Archive for the ‘Prose’ Category

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The Meat Market, a relationship survival guide

Monday, March 15th, 2010

I’ve been get­ting numer­ous let­ters ask­ing when my next inci­sive write on that human carwash/minefield or gaunt­let of extreme human mis­ery, the rela­tion­ship between men and women. As always I lead the charge into bat­tle and bear the scars of con­flict to min­i­mize your expo­sure. I could enti­tle this write the Meat Mar­ket, but that would sound too cyn­i­cal, and as you know I am not a cyn­i­cal man. What fol­lows is the opti­mal rela­tion­ship age to max­i­mize chances of suc­cess. So let’s jump into it, shall we?

The Des­per­ate youth (20’s late 20’s)
Men and women in this age range are like the unformed seed pods in the inva­sion of the body snatch­ers. Why talk about them, so let’s move on.

Men are easy they have a very short shelf life, about 32 to 34. Women should always go after a younger man; it’s your best bet. After 34 we are useless.

The opti­mum age for women, I was going to be a prick and say 35 years 22 days to 35 years 25 days and tell you there is only a three day win­dow. But some of you will jump out a win­dow. So let’s say lower to mid to upper thir­ties. It’s at this age they real­ize Romeo is a myth and if you think about it who would want Romeo. Some dweeb out­side your win­dow every night wear­ing leo­tards, play­ing a real bad lyre toss­ing thee’s and thou’s your way. You will not under­stand a word he says and he is wicked annoy­ing. Besides he will not even make love to you. You want to get laid and he would say shit like, “I wouldst sooner watch the essence of my life’s blood bleed into the bar­ren earth then peel the ped­als of thy beauty.” You would be say­ing “Peel Mother Fucker peel.”

Mov­ing up the men’s age range we get to my niche the mid to upper 40’s into the 50’s. We fall into two cat­e­gories the barely tol­er­a­ble and the “Did you see that dude?” The barely tol­er­a­ble which is my place in the food chain real­ize the chicks they are inter­ested in are not inter­ested in them. It’s dur­ing this time the idea of a really good sand­wich takes on almost myth­i­cal pro­por­tions. Prior to this age you would day­dream about bang­ing that hot chick in the frozen food sec­tion of the shop­ping mart, now dreams of real crisp Ital­ian bread and imported Ital­ian lunch meats are the means to very large erec­tions. Also, expen­sive elec­tronic devices, doesn’t mat­ter what they do as long as they look cool and beep and flash a lot.

The next group are major tragedies the “did you see that dude?” group. These guys exist in their own bub­ble of unre­al­ity. The guys with the comb over or the jet black spray paint unsuc­cess­fully hid­ing the bald spots. And the donelaps, yea, their stom­achs done lapped over their belt. This group see them­selves in a per­pet­ual state of tran­si­tion, they buy very large cloths and huge belts declar­ing to the world, “Yea I look like this now but soon I’ll be young again. To them it’s about the jour­ney never the des­ti­na­tion. Amaz­ingly they are per­fect matches with younger woman, some kind of syn­er­gis­tic sub atomic par­ti­cle can­cel­la­tion thingy.

Older women are a diverse group rang­ing from very cool to “The Wart” Very cool needs no expla­na­tion. The wart is really, well, clingy, the kind of chick that will call you 25 times a day and ask you what you are doing. Yea, they call in the mid­dle of the night, just so they can hear your voice, WTF? “Are you sleep­ing Eddie?” “Fuck no, I’m hunt­ing big game on the Serengeti, lucky you caught me, we are being attacked by mutant lions and we ran out of ammo, I’m sharp­en­ing my machete as we speak. Looks like I’m about to die, I’m so glad you called.” How­ever, Warts are adapt­able. Women are the ulti­mate guerilla fight­ers, while men will fall on their swords, women retreat, blend into the land­scape and gar­rote your ass in the dead of night.

This is the cliff note ver­sion of the write a more schol­arly treat­ment will appear in the New Amer­i­can jour­nal of card car­ry­ing psy­chopaths, June issue. Now keep in mind I’m rap­ping gen­er­al­i­ties here, prob­a­bil­ity. The amaz­ing thing about the species is its vari­abil­ity. “Yes it might be true the race does not always go to the swift, or the bat­tle to the strong, but that’s the way to bet.”

