
It’s Hard To Express Affection Sometimes
My love for you’s beyond that
Which human words can express,
But if I had to make a word
Then… let me think… I guess
It would sound somewhat like
The sound a beaver makes
When it stops chewing tree bark
And moves to eating rakes.
Filed under Poems
That Blows!
My urine is made of pure oxygen
Because of a disease that’s rare.
It’s not that bad except for the fact
That my parents called me “Pierre.”
Filed under Poems
Fired From Hallmark… Again
Why’d the first flamingo think
“I’ll be flightless, awkward, pink?”
How’d the first hippo decide
To be as tall as it was wide?
Why did the first jackass choose
That name as the one to use?
You may wonder, so here’s a clue:
They all wanted to be like you!
Filed under Poems
The True MVP!
When you’re young, people ask
“What do you want to be
“When you grow up,” and today
I found my answer (finally)!
I want to be the guy whose job’s
To be the obscure-stats fairy
And Google crap that nobody knows
And tell the guys doing commentary
So when the score is 12-8
In a game involving someone named “Lou”
Because of me you’ll know that hasn’t happened
Since 1962!
Filed under Poems
The Lord Of The Rings
A while ago
There was a guy
Who dreamed of being
A fiery eye.
We don’t know why
He felt the need,
But we know that
He did succeed.
The problem with
Old fire-eye’s plot
Is that what he wanted
Others did not,
And so he hid
His power away
So after his death
He’d still be okay.
He put that power
In a magical ring
That got stolen by
A greedy king,
And that repeated
Several times
Through fire and snow
And temperate climes.
Then one day
Some fishing midgets
Found that ring
And asked “what ij it?”
One said “mine!”
The other said “no!”
And so the midgets
Came to blows.
The winning midget
Became a beast
Who hid in a cave
Eating Fancy Feast
Until more midgets
Came along,
Stole the ring,
And sang a song.
A few years later
There was peace
And the ring’s new owner’s
Male niece
Got the ring
As a birthday gift,
Met some elves,
And got a lift
To Rivendell
Where it was decided
Fire-eye’s ego
Had the land divided
And that the only
Thing to do
Was to break the ring
Of you-know-who.
The elves said that
The ring must be laid
In the Mordorian lava
In which it was made.
The dwarf said
“That’s a lot of work,”
Hit the ring with his axe
And looked like a jerk.
So midgets and co.
Went on a quest,
They got betrayed
And left the rest,
Wandered alone
To the volcano of doom
Where the trolls and orcs
Drummed “boom, boom, boom.”
While they did
The men, dwarves, and elves
Fought three hours of orc wars
All by themselves,
Had a romantic subplot
With the long-lost human heir
And the elven princess
With the CGI hair.
By now midgets passed fire-eye’s
Most fiery gazes
Then the ring-bearing midget
Had just one of his dazes,
Turned to his friend,
Said “No Sam! The ring’s mine,”
Then dumbass lost his finger
And it all turned out fine.
Filed under Poems
And, Somewhere, A Naked Professor Sheds A Tear Over His Sushi And Immediately Regrets It…
If wishes were fishes
We’d eat way more trout,
If thoughts were diplomas
We’d have much more clout,
If logic were clothing
We’d mostly be nude,
But if teardrops were onions
We’d really be screwed.
Filed under Poems
When Your Dream Job Is *This Close*
If I were a sniper
And also a duck
I’d rely on my training
And also my pluck
To take out a target
In one master stroke.
I’d let out a quack
When I see the guy croak.
Being a duck sniper
Some might call “fowl.”
But I could wear camo makeup
And maybe a cowl.
But alas I was born
With a bad lot of luck;
I could still be a sniper
But never a duck…
Filed under Poems
The Daily Travesty 