The writings of Oddpoet

I like shiny things, I'm very superficial.

My broth­ers hear the crash and break the door down… Absurdly, I men­tally curse Home Depot and their cheap fuck­ing doors. So there I am with a belt around my neck and the entire drop ceil­ing strewed about the room. I fuck­ing hate failed sui­cide attempts. I mean what can you say, “Whoops?” It’s like get­ting caught by your future ex-wife with your sweat pants draped about your ankles wax­ing your car­rot to the Fredrick’s of Hol­ly­wood web site. That has hap­pened to you, right? Please say yes.

I briefly won­der how woman mas­tur­bate. Prob­a­bly with envi­ron­men­tally friendly solar pow­ered dil­dos. I hate Women.

So my older Bro says, “Dick­weed, stick with drink­ing your­self to death, suits your style.” Gotta love my Brother.

So I decide to go out­side, which is a feat in itself because I haven’t left my room in about three months. I find most peo­ple bor­ing — I really hate rub­bing elbows with the fuck­ers. I leave the belt around my neck; I fig­ure maybe I can pass it off as some kind of new sar­to­r­ial style.

I see the mail­man and I was going to tell him to stop deliv­er­ing me mail, I don’t open the fuck­ers– what’s the point. But, I fig­ured he worked for the Post Office and there­fore was in his own pri­vate hell.

So I make it to the over­pass, beneath me is the New Jer­sey Turn­pike. I read some­where; it was one of the most trav­eled roads in the US. I watched the social insects whiz by. I dig the sound. The World is full of songs; you just have to know how to listen.

I notice the inward curv­ing fence and it pisses me off. (I’m always pissed) I mean it’s not like I can’t get some C4 and blow a whole in the sucker.

I know they are try­ing to stop jumpers. Not because they care about human life, they don’t want you fuck­ing with traf­fic. I once saw a jumper splat­tered like sea gull shit on the asphalt. Peo­ple were get­ting out of their cars and kick­ing the dead fucker say­ing shit like:

“I got a mas­sage in 30 min­utes I’m late because of you dead shit”

“I have a two hour win­dow to cheat on my hus­band and fuck Ted the insur­ance man”

And my per­sonal favorite:

“Some­one scrape this dead fucker off the road”

So I mosey down to the local Dot Head store. What’s his name is at the counter. Cool dude but he has far too many con­so­nants in his name. Hence “What’s his name?” Now, he has this pet Ana­conda who he loves, so I ask him if he has any new pic­tures and his eyes light up and says: “I’ll be right back.” He runs to the back room and I run to chest freezer where­upon I start stuff­ing frozen Ice cream sand­wiches down by pants and in my pock­ets. I love steal­ing shit and I love Ice cream sandwiches.

So he comes back and starts show­ing me the pic­tures of his pet snake and in the mean­time my balls are freez­ing from the frozen Ice Cream sand­wiches stuffed in there and let’s face it, who needs frozen balls.

I give him a fake smile and I split and start eat­ing my plun­der. Oh yea, then I went home.

A group demon­strat­ing in front of the United Nations protest­ing the geno­cide in Dar­fur was set upon today by a group of angry New York shop­pers eager to get into the Christ­mas spirit.  Dis­grun­tled bar­gain hunter Christina Spencer angrily said, “I’m sick of this shit, Wal Mart  has a two hour spe­cial half priced sale which I will miss because of these pathetic fucks…  It’s Christ­mas for Christ’s sake. Hey we all have prob­lems, this year alone I spent two thou­sand dol­lars on lit­tle Susie’s bal­let lessons.”  To empha­size her peeve she kicked a young Dar­furian Child in the head crack­ing it’s skull like a fuck­ing eggplant.

Pen­ta­gon offi­cials announced they fucked up again in their eight year pur­suit of 911 mas­ter­mind Osama Bin Laden.  Award win­ning jour­nal­ist Odd­poet revealed that Bid laden was not in North Waziris­tan but actu­ally work­ing as an ani­ma­tor for the Walt Dis­ney Com­pany.  When pressed Pen­ta­gon big­wig Gates admit­ted that Bin Laden pen­chant for chang­ing one let­ter in his named befud­dled the Pentagon’s brain thrust.  The plug wear­ing Gates said, “It’s really not our fault we were look­ing for Osama Bin Laden and he was work­ing as Osama Ban Laden, You have to admire him, he is a crafty son of a bitch.”  The pen­ta­gon wun­derkind went on to state that he believed Bin Laden had out­side assis­tance and prob­a­bly four or five for­eign nations were involved in the nefar­i­ous scheme.  He urged all Amer­i­cans to remain sus­pi­cious and terrified.