Let’s see a nice tuna melt with some jalapeño and mozzarella…

Posted in Humor, Prose | 10 Comments »

Twitter me this Batman

Thursday, March 4th, 2010

It’s all over the var­i­ous Blog sites how Twit­ter and other social net­work­ing sites have kept the world informed in the after­math of the sundry hor­rors that plague our species on what seems a daily basis. The recent Chilean earth­quake is a case on point. Admit­tedly I will do no research as I am a lazy fuck who unfor­tu­nately has lived among the bor­ing yous and mes. My apolo­gies to my eight grade Eng­lish teacher who would go on and on about my predilec­tion for run on sen­tences and my uncanny abil­ity to make up words in a pinch “You’re lazy Odd­poet! The period is your friend. And why is it so hard for you to find the appro­pri­ate words? “Fuck you too Miss Grundy.”

If have to make up shit to write this I will because chances are I have no respect for you. I barely respect myself. When did Blog­ging start requir­ing facts and integrity? The preva­lence of these sto­ries are a tes­ta­ment to all the Tech blog­gers out there who need to gen­er­ates back links and increase read­er­ship so they can sell more ads on their sites — Cha-Ching Cha Ching Just what the world needs another iPhone sale.

Let’s cull the imag­i­nary Twit­ter wire for some Jour­nal­is­tic prowess.

This one is from Ted Brook­shire, of Santa Mon­ica, CA, who was in Chile because he found out they have some nasty Pot that grows only on the South side of the moun­tains fer­til­ized by a com­mune of expa­tri­ate Peru­vian Lla­mas liv­ing in Chile.

“This shit is Good, smoked two bowls and the whole place went to shit”

From Maria, Peo­ria, ILL “A lot of con­crete fell on peo­ple, I’m sad. I’m going to cry now”

And…

Floyd, May­berry, NC the sub­duc­tion of the Nazca plate with the South Amer­i­can plate at a rate of three inches per year (eighty mil­lime­ters) giv­ing rise, wait, there are bod­ies mov­ing, it’s… Yea Floyd maxed out his Twit­ter mes­sage and some poor fuck­ers are dead because Floyd had to roll all smarty pants on us.

I reassessed my Twit­ter usage when I found out, much to my hor­ror; my rewrites were run­ning across the Twit­ter wire. Since every­thing I write sucks I’m always rewrit­ing. I have no illu­sions that any­thing I tell the world is remotely inter­est­ing. There was a chick on the soft­ware page with nice tits so I use it. The bitch hasn’t come over my house yet. Miss Grundy also said I was shal­low ‘”Fuck you again Miss Grundy”

It’s all bells and whis­tles, cheap per­fume mask­ing the scent of decay. Shiny sheets of fool’s gold hid­ing the fact that for the major­ity of peo­ple Life sucks. And they die because they are poor and no one gives a fuck.

Let’s all gear up with our iPhones, Twit­ter accounts, Black­ber­ries, MySpace, and Face­book pages and tell each other how we found a chicken in our Far­mville pad. Some­one hear­ing this in the Zaïre, Africa would say, “They get chick­ens from their com­put­ers? How cool is that?”

Any­one have a period I can borrow?

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Posted in Prose | 8 Comments »

Stupid People

Friday, February 26th, 2010

We were hor­ri­fied when Roy of Siegfried & Roy got mauled by a 600 pound white tiger. Appar­ently Herr Roy went into the cage armed with, I guess, one of those mag­i­cal foot stools and smacked Tony the tiger upside his head with a microphone.

“Hey Tiger, jump through a hoop”
“Who you smack­ing upside the head Mother Fucker”

The tiger pro­ceeded to drag Herr Roy around like a rag doll. While Roy waved his remain­ing arm around like a lit­tle bitch, lead­ing to this news release.

“When the best-trained and most-experienced han­dlers of big cats can be attacked and dragged around like rag dolls, it is plainly obvi­ous that untrained pri­vate cit­i­zens should not keep big cats as pets.”

Big shock there, huh? The truth of the mat­ter is there is an esti­mated 7000 big cats kept by pri­vate cit­i­zens in the United States and they kill peo­ple.
“Whoops, he was such a nice cat just before he took lit­tle Judy’s head off.”

Who can for­get Travis the lov­able face eat­ing chim­panzee who ate a neighbor’s face for lunch. Yea, a 200 pound wild Chimp went ape shit. They had to shoot poor Travis as telling him no TV tonight appar­ently had lit­tle effect on him as he was chew­ing through that poor woman’s face. Wild ani­mal are not social­ized and will never be social­ized. When they go off, it’s wel­come to the jun­gle time.

