“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 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

“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

]]> http://oddpoetworld.com/2009/11/23/artist-vs-scientist/feed/ 0 http://oddpoetworld.com/2009/11/20/30/ http://oddpoetworld.com/2009/11/20/30/#comments Fri, 20 Nov 2009 23:32:52 +0000 Eddie Mount http://oddpoetworld.com/?p=30

“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

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…