Monday, June 13, 2011
Now they're choking on failure and defeat.
Now they will be the ones left cryin'
Now that they're Championships dreams are a dyin'.
The battle cry says 'wait tell next year'
But I can already see we have nothin' to fear.
The Three Stooges came to town and got shut down
Just like all those years in Cleveland he was a let-down
Now that The Three Stooges are done
We all know the real champs won.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Oh, it's the feeling of someone knocking at the back door
But you're out-and-about and can't let them in
People mistakin' that look on your face for a happy grin
God, I hope I never have this feeling again
So knock down the door and flip up the lid
Better sit down real quick
People knockin' to be let in
They can wait, time to bring back my happy grin
Oh, it's been so long on this lonesome road
Time to pull over find a tree
Them bushes could use some pee
Cars zippin' by like a streak of light
Hope this Cleavland steamer doesn't put up a fight
Monday, May 23, 2011
Friday, May 20, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Eventually I plan on having quites from various poems that I have come across over the years from bathroom walls across the land - I may have invented the art, a fact that I am very proud of, but I am not vain about it. I do rather enjoy the commentary that I have read on many-a bathroom wall. If you take away the ones that are there for no other reason then to drop the f-bomb or to rip on an ex-girlfriend or ex-wife, then you are left with some pretty good stuff! So....
Flush the toilet
and slam down the lid
Pull up your britches
never mind the skid
Pull out a pen
and leave a note
Ryme it like P-Diddy
Make it dope
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
So I bet you thought that I had died, or something like that? I wouldn’t blame you for thinking that, after two months of writing I up and disappeared. The truth is that I was doing a stretch up in Sing-Sing. For those of you who have no idea what the f-ing hell I am talking about – and that is probably most of you, since that joke was not very well constructed, but it was the best I could come up with under the circumstances – Sing-Sing is my little way of saying that for the past eight months or so I have been having to endure a prison of sorts; a prison that we have all – or least most of us - have visited at one time or another in our lives, willingly I might add. You guessed it – marriage!
It happens every now and again, even to the best of us. Like many poor saps and incurable romantic, I lost control of my senses and fell head-over-heel for some dame that said all the right things and had a nice rack. Before I knew what the hell was happening my tighty-whities were sharing their drawer space with a butterfly-embroidered friends made out of silk. Worse yet, my bathroom was transformed into a pink monstrosity, almost like a Flamingo had some how found it’s way in there one morning and then just exploded – pink frilly things landing on the toilet-seat cover and around the kleen-nex box and on the floor mat in front of the shower. My voice on the answering machine was also replaced by that of a women who proclaimed, giggly that “you have reached Sarah’s house, leave a message and I will get back to you as soon possible, tootles – hehehe.”
That was my first clue that my single story 1000 sq. ft. area that I once called home was mine no longer. My next clue would come when I came home and found my DVD collection – Aliens, Terminator, Battlestar Gallactica. . . Three’s Company, replaced with the complete series of Murder She Wrote and The Ultimate Collection of TV’s Golden Years: 1950’s – 60’s.” The last and final clue would be when I, again coming home, would find my house completely gutted – no furniture, no TV, no paintings on the wall, only divorce papers dropped carelessly on the floor for me to sign.
When all was said and done my wallet got a few hundred dollars lighter each month, but I did get to keep the house, and the TV and wife that I used to come home to each and every night was replaced by a two-gallon fish tank and a single gold fish which died last Thursday because I forgot to feed it.
That’s the story of my life there in one single sentence.
The lesson to be learned here, kiddies, marriage doesn’t work – for me it didn’t work the first time around or the second and it certainly didn’t work the fourth time around.
And yes, Sarah is her real name, not that you will have any idea who she is by such a simple and common name like Sarah, but if you ever shack up with a women with eyes as blue as glacial ice and skin a smooth as a freshly blown snow drift and with a heart just as cold, it might be her. The only warm part of our brief time together was her hair; the color of the sun after a long days drift across the sky and the warmth that it brought just before it set.
If I will miss anything it will be her hair, but that’s it – her hair.
Work will resume around here Monday with some new material.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
The year was 1959 and I was out celebrating the death of my best friend Jimmy. Jimmy and I had been best friends since our freshman year of high school when we - before we were old enough to know how the “game” worked - tromped up and down our local neighborhoods chasing girls and after we were old enough, we spent our nights trying to woo the school cheerleaders; the hottie on the debate club, or some random girl that we would meet in the hallway into a romantic drive up to lookout point. Our advances were often met with the usual “I don’t think so,” but every so often one of us would be charming enough to get some special lady to take the drive, in which case the night most likely ended with a slap in the face or a knee to the grown.
Back to this “death” celebration, it isn’t what you think. One night as Jimmy was up at lookout point and as he leaned in to kiss the girl he was with, instead of getting a knee to the grown - as was usually the case - he instead got a kiss back – this was really unprecedented territory for him. As it turned out the girl he was with was very fond of Jimmy and he was very found or her, and, well, to make a long story short, they ended up getting engaged.
This is what brought Jimmy and me to the “Bottoms Up” strip club, as we bid farewell to Jimmy the man and welcomed into the world Jimmy the husband, where life would never to be the same, a world where if you were not dying you were now well on your way.
What I didn’t think about before I planned this little excursion was where in the country we where – Southern Wyoming. For those who have never been to Wyoming, it is a rugged, harsh land where the men are real men, and, well, the women are too. This was a fact that I had completely failed to take into consideration until the first stripper walked on stage. Besides the noticeable lean with which she walked there was something not quite right about her and which spoke volumes about how the women in this part of the country have it rough and can’t help but show their wear and tear. Then there was the dancing – lord help us. It was like watching an epileptic cat having a seizure right there on the dance floor. With her eyes rolled back inside of her head and her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth I would have thought she had died if wasn’t for the sporadic jerking in between periods of absolute stillness.
The next stripper was perfect in every way. She was in her late twenties, slim with nice curves and perfectly shaped breasts and beautiful long brown hair that went down all the way to the small in her back. She was truly a work of art – black eye and all – that was, until she smiled.
I can only imagine what she must have thought of me the first time she saw me sitting there drooling like a leaky faucet. The expression on my face, I imagine, consisted of crossed eyes and a glazed over stare which signaled that I was no long present but drifting in my own little world, living out a fantasy that - for the sake of our PG-13 readers - can best be described as “graphic.”
I only came too as her performance came to a close and as the announcer said: “Give it up for Tristy, wow!” As she walked off stage I noticed that she looked back over her shoulder at me and winked.
It was an hour later as Jimmy was singing pirate songs with the bum that was sitting next to him – the one that had fallen asleep into his bowl of peanuts not half an hour before – that I got our stuff together and start to get up and leave, dragging Jimmy behind me as he asked hostesses and strippers alike if they wanted to “walk the plank.”
“Leaving so soon?” A voice asked as I was attempting to prevent Jimmy from climbing onto the bar to make a toast to his fellow drunkards.
Standing there before me was Tristy. She was wearing 3-inch platform shoes, which made her seem taller than I was, and a two-peace red bathing suite, which was two sizes to small for her, and an ear-to-ear smile, which revealed two missing front teeth.
That is how I met my first wife.