We love to vic­ar­i­ously expe­ri­ence the wild from the safety of our seats. We are a cul­ture of pussies and fag fucks. We let oth­ers take chances so we can be enter­tained. “Aren’t we all a bunch of wild ani­mals Doris?” “Yea, Ward, it really cool to get back to our roots.”

Peo­ple do stu­pid things and they do it all the time, all of us, every sin­gle one of you. We smoke, we drive with­out seat belts, we fall in love with peo­ple who plot our emo­tional destruc­tion, and we stuff burg­ers down our face till a crane is required to pull our bod­ies out of the house.
Some of us even strap sur­plus army rock­ets to our car and crash into a moun­tain going 500 miles an hour. “Wow, didn’t see that coming.”

I worked the Union Safety & Health beat in the most dan­ger­ous envi­ron­ment in the world, a ship­yard. I inves­ti­gated peo­ple being crushed to death on scis­sor lifts, peo­ple falling to their death, legs taken off by fork trucks, peo­ple dying of asphyx­i­a­tion in con­fined spaces, all of it; I had a front row seat boys and girls. The color of a charred body is not black, it’s blue, just in case you were wondering.

Appar­ently I was an unusual union stew­ard, I couldn’t be intim­i­dated, I had balls, I could read and I was artic­u­late. The most grat­i­fy­ing man­age­ment dis­cus­sion con­cern­ing me was told to me by my bud, Fred, a half man­age­ment fuck. He said one Boss whose unsafe job I halted wanted to put the screws to me and my Boss was there and said, “Fuck no; you’ll only make him mad.” Fuck you puke.

Employee’s whose lives and health I was try­ing to pro­tect hated me also. They really hated me.

“Fuckin Eddie and his OSHA rules”

You see they wanted to do stu­pid things cause nine times out of ten you get away with it. But it only takes one time to change your life for­ever or become dead. All in the name of get­ting the job done. All those so called Safety & Health rules man­age­ment pukes and Repub­li­cans make fun of are writ­ten in Blood, every one of them that are in 5 CFR 1910, some­one paid for with their life or a limb. That’s the facts, please don’t bet me.

So do me a favor keep your eyes on the news­pa­per and read about the stu­pid things other humans do on a rou­tine basis and remem­ber who you heard it from.

I remain, never humbly,
The Odd­est of Poets

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The Male Orgasm

Saturday, February 20th, 2010

My edi­tor walked into my office the other day and asked if I would write a cheap, tawdry piece on sex, the male orgasm specif­i­cally. Of course I refused,



“Bill, I am an artist damn it and I will not sell my soul so you can sell copy!”
“Ed, there is a $500.00 bonus in it for you and I’ll let you fuck my wife.”
“When do you need it Bill?”



There is noth­ing more mis­un­der­stood than the male orgasm. Too much atten­tion has been paid to the female of the species. Any man worth his salt will tell you, if asked, and no chick is around that they “Really don’t give a fuck about it.” And they will go on talk­ing about the Phillies chances of repeat­ing as National league champs.



It all started when that dyke bitch Erica Jung wrote “The Fear of Fly­ing” and this whole mythos devel­oped over the non-issue. Then came the “G” spot, Christ the bull­shit I had to put up with when that came out. Chicks whin­ing, “Find my G spot Eddie, please” One chick got on my nerves so much I took her over my gyne­col­o­gist friend’s office strapped her to the table, pried open her snatch with a two ton hydraulic jack, and then called my Bud, Pete, who works in the power tool sec­tion of Home Depot,

“Pete, I need every power tool you got!”
“ When ya need it Poet?”
“Now!”



So I work the chick over with drills, hole saws, (she really liked the rec­i­p­ro­cat­ing saw) All the time scream­ing, where the fuck is it bitch, this G spot you love so much?”
I believe I proved my point. But, I guess I could have been more sen­si­tive about it. It doesn’t exist, just more cheap arm­chair psy­cho bab­ble that sells books. Yes, I do despair of the species.



The orgasm is an intensely per­sonal expe­ri­ence regard­less of who is expe­ri­enc­ing it. It’s like a team sport where one per­son takes all the glory. I could use my con­sid­er­able poetic metaphoric skills to paint the expe­ri­ence with words but what would be the point? It is what it is.



There is a con­sid­er­able dif­fer­ence between the sexes on post coitus behav­ior. This of course is caused by years of cul­tural imprint­ing. A chick’s need to feel emo­tion­ally attached and that she is not a cheap easy pig that a man just fucked for shits and gig­gles. While a man looks at the chick with barely con­cealed con­tempt and says to him­self, “I can’t believe I just fucked this skank, how do I get rid of it?” Yes, she is like that puppy dog that will not go away, “Shoo Fido, shoo” This is when the love of your life ceases to be a per­son but an object to be aban­doned like a used tooth­brush.