Sci­en­tist announced they had noth­ing really to announce.  They did say the quest of cures for chil­dren leukemia, can­cer, aids, global warm­ing were con­tin­u­ing at a snail’s pace.  “But on the bright side we dis­cov­ered after inten­sive research that when you rip a lab rat’s ears off they make a really cool screech­ing sound.”

A group rep­re­sent­ing the “Real hor­ror writ­ers of Amer­ica” urged a boy­cott of the phony Vam­pire movie “New Moon”  It’s an out­rage, you have 13 year old chicks fin­ger­ing their sludge pods over some cute vam­pire who don’t even suck blood.  What the fuck?  He pre­dicted dire con­se­quences on the con­tin­ued fag­i­fi­ca­tion of Amer­i­can youths.  “Let’s face it a vam­pire is sup­pose to tear your throat out and they never fuck, sheeze”

The National Orga­ni­za­tion of Woman’s news con­fer­ence announc­ing the group’s leg­isla­tive ini­tia­tives urg­ing the “cas­tra­tion of all males” was dis­rupted by the icon­o­clas­tic Odd­poet.  While over­turn­ing tables and toss­ing dil­dos at the “les­bian fucks”, Odd­poet announced his own agenda. He planned to “cold­cock any chick who pisses him off” to demon­strate He turned and dropped a female reporter who got too close.  In the mêlée that fol­lowed Odd­poet was remon­strated by an asso­ci­ated who screamed, “she was not a les­bian Odd­poet, she was a pretty cool nympho­ma­niac who would fuck any man who looked her way or bought her a cup of cof­fee.” the never remorse­ful bard said, “Fuck the bitch, they’re all dykes in train­ing”   As he was being led away to a wait­ing police wagon he urged all les­bians to con­tinue mak­ing “Dyke flicks”, and that “he was still a sucker for girls going down on each other.”

In related news, Odd­poet planned to pub­lish from prison his con­tro­ver­sial annual Yule­tide extrav­a­ganza, “very cool sui­cide let­ters.” The gang raped devi­ate stated that he had the “utmost respect for any­one who up and offed them­selves.” The Amer­i­can Busi­ness alliance rejected the post and urged any­one in the depths of despair to hold off on killing them­selves till after the hol­i­days.  That “the con­sumer dri­ven Amer­i­can econ­omy needed every present bought and paid for by afore­men­tioned ema­ci­ated Amer­i­can poverty stricken con­sumer, It’s no time to be selfish”

And every word of it is true…

I will get through this piece with­out a sin­gle F bomb just to prove to you I can do it.
I will use frig, ass, shit but that will be it, so the “sen­si­tive mem­bers” of my read­ing pub­lic will not be offended.

As a species, the human race has an over­whelm­ing desire to acquire knowl­edge; it is hard wired in us.  We have to Know.

When in my first col­lege I started a move­ment to get the frig­gin busi­ness majors thrown out of the school.  I wanted the whole busi­ness pro­gram removed.  If you want to be a cor­po­rate whore go to a cor­po­ra­tion and do it there, do not taint this place of higher edu­ca­tion with your foul whore like busi­ness prac­tices.  I felt strongly about it and I friggen meant it.  I got thrown out of that col­lege.  Oh Well.

When the State gets involved with the acqui­si­tion of knowl­edge we are frigged.  It is usu­ally to find bet­ter ways to kill each other.  We are never sat­is­fied; we need big­ger and more effec­tive ways of doing it.  It is what we do best.  Started with sticks, stones, swords, cat­a­pults, guns, artillery, mus­tard gas, germ war­fare right up to what I call the big fire­cracker: The Atomic bomb.  Even med­ical advances were fueled by war­fare.  The object of war is to kill more of them than they kill of us.  So, we had to save as many of our guys as we could, not because we care, only because we want to win.

The big fire­cracker.   Robert Oppen­heimer is cred­ited with being the “father of the atomic bomb” He only ran the Man­hat­tan project, which devel­oped it.  The Knowl­edge required was cumu­la­tive, sort of like “dialectic(s)” I’ll bas­tardize it with: the­sis, antithe­sis and syn­the­sis.  This is an idea, a counter idea and new knowl­edge as a result of the argu­ment.  This shit goes on and on and that is how knowl­edge grows.

