The writings of Oddpoet

I like shiny things, I'm very superficial.

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

“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

So I am at the Had­don­field Speed line’s park­ing lot and this chick has my dick in her mouth. I’m wax­ing philo­soph­i­cal watch­ing the social insects scurry to their next task.

“I won­der what my future ex-wife is mak­ing for dinner.”

My future ex-girlfriend looks up with fawn­ing eyes and asks “How is it?”

I blurt out “Meatloaf!”

What?

“Don’t talk with your mouth full!”

I love that line when I’m get­ting a blowjob and I never miss an oppor­tu­nity to use it, much to the dis­may of the blower. It is a bad blowjob. There are two schools of thought on “The Blowjob” One states: “there is no such thing as a bad blowjob”, the other, is the dialec­tic antithe­sis of the first pos­tu­late, “There is! because I have been the recip­i­ent of far too many”

I won­der if it would be push­ing things if I left a “How too” Blowjob sex video on the front seat when she drops me off around the cor­ner from my future ex-house.

My mind wan­ders back to the tableau before me and I start count­ing the insects who are wear­ing sneaks. Footwear was never a big deal to me but when you’re get­ting a bad blowjob, well, Ya got to think of some­thing besides meatloaf.

So I have a pop­u­la­tion sam­ple of about 200 insects and a 45% sneaker wear­ing rate with a stan­dard devi­a­tion of about .5.

“Moan”… “Moan”

Oh yea, I’m drop­ping a few well placed moans for the chick’s ego stroke. You can never tell a chick that she gives bad blowjobs; in fact you can never tell a chick any­thing neg­a­tive because they take that shit per­sonal. A babe can tell a man he sucks at eat­ing pussy and the dude could care less. Okay, he might say: “Wash that stench pit and maybe then I could take off my res­pi­ra­tor and actu­ally eat it Bitch!” But that would be it. He’ll go back to count­ing sneak­ers or think­ing of meat­loaf, whatever.

Now if you tell a chick that shit she would plot your emo­tional destruc­tion. Chicks are the Han­ni­bal Lecters of emo­tional manip­u­la­tion and ulti­mate mind fuck. Yea, you’re pretty well doomed when you piss a chick off.

She comes up for air and I could tell she was about to say some­thing stu­pid like: “I love you”

I don’t give her the chance.

I push her head back down on my rod: “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Back to the sneak­ers, I think I’m on to some­thing, I’m pretty sure I’m close to a Uni­ver­sal Truth. Uni­ver­sal Truths have been fuck­ing with my head ever since I was a kid. I can never nail the suckers.

I’m always danc­ing around the edges.

She gets up and smiles… I smile back. I won­der if our smiles are real smiles. I won­der if I am danc­ing around another Uni­ver­sal Truth.

“Have to get home babe, I have to cook for my future ex-Husband and my gay son is home from school.”

She starts her car and holds my hand dur­ing the short trip. She is squeez­ing my hand like a tea bag try­ing to get as much of my essence as she can.

“Call me Babe!”

I promised I would.

As I get out of her car an old lady shakes her head.

She knows I’m sling­ing dick.

I notice how disheveled the cor­ner prop­erty is since the pre­vi­ous owner got busted for insur­ance fraud.

I turn the cor­ner and my future old lady is walk­ing my future ex-dog argu­ing with my future ex-Son

Some­thing about beer money.

She sees me.

Her smile is a dis­guised wince; she knows I’m sling­ing dick too.

“What do you want for dinner?”

“Meat­loaf “I blurt out.

I walk up my future ex-driveway,

I’m pretty sure there is a Uni­ver­sal Truth here; I’m always danc­ing around the edges.

From the begin­ning, we have col­lec­tively asked. Who are we?

More to the point, “Who am I?

Let us start, afore­men­tioned query, with my good friend, Sig­mund Freud.

Sig, if I might be so bold, devel­oped a the­ory of the Human Psy­che, Soul, Heart, define it as you will, the following:

1. Ego, well, one’s opin­ion of him/herself.

2. ID, a mish­mash of rep­til­ian brain desires, wants, and needs. Kind of like me watch­ing the 24 year old across the street with the too short shorts, half her ass hang­ing out and bend­ing over every chance she gets. So my “ID” says. “Poet nail that hot babe.” Which leads us to the:

3. Super­ego, Con­science. Can’t do that shit Poet you be a bad boy!!!!

Freud the­o­rized that that Super­ego starts with the parent’s remon­stra­tions to the ego and id infested dick weeds that are the infant human. Of course that evolves into peer pres­sure, social mores and the frig­gin State’s, dare I say val­ues? Back to the infant, well, “Don’t stick that fork into your brother’s eye Poet that is “bad” Savvy?

That is what infants are, a frig­ging pain in the ass!

Every mam­mal infant is born with a too large head and very large eyes, which evokes in all us the col­lec­tive, “isn’t it “CUTE!” Check it out your­self! Look at a baby Rac­coon or what­ever.. Espe­cially you Babes, you girls are hard­wired for that response; else we would kill them! All the friggs do is cry, “I’m hun­gry”, “wipe my ass”, “My tummy hurts” “WHINE!”