There, it’s out in the open, and about fuck­ing time, I might add. Now a man has sev­eral options at this point, if he is inter­ested in a repeat fuck he will give you a cur­sory hug and say out of char­ac­ter stuff, while he is dress­ing quickly,
Yes, a man will say des­per­ate things just to get out of that bed­room. Unchar­ac­ter­is­tic words like “What do you say we run a marathon honey?” Or “I’m in the mood to go shop­ping babe, what do you say?” Or, God for­bid, “Honey look at the time, if we rush we can catch the last fif­teen min­utes of Oprah” For a man this is indeed a des­per­ate time.



One of the best extri­ca­tion tech­niques I ever heard was from my bud Pete. He would cum, roll over, put his pants on, grab the chicks clothes into a ball throw it at her and say, “Get the fuck out bitch my Girl­friend is com­ing over. “But you said you loved me Petey” “I lied” He then pushed her out the bed­room win­dow. A caveat is in order; this method should only be attempted by trained pro­fes­sion­als.



Being an extra­or­di­nary writer and cul­tural icon I have devel­oped a whole cat­a­log of male extri­ca­tion sce­nar­ios avail­able at my web­site Oddpoetword.com, for men only. I can’t give away all our secretes ladies.



I should write one con­cen­trat­ing on the female expe­ri­ence maybe I can get to fuck Bill’s wife again. But who would read it? Smile

I remain, faith­fully,
The odd­est of Poets…

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~Adult~ Oral Sex, who needs it…

Sunday, January 10th, 2010

Well, I do.

I believe the prob­lem with sex between too many men and woman is that they often have a total lack of under­stand­ing of what each party wants, needs or desires. Let’s face it, we are all dif­fer­ent, what works for one might not work for another and we should respect that.

As my con­sid­er­able read­er­ship has come to know and love about me, I am a plain speaker. I say what I mean and mean what I say, for exam­ple, in the throes of pas­sion I am extremely oral. There are no parts of a woman’s body that is off lim­its to me. I do not apol­o­gize for this, just how I roll. Though for some Ladies it doesn’t work. I once spent twenty min­utes suck­ing on this chick’s goi­ters. Yea, she had these huge goi­ters grow­ing out of her neck; they looked lonely so I said, “what the fuck.”

As I was munch­ing on her growths I believe she was alter­nately repelled and fas­ci­nated by my atten­tion.

Com­mu­ni­ca­tion? Sex does not lend itself to sta­tis­ti­cal analy­sis, gal­vanic skin response or jour­nal­is­tic depic­tions. Only the Poet can speak to it. I sub­mit. You can­not be too clin­i­cal, when sex works it’s a mys­ti­cal expe­ri­ence, it truly is. You can’t say, “Oh way­ward male found in a drink­ing estab­lish­ment, con­tinue your stac­cato tongue rhythms on Cli­toral region, while using your pri­mor­dial digit to find my alpha­bet­ized Uter­isian canal.” Don’t work. But you could say, “You fuck­ing whore pig lick my fuck­ing clit that’s right pig, that’s right… Fuck! faster, faster” while slam­ming your fist against his head. Now that works. Ladies, I can­not empha­size the fist against the head enough. Any man worth his salt enjoys a good ass kicking.

One prob­lem with my, if I might bor­row a term from my dear friend Sig­mund Freud, Oral fix­a­tion, is the din­gel­berry, alter­nately described as the grape, exit only, the satel­lites of Uranus or to be blunt… balls of shit hang­ing on a chicks ass. That will wilt lit­tle Willie real quick. I’m oral but not that oral. As a result of these unfor­tu­nate occur­rences I am now forced to employ the ser­vices of a miner’s hel­met. While I admit when I strap the sucker on it does send some ladies scream­ing in ter­ror out of the bed­room, it cer­tainly beats hos­ing them down with a power washer.

Oh well, it’s all an exper­i­ment. Sex, much like life, requires tak­ing chances.

I will con­tinue my quest for the Nobel Prize, I mean, the under­stand of human sex­u­al­ity with my next write, ten­ta­tively enti­tled, “Shrimp­ing”, Hey, For­rest Gump isn’t the only shrimp boat Cap­tain out there”

Respect­fully submitted,

I remain, faithfully,

The Odd­est of Poets

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I need sex! I am a desperate Man.