Back to the fire­cracker.  Ein­stein and sev­eral other sci­en­tist wrote to Pres­i­dent Roo­sevelt about how the Ger­mans were build­ing a really, really big fire­cracker.  So Roo­sevelt says” “How big?”  “Well big enough to destroy a city.”  Roo­sevelt replies: “we GOTTA get one of them!”  Oppen­heimer heads the project and the bomb is devel­oped.  Dur­ing the ini­tial “Trin­ity test” (irony?)  He is pur­ported to have said, “If the radi­ance of a thou­sand suns were to burst at once into the sky, that would be like the splen­dor of the mighty one. Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”  Proud of that one aren’t you Bob.
Always wanted to send him a happy father’s day card dur­ing the anniver­saries of the drop­ping of the bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.  Well I am, as I told you, a real ball breaker.

One last point on the big fire­cracker.  We are so figged up as a species that we recently devel­oped a “Neu­tron Bomb” Kills all the peo­ple but does less dam­age to the real estate.  We are a prac­ti­cal lot.

The Famous Shaman Crow­beak, world renowned mys­tic and meta­phys­i­cal pur­veyor of absolute wis­dom.  Well what peo­ple do not know was that Crow­beak was walk­ing around eat­ing magic mush­rooms like he was pop­ping tic-tacs!  He was so spaced out he would stag­ger around say­ing shit like “When leaf falls from tree and touched mother earth, grav­ity is thus proven.”  Some­one over­hears him and says, “What did he just say? Sounded pretty deep.”  Then, “When cater­pil­lar eats leaves off tree, tree dies, and then tree knows it was alive.”  Pretty soon you have a friggen horde of peo­ple fol­low­ing him around smack­ing there fore­heads say­ing, “this guy is bril­liant”  peo­ple are writ­ing his shit down yelling “get me more paper”  Point being, even if some­thing does not make sense the human mind will wrap itself around it and force it to make sense.

Rhetoric, which means I know more shit about a sub­ject than you do.  I am/was very good at this because I had a secrete weapon” The Dis­tin­guished Pro­fes­sor Wil­helm Von Schwimm.”  Well he did not exist; I made him up, but would often call upon his exper­tise on what­ever sub­ject mat­ter I was debat­ing to prove what point I needed to prove.  “Well accord­ing to the Dis­tin­guished Pro­fes­sor Wil­helm Von Schwimm Bla…Bla…bla…“
Well, point here is peo­ple do not like to think they don’t know some­thing or some­body and will accept what you tell them because they do not want to look stu­pid.  Try it.

Hang in there almost done.

Socrates! My main man devel­oped the Socratic Method.  You can read a whole bunch of bull­shit on this if you want but I can sum it up in two sen­tences and a quote.  In fact Socrates whole life! Not many peo­ple can do shit like that, well I am the Poet. Here goes:
1.People don’t know shit.
2.When forced to talk long enough they will prove they don’t know shit.
I will need to call on Oscar Wilde for the quote, “Oscar if you would, please.“
“When you want to tell some­one the truth make them laugh, oth­er­wise they’ll kill you.“
“Thanks Oscar, you can go back to the grave now.”

That is basi­cally it.  And they killed Socrates because he was a ball breaker and he did not make them laugh.  For exam­ple:
A bunch of Athe­ni­ans are in the Parthenon talk­ing about the lat­est play ‘Danc­ing with the Nymphs” (And you thought ours was the only vapid cul­ture? No, Vapid­ity has been around for a long, long time.) “I believe Themis­to­cles dance with Nymph Amalthea was superior.”…“No dear Ducea­nees Lato and the nymph Arethusa were much bet­ter.”  Well in walks Socrates and the whole Parthenon rolls their col­lec­tive eyes up to the sky and say, “Oh shit, here comes that ball breaker.”  “He would ask well what do you mean by bet­ter?” Ducea­nees would say “I mean supe­rior…. “  Well pretty soon Socrates would have Ducea­nees throw­ing his arms up in the air say­ing, “Alright I don’t frig­gin know leave me the frig alone!”  Well they killed him!  Bastards!

What does all this mean? Well we have come full cir­cle, right back to the Exis­ten­tial­ists: Noth­ing, life is absurd!

Twenty Five years ago a young Father was dri­ving down inter­state 95 with his two young sons in the back seat, it’s Christ­mas eve, and they are singing Jin­gle Bells and Joy to the World and all of sud­den an ass­hole in a pickup truck with the tail­gate down and a large unse­cured motor in it, hits a bump, motor flies out, goes through wind­shield and decap­i­tates young Father (giv­ing cre­dence to the the­ory that no two objects can occupy the same space at the same time) A mir­a­cle the two young ones sur­vived.  YES! Life is absurd.