We would cer­tainly kill them if they were not so “cute.”

As an aside, I toss to you Freud’s book “Future of an Illu­sion” where he den­i­grates Reli­gion as an “Illu­sion” Not sure if it was he or Marx who called Reli­gion the “Opi­ate of the peo­ple” Of course Sig was snort­ing mas­sive lines of unstepped on pure frig­gin coke. And as he was winc­ing over the “drip” he con­tin­ues…… “The Illu­sion which is Religion”….sniff…sniff…snort….snort….”  Yea, let­ting a coke head tell us who we are is not always a good idea.

Nice try Sig! Sorry, close! But you have not “nailed” it!

Mov­ing on.

The Behav­ior­ist.

Well, these Dudes and Dudetts believe that behav­ior (us) can be reduced to stim­u­lus and response. Given the proper stim­uli a pred­i­ca­ble response will occur. They are in the ball­park at least. B.F. Skin­ner noted “Behav­ior­ist” invented the “Skin­ner Box” of course he really didn’t because a lot of peo­ple before him did the work but he gets the glory. Kind of like Pom­pey being feted and hav­ing his Tri­umph through the streets of Rome while the poor frig who actu­ally won the war winds up being dead. Such price glory.

They do inter­est­ing thing in Skin­ner Boxes’ like: put a lab rat in one, with 2 levers, one which when depressed, deliv­ers food, the other, “poor unstepped on Freudian coke.” Hmmm…. I won­der… Well the rat presses the coke lever every frig­gin time and will starve to death. That is the nature of addic­tion; you con­stantly chase that ini­tial instance of eupho­ria. The brain does that nat­u­rally with Dopamine, a neu­ro­trans­mit­ter; How­ever, Dopamine and asso­ci­ated neu­ron synap­tic fir­ing required to pro­duce eupho­ria are destroyed in the process and you are left with your “Drug of Choice” chas­ing “that”, which you can never again have. Well Death and over dose fol­low. I have heard the ‘song” too many times. Close friends…………………..

Mov­ing on… (Almost done, hang in there. I will tie it up com­plete, rib­bon freely given, in a nice lit­tle pack­age! Have I ever let you down?)

Finally to the “I won­der what would hap­pen if…” Sci­en­tist, who decides to see what hap­pens if we stick elec­trodes into a rat’s brain….Hmmmm….

Well neces­sity dic­tates I get a bit gross here. In the begin­ning they prob­a­bly just jammed an over­sized elec­trode into the Rat’s unanes­thetized brain; which had the liv­ing entity writhing in extreme pain. “Can’t do any­thing with this sucker Bill”… flush….Next!

So they even­tu­ally dis­cover you had to anes­thetize it, peel the Rat’s skull open, expose the entity’s brain and gen­tly place the elec­trode into the brain and find truth! Of course you can not ini­tially go to a med­ical sup­ply store and ask for a “rat skull puller offer” and get an “aisle 6, half way down, right side” response. No, you have to make that shit up as you go. Of course they fried a few brains before they got the proper charge right. Even­tu­ally they go: “Look Fred if I stim­u­late this sec­tion his right foot moves, this sec­tion “Look the frig­ger will not stop eat­ing” They have a good time with that and they all take turns push­ing ‘the” but­ton till the rat dies of overeat­ing. Its’ sati­ety response of course muted by the friggs! Is that not the nature of empir­i­cal sci­en­tific inquiry? They have done this on Humans. Do not doubt me! Inmates, mil­i­tary peo­ple and indi­gents. Had a friend who was in the mil­i­tary who was exper­i­mented on. He hung him­self and is no longer with us. Another sad song I can sing.

There is even one sec­tion of the rat’s brain that, when stim­u­lated, will pro­duce a Lib­er­ace, meets Fred Astair with John Tra­volta on steroids Salsa dance. I mean the frig­ger is on his hind legs and danc­ing the night away. Well, I am flu­ent in sev­eral ani­mal lan­guages and they tell me this.

What does this mean? Well the Sci­en­tist seeks to define the inde­fin­able! They seek truth and find only knowl­edge. It is the Heisen­berg Uncer­tainty Prin­ci­ple. They know one fact but, by know­ing, they can not know any­thing ELSE!!!!!!! As much as they try to quan­tify, alpha­beti­cize and cat­e­go­rize us, they can not!

You see we are neb­u­lae, enshrouded in mys­tery, con­tain therein, is an ember, faint, yet glow­ing, in the dark­ness of our night. It is the spark of the Divine!!! YES!!!!!! We are a thread in the weave of the uni­ver­sal cloth. Call it the “Soul” if you so desire. We are indeed Divine and we do live on when our hearts stop pump­ing, when we “shed off this mor­tal coil”. It is you! The Poet, the Musi­cian, the Painter, the Sto­ry­teller that sing our Truth, our Divin­ity. And it only you, who can teach us and tell us “who we are.”

So wield thy Quill Poet! Sing your song Musi­cian! Paint your mas­ter­piece and tell your story. Then and only then will we truly know Truth!

Artist!… Is that not what you do?

I take my leave with Yeats haunt­ing words, “Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.” Ahhh! Is that not Beauty?…Truth?…..

I remain, ever constant,

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…