Friday, January 8th, 2010

As you no doubt do not know, I have been through a divorce where­upon I lost my house and every­thing I worked for all my life. That will be the sub­ject of a future post. But for now, let us exam­ine sex and desperation

I was mar­ried, which by def­i­n­i­tion meant I was not get­ting sex from my sig­nif­i­cant other. I was required to employ the ser­vices of a pros­ti­tute. Now some of you might cringe and say: “Dis­ease! Dis­ease!” Never fear, I would do the Odd­poet Babe Check. I would open the door upon hear­ing the knock and, ”Okay, she has two legs, check”; “let’s see, no vis­i­ble scabs on her face, good, very good.”; “Honey, roll up your sleeves,” no vis­i­ble track marks, “Come on in babe!”

My sec­ond choice for sex would be a Bar, Women there are usu­ally:
1.Of ques­tion­able moral char­ac­ter
2.Drunk
3.Desperate
When I was younger, I would prey upon Women in bars, sure as shit between 12:30 and 2:00 AM a few would either fall off bar stools or their nog­gin would slam against the bar passed out. I would imme­di­ately swoop in like a vul­ture on carrion.

Well I had fun, they did not remem­ber. This, of course, worked out for both par­ties. We did not have to do that stu­pid phone num­ber thing. Ladies we never call.

Alas, since I have no shekels I am forced into the ulti­mate humil­i­a­tion: Dat­ing want ads. How far have mighty fallen. What fol­lows are things you do not want to say in your ads:

“Look­ing for my Knight in shin­ing armor”
First of all I do not shine my shoes let alone armor. Sec­ond, I do not have any frig­gin armor. Please!

“Look­ing for my soul mate”
Well not sure I have a soul and if I did it would an ethe­real, spir­i­tual entity not remotely inter­ested in exchang­ing pre­cious bod­ily flu­ids! That’s a loser girls.

“Look­ing for Mr. Right”
This is a sure fire way to have your ad passed over. When men see that alarms go off, “Shit! She will want to change me into her “ideal man.” Pretty soon she will have me watch­ing Liza Min­nelli movies.” Don’t work Ladies!

What does work? Briefly:

“I swal­low”
Top of the list! Of course you run the risk of being con­sid­ered a slut, but you will never lack male com­pan­ion­ship. Like every­thing in life it’s a trade off.

“I love to drink but I can’t hold my liquor.”
Highly rec­om­mended, It has two advan­tages, first men dig that, sec­ond, you can engage in all types of obscene behav­ior and who can blame you! Shit, if you’re drunk. It’s kind of like a get out of jail free card.

Lastly,
“I am a widow whose hus­band left a whole lot of money, look­ing for one night stands.”
Very good one.

Hope this helps; I will be explor­ing this topic in the future. In the inter­est of soci­o­log­i­cal research, of course.

Till Then,
Humbly I remain,
Oddpoet

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~Adult~ Ex-Lovers…

Saturday, January 2nd, 2010

So I get a text mes­sage from this chick I was fuck­ing a while back. I know, I know I should say a chick I was in love with but the truth demands it’s place. Look­ing back or In ret­ro­spect I am able to piece together what went on in all my failed rela­tion­ships. Sorta like a recap, Dur­ing the event there is all that emo­tional want and need shit going down and it’s hard to sort it out. Look­ing back you come to real­ize you were just fuck­ing her. Which is about 99.9% of my rela­tion­ships which should tell you why they failed.

So she texts me and says it’s over. WTF?

“Yea, sorta fig­ured that out since I have not seen you in a year’
“I mean it this time’
“No doubt dar­ling your are drip­ping sin­cer­ity’
“I’m dying, but you don’t care, I’m dead to you already.’

Insert groan here.
Oh fuck, here comes the “I’m dying” bit

So I bite.
“That’s a shame hon, can I have your dog?”

“You cock­sucker’
“I mean it I have an STD”

This is where the strobes start flash­ing and the Phil­har­monic starts play­ing “Mephistopheles”

“you have what?”

“Do I have your attention?”

“Undi­vided”

Now I know this chick’s head and I always labeled her “sus­pect” That’s a term I reserve for chicks who you feel might be sling­ing pussy behind your back. Ya know sorta of a Kmart ver­sion of a Blue light pussy spe­cial.
“Atten­tion Kmart shop­pers, Chris­tine is sling­ing some major taco in aisle four”

Just a feel­ing I had with her. Prior to hav­ing sex she started to feel me out with ques­tions like “are you kinky?‘
She was never sub­tle. I told her the truth I could roll any­way she wanted. She was the atyp­i­cal sex­u­ally frus­trated mar­ried woman who was dying to ful­fill some major fan­tasy. She came to the right place.