Can never, never get that out of my head it is burned in there.

Here it is:
1.We have to know shit.
2.Killing each other is a large moti­va­tional fac­tor in the know­ing of shit.
3.Even if we don’t know shit we will force our­selves to know shit
4.No one wants to admit they don’t know shit
5.When push comes to shove no one knows shit
6.What is the dif­fer­ence because life is absurd.

Well all wrapped up in a nice pack­age, not bad, even if I say so.
Life is absurd, how­ever find your own mean­ings, make it moral, be good to one another and choose your own God or higher power and believe.  Else, I will be forced to come to your fuck­ing house and pull a Socrates on you fuck­ing ass.

Yea, I lied about the F bombs.

I remain, never humbly,
The Odd­est of Poets

“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 7^th 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

Dead peo­ple are a real bum­mer, espe­cially when the fuck­ers owes you money. I remem­ber Richie had the gall to up and die whilst owing me $100.00, the fucker. Being freshly dead he was not yet pack­aged; so I make a bee line over to his crib­bage to check the thing out, you know to see if he was try­ing to get out of his debt. You’d be amazed the lengths peo­ple will go to get out of pay­ing me.

So I bust in and there is the perquisite mourn­ers cir­cle and there was Ritchie who was no longer Richie. And my $100.00 was no longer my $100.00 so I take a shot and start rifling through Richie’s pock­ets. Too late Aunt Sophie beat me too it. The bitch was a big­ger thief than Ritchie. The circle’s eyes widen in hor­ror as I start punch­ing Ritchie’s corpse and then they start scream­ing, all except Aunt Sophie, the bitch. I turned to them all pissed off and say: “What am I doing… hurt­ing his feel­ings? The fuck­ers dead!”

So I book and start think­ing about death.
I’m like every­one else; I don’t want to think about it. Death is like the fart in Church, no one wants to admit it’s there but we all can smell it.

The prob­lem with death is it reminds us that we will all even­tu­ally be strapped to that one man seat. Death is the ulti­mate one man show, no sup­port­ing acts, strictly solo. We are so frigged about death we want to get rid of the body as soon as possible:

“Get that frig­gin stiff outta here!”
“But Ward! It’s the Beaver.”
“I don’t give a shit June, tell Wally to drag it out to the garage and call those Under­taker creeps.’

Under­tak­ers– Nice name– I use to think Sur­geons were fucked up peo­ple but Under­tak­ers got them beat. Yea some­thing def­i­nitely creepy about a voca­tional choice involv­ing dead peo­ple. “How do you make a living?”

The first Under­tak­ers were fam­ily who washed and cleaned the stiff and pre­pared for the rit­ual mourn­ing of the dead. You had to make it quick, things can get smelly. The prob­lem was no one was sure if the per­son was really, really dead. I mean it looks dead, but…

That was the prob­lem, his­tory is replete with sto­ries of the dead com­ing back to life and a uni­ver­sal fear that is cross cul­tural is being buried alive. That will keep you up at night might even stop you from dying.

The first Under­tak­ers were Fred and Ernie. They vol­un­teered since they had no life and no one wanted the dead end job. The first order of busi­ness was to estab­lish was it dead? So the slap test was devel­oped.
“You want to take first shift Ernie?”
So Ernie starts slap­ping the shit out of the corpse.
“Seems dead”
Fred starts slap­ping the shit out of the corpse.
“Sucker is dead to me”
“We got to be sure this time can’t have a repeat of last Sat­ur­day”
“Old man Grady get­ting out of the cof­fin was not a good career fuzzy”
Luck­ily Aunt Martha had a heart attack so they could at least have a wake.”
“Yea, the keg was already tapped would have been a shame to waste it.”

That was the prob­lem and it was Fred who had the solu­tion.
“Eureka! Be right back!”
Fred gets a shop vac and evac­u­ates the corpse’s bod­ily flu­ids
Ernie’s eyes widen in amaze­ment.
Ernie’s riffs on Fred’s insight.
“We can put Uncle Bob’s spe­cial sauce in the stiff”
“What’s in it?”
“I think formalde­hyde, methanol, ethanol and a whole bunch of nasty.”

They did it! If the sucker wasn’t dead before it was now and the stiff keeps for at least a week. The mod­ern day Wake party was born. And we owe it all to Fred and Ernie.

Now leave me alone and stop mak­ing me think about this shit. I hate think­ing about death.

Think I’ll watch a hor­ror flick… Cool, George Romero’s “Night of the Liv­ing Dead” works for me…