So the big day arrives and she comes in with a duf­fel bag that looked like it weighed about three hun­dred pounds. I empty the fucker on the bed and tell her,
“Babe, if I pulled a McGuyver here I think I could build a minia­ture nuclear weapon. No shit, there were butt plugs, dil­dos, vibra­tors, lubes, cock rings, restraints, leather masks (WTF?) I wanted to have a sword fight with this huge black dildo, I hid that fucker under the bed. No fuck­ing way!  There was even a vibra­tor that dou­bled as an AM/FM radio and a GPS unit.

She undresses and lays on the bed and I have my choice of weapons. Being the bizarre fuck I am an image of the three Stooges comes into my head the one with them in the oper­at­ing room, “Scapel…check…Forceps…check…Dildo…check…

So I chose restraints, a blind fold and a large feather. I fig­ured any poor fuck could ham­mer her with a dildo it takes an artist to use a feather. I did and it was great. Once you get into it, it’s amaz­ing what you can do with a feather, restraints, a blind fold and some timely lightly blow­ing breaths. No lie, She was hands down the best sex­ual part­ner I ever had. I swear we did it for hours, it was insane, I would fuck her, whip out a toy, work it, fuck her again. Man could she come and the crème de la crème?: she was a squirter. Yea, my first. I was work­ing the cli­max and plop my face is sud­denly drip­ping with pre­cious bod­ily flu­ids. I was like, “Did she just piss in my face?” I recov­ered and real­ized but your first squirter will throw you for a loop.

One would think the rela­tion­ship was des­tined for great­ness but sex only goes so far; Then you have to talk to them. Ah, theres the rub, I have never fig­ured out how to bypass that whole talk­ing to them thingy. When I do men will be knock­ing down my door. “Odd­poet did what?” “Bypassed the whole talk­ing to them thingy?” “That fucker is my hero.”

But… we started talk­ing, got into a hel­la­cious fight. She puts this Coun­try music sta­tion on I asked her to turn it off, She said “deal with it” I did by rip­ping the radio out of the dash­board and throw­ing it into the street. Ya know typ­i­cal lover’s quar­rel. I do miss the sex.

Turns out she was not dying from an STD, I guess she just wanted to break my balls one last time for old times sake.

Oh well…

I’m gonna have to write about Deb­bie, the one that got away. Yea, I left her for my wife. I always did things ass backwards.

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So I’m dead…Right?

Friday, December 25th, 2009

So I’m dead.

How do I know?

When you die there is this pre-recorded mes­sage that plays in you head.

“You might be con­fused at the moment but let us assure you that you are indeed dead and we will be ser­vic­ing you shortly. Please wait in line and we promise an eter­nity of bliss awaits you. Thank you for your patience, the Management”

Now I am really pissed, I’m dead and I have to deal with voice mail? Bad enough I had to deal with it when I was alive.  At least they didn’t have an Indian accent…

So I’m wait­ing in line and there are some dick­weeds in front of me who are piss­ing me off. I’m hold­ing back because I am per­pet­u­ally pissed and I don’t want to cause a scene. The last thing I need is to get a Rep that I am a dead loose cannon.

Now the dicks in front of me are all excited about see­ing Mom and Dad and Grandma and Pa again… I’m like shut the fuck up and who gives a shit.

Now three places back there is a croc­o­dile in line. I’m like what the fuck is a croc­o­dile doing in line with dead humans? Nor­mally I would kick it’s ass but he is a big sucker about 20 feet long and rather large teeth. I want to start a con­ver­sa­tion with him, let’s face it how many oppor­tu­ni­ties do you get to have a con­ver­sa­tion with a dead fuck­ing reptile.

So I mosey back and say, “Yo croc what the fuck you doing here?” Believe it or not he has these read­ing glasses on and he speaks with an impec­ca­ble British accent. I’m like “This is too fuck­ing cool.” He tells me is name is Peter and he was rein­car­nated as a Croc he was king of France at one time. I’m doubt­ful; of course it seems every­one at one time was King of France. He seems like a cool dude. So I ask the obvi­ous ques­tion, “What the fuck you doing in line with dead peo­ple shouldn’t you be in the croc­o­dile line?” He apol­o­gizes pro­fusely and tells me even though he is a croc he still feels like the King of France. Who am I to argue.

I ask him if he wants to go to the Bar and he does. Now dead peo­ple drink like fish and the bar is packed so I ask him if he minds clear­ing a spot for us and he quickly chomps two fuck­ers down and WA-La we have seats. We start hav­ing a good time, he is a funny fucker and he has me laugh­ing my ass off over sto­ries about bang­ing the Queen of Eng­land. Shit, he said he nailed about all the royal pussy in Europe. I’m jeal­ous because all I nailed were some crack whores and an occa­sional mar­ried woman. What are you going to do.  Now the loud speaker announces “now serv­ing the dead croc who was once King of France” He apol­o­gizes and picks up the tab. I’m like “totally cool man”

He leaves and I’m stuck dead with fuck­ing humans. What are you going to do.

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~Adult~Reaming the Rectal Roadway

Wednesday, December 23rd, 2009

So I am in this Motel room and I have my John­son poised to enter this chick’s ass. She says “I never engaged in this kind of thing before.” Well, I tell her, “nether have I.”



I use to oper­ate under the assump­tion that Women were a gift of Aphrodite. An altar where I wor­shiped, a mag­i­cal inter­lude, a punc­tu­a­tion of real, in an oth­er­wise bor­ing life, that was before…



I’m get­ting ahead of myself…



So I’ve been fuck­ing this bitch for about two hours and I’m feel­ing good about myself, kind of like Wyatt Earp at the O.K. Cor­ral and the bitch is one the Clanton’s. So I’m pound­ing away, my gun is primed; being a musi­cian I’m pound­ing a whole slew of rhythms in that pussy. I am a jazzed ass cock­smith, I’m giv­ing her long strokes, short strokes, vary­ing rhythms, I am Thelo­nious Monk and the bitch is my keys.



All of a sud­den she can not breathe, well, not my prob­lem; she wanted to fuck, right?
And I real­ize my cock is a poten­tial instru­ment of death and I play the sce­nario out.



“What hap­pened here?”
“Offi­cer we were fuck­ing and she died.”
“You try­ing to say you fucked her to death?”
“I guess so Offi­cer.”
“My MAN!”

High fives…



Of course I stopped. Why?



The story demands our atten­tion…



Five hours ear­lier…



I knocked on her door, first look­ing left, then right, a para­noid thing. I have never been com­fort­able going into another man’s house for the pur­pose of fuck­ing his old lady. I don’t respect myself, in fact I hate me, but pussy is pussy and my old lady is use­less.



I won­der if the same scene is play­ing out at my crib, some Mandingo mother fucker who’s got my worth­less wife slammed against the wall, and she’s repeat­ing ver­ba­tim what’s going through my head. Shit! She’s not a Poet; fuck her and her Mandingo boy.



She answered. Her smile was preda­tory, she looked like she wanted more than I could ever give, any­one could give. She looked that hungry.

Her eigh­teen year old boy is on the couch eat­ing a hot pocket, watch­ing Nick­elodeon and eye­ing me. Now he has no dog in this fight his bio­log­i­cal Dad is on his third ex-wife and his Mom is fuck­ing me at the moment. His step Dad is in South Car­olina at the lov­ing sug­ges­tion of his never faith­ful wife.



Our eyes meet. I can’t read him…odd…
She grabs my hand,
“Let’s go in the bed­room.”



I look at the bitch like she has two heads. Her room is right behind the wall where the TV is play­ing Scooby Doo. And the thought of Scooby say­ing Rut Roo and Her Mom scream­ing Fuck me Jesus…Fuck me… Is even too much for scum like me to bear.
Besides don’t need her kid call­ing me Jesus.



She is insis­tent! Won’t let up. I know her kid hears her pleas, her need. I’m mak­ing a joke out of the whole thing. It’s like a fuck­ing Kafka novel, here I am try­ing to pro­tect her and her kid and she wants to kick my ass because I won’t fuck her with her kid in the house.



“I’m outta here.”
I walk to the door.
She fol­lows me, grabs me and pushes me against the wall.
Now I’m not a big dude, I’m a bad mother fucker but I’m not big and I let her man­han­dle me.
I’m think­ing about the kid…her…



I look at her and then her kid munch­ing on a hot pocket pretending…the world is… Rut Roo…



She is a tan­gle of needs and wants…
I knew at that moment I could never be the answer to that thing that burned in her, her eyes…



“We’ll get a room”



I should have run away and never came back, but… pussy is pussy and I have not had any in a while, being mar­ried and all that…



So…

The mid­dle was the begin­ning and the begin­ning is now…



I’m look­ing at her ass like Colum­bus look­ing at the new world. She never been ass fucked and I … what the fuck… My cock was sucked into her ass, it was like Lassie run­ning into the arms of lit­tle Timmy, home sweet home.



It was a vio­lent ass fuck, I slammed that mother Fucker and she bucked, lord did she buck. I was angry, I was fuck­ing her lies, her Son, her hus­band, but most of all me. I should know bet­ter…



She shiv­ered and shook and col­lapsed on the bed. I was amazed a woman could cum being ass fucked. She reached behind towards me and grasped my hand. I pulled away and ran to the bath­room. I started vom­it­ing and wip­ing the brown sin off my dick. I knew it would never be clean again. No mat­ter how long or how hard I scrubbed.



“You okay Babe?”



I couldn’t answer.

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A Conversation with God

Tuesday, December 15th, 2009

Photobucket

“To be or not to be” Any of you dudes out here truly know what ques­tion the Bard asks?
Well, not many peo­ple think about mor­tal­ity. Don’t blame them.
Back to “The Bard” six words that defines the nature or essence of our existence.

I am the only jerk off, I think, who will call God a Dick­weed! Just did it, not smited yet, (guess that comes later)

Any­way, I go to Heaven, and there is God, drool­ing and snor­ing on his recliner, remote on the floor, a Hus­tler mag on his lap.

So I wake the fucker up.

“God, wake the fuck up, your “Cre­ation” is in dire need of your omnipo­tent services.”

Well, the fuck snores away, well on the 7th day he rested. I did not take that to mean a fuck­ing per­ma­nent vaca­tion. I am forced to slap his fuck­ing noggin!

Well, I did and he finally wakes up, thun­der, light­ning the whole show!

The Archangels have blades drawn on my throat and even those fag­got Cherubs are bit­ing my ass. Cause I pissed him off.

“Poet”, he says, as he wipes the droll from his lips, “did I not kill you? Or, at the very least, it has to be on my things to do list.”

Well, that did not give me a warm and fuzzy.

“God, Ulti­mate Dude of Dudes, A lit­tle help is needed on earth.”

“Poet! Ass­hole, The only rea­son you exist is because you are a funny fuck!
Don’t push it BABE!” “And, being omnipo­tent, I bequeathed, free will upon ye. Which, ulti­mately means…You’re on your own.”

“God! Alpha and Omega, hear me out Dude. I under­stand the free will con­cept; but, maybe some guid­ance, a mir­a­cle here and there.”

“It’s a mir­a­cle you are still alive!”

“I know God, Emperor of all Cre­ation, I am an ass­hole, freely given. But how bout some mir­a­cles! Maybe cure every child suf­fer­ing from can­cer under… say 12?”

Must have struck a chord, because I could see his Divin­ity thinking.

I took the time to sur­rep­ti­tiously kick one of those fag­got bit­ing Cherubs in the groin. I swear if God was not there I would have kicked all those lit­tle fuck’s asses

“Poet, I see your point. But I hes­i­tate to inter­fere with Human­ity. Free Will I have ordained”

“I dig it, Big Chief of the Uni­verse, But Satan’s run­ning ram­pant on earth, war, dis­ease, famine and Repub­li­cans have been run­ning the show!”

“REPUBLICANS!!!!!!” I could see the big guy was upset; how­ever, he continued.

“I see your plight Poet, but free will rules the day. I can not inter­fere and that is final!”

“God, head hon­cho, think I can get in to see JC?”

“Poet, you are very close to being dead! get out of here. You are not com­ing here any­way!” “Nor can you expect an invi­ta­tion in the future.”

See­ing that I was out­num­bered, and the fact that he was right.…and.…. God did not give a fuck. I was ush­ered, not too kindly, I might add, from Heaven, And Poof I am here.

Gee, aren’t you lucky. Well, think­ing of a way I can cru­cify myself. Got the wood, know I can nail my left hand to the cross, the prob­lem is hav­ing, said, left hand nailed, I am unable to nail my right hand to the cross! Which requires me to plea for help!

Ring.….…..

“Hello” “Ehhh.….Don, I need a hand.“
“Poet…watts up, Dude!”
“Don, I need a hand.”

“What?“
“I am try­ing to cru­cify myself and I need a hand.”

“Christ, Poet are you into one of your to be or not to be moods?” “Fuck you!” Click.….

dial tone…

Well.…That IS the question

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