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This is beautiful. Classic. I love it. (the whole thing of course) but special mention for this awesome paragraph. |
I'll look forward to seeing your beautifully bad jewels when I get back next week from helping one of the very bad writers here celebrate a special birthday.
Write on! |
Bless Her Little Pointed Head
She couldn’t believe she’d blown it like that. They say everything happens for a reason but she couldn’t see what that reason might be, still ours is not to reason why. But what was the rest of that? Ours is just to do and die? Well that's not very helpful. Ours is just to do or die? Ya,that was it. She supposed most would pick do rather then die. Well, if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Hmm. But if everything happens for a reason and you failed yet then you succeed doesn’t that go against your not succeeding the first time because everything happened for a reason. She was getting confused and she couldn’t think of an axiom to explain it all for her. She never felt comfortable when she didn’t have an accepted adage to help her understand. Well, every day’s a brand new day isn’t it? Hey!! That’s the answer. Everything resets every twenty-four hours. So she would just bide her time and try again tomorrow. After all tomorrow is another day. |
The curious incident of the meat loaf on Tuesday
Lou-Anne believed in the power of positive thinking. She was a “glass is half full” kind of gal, oh yes she was. She wore her rose coloured glasses even in the dark, and could find a silver lining in the darkest, stormiest of clouds. When her husband snored loud enough to wake the dead in bed beside her, (not that the dead were in bed beside her, you understand. But the cemetery was not far away, and Lou-Anne thought if anything could wake those souls up, it would be Jeb’s snoring.) she said it was wonderful that she didn’t need an alarm clock, and that people overestimated their need for sleep anyway. The day the roof began to leak, she said it was nature’s way of providing her with a humidifier. When that leak became a substantial hole, she said she’d always wanted a skylight. When the deer started eating her sweet williams, she was secretly flattered that it was her flowers that had been chosen rather than her next door neighbour Vera’s very ugly, scrawny geraniums. When she burned the cookies she made for the bake sale, she cheerfully got out a wire hanger, her glue gun, a little glitter paint and some pipe cleaners, and made wind chimes. (The fact that when the wind blew, those wind chimes chimed against each other and broke into pieces was kind of a bonus, because it turned out that squirrels like burnt cookies, and she liked squirrels, even though Jeb called them “rodents with good PR.”) Even when Tiffani over at the Kut ‘n Kurl left Lou-Anne’s permanent solution on much too long while she was arguing with her boyfriend, Lou-Anne saw the bright side. She said she’d never need another perm for as long as she lived, and was going straight over to Kmart to buy herself something sparkly with all the money she’d save.
Yes, Lou-Anne was a “glass is half full” kind of gal, right up until the day Jeb came home from work and said that he didn’t care if it was Tuesday, he didn’t want meat loaf. Now, maybe it was because the cable had been out that day and Lou-Anne couldn’t watch her stories, or maybe she thought he was criticizing her meat loaf, (he wasn’t) but something inside Lou-Anne snapped and try as she did, she could find no positive spin, and she started to cry. She cried and cried and cried some more, until her face was as crumpled as the soggy tissues Jeb helplessly handed her, and that she threw on the floor. She started hiccupping horrible gasps similar to the sounds a mouse might make when the trap closed on him, sort of a mixture of terror and surprise. And still she kept crying. The night they took Lou-Anne away was dark (because of course it was night) and hot and sticky (and truthfully, a bit stinky because of the abundant fertilizer) and with no hint of a breeze and was all in all the kind of night that could only dream of being a dark and stormy night with rain coming down in torrents, but the only thing coming down in torrents were big buckets of tears because it seemed Lou-Anne had been crying forever. |
Sorta Like That
It was sorta like that time she was almost at the end of her six hour trip and realized she had forgotten the bag she had packed with everything she would need to meet the woman she had been talking to for five days before she and the woman decided to find out if they were meant to be together by meeting up for a real life meeting because she was nervous and that is why she had not remembered to put the bag in the car because she thought that maybe this woman had everything she had looked for for so long, you know? She was tall which was good because she was tall and her back was starting to go out on her and bending over for kisses was not quite the joy it had once been and she was very funny every time they talked on Skype which was everyday since they first talked and funny was a good thing because she wasn't very funny and one of them needed to be the funny one. She was smart and had a real job that was not picking up road kill like her last girlfriend who was not really smart enough to do much of anything else and even though her girlfriend had been very pretty and pretty people can usually get a pretty good job just because people like to have them around to look at them, her last girlfriend could never hold those jobs because let’s face it she had just been really dumb and pretty will only get you so far. It was sorta like that, but not really.
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Whatever it said, she couldn’t put her finger on it. Not even one of the two perfectly good ones she had left on her right hand after the lawn mower incident, that wasn’t truly her fault, because due to the labels being worn off by weather, she thought the the start button was the primer button and so she didn’t have any guilt about filing that claim. Anyway, she was having trouble reading the letter from the claims department with the one perfectly good eye she had left after the incident with the super glue tube that was not really her fault because it didn’t say specifically it could not be used for false lashes and the settlement for that accident was not making the words any easier to read.
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Smoke gets in their eyes….
She entered the room, but only after awkwardly tripping over the door sill in her black negligee and in her high heeled black shoes she stumbled to the bed and lifted a leg to place one foot on the footboard and tried to strike a pose that she’d seen her favorite porn star making on the stained cover of her favorite raunchy movie, but if you'd been there, it would have looked more like she was about to urinate on the bedpost. She looked down at his slumbering, no, slobbering form, and wished not for the first time that he was really more like Ron Jeremy, or at least had his neck, back and chest hair. She sloshed her martini as she fished out the olive and plopped it into his belly button. Or was it his man cave? Man cave, cave man, didn’t really make a difference as she cracked her knuckles before applying one hand in a sharp sting to his protruding belly, waking him so quickly that he slapped her glass out her hand and his explosive flatulence ignited the romantic cock shaped candle on the bedside table which set flame to the fringe of the gold tasseled curtains that framed the velvet picture on the wall behind the headboard of the King in all his sequined glory. No sex was actually had that night, but later when the fire department was unable to extinguish the flames they declared the scene an untamable hunk of burning love and put away their long hoses in despair. |
How about some very bad poetry?
In My Defence
And the last thing that I needed first thing in the morning Was to hear about the time you had last night If you go digging through the fields of my heart without warning You won’t be digging up a pretty sight And the closest that I’ve come to wishing for a gun Was when you woke me up to say goodnight And I knew that I would leave you then, I knew your life would have to end So I stabbed you several times with all my might. |
The Thing
She wondered about those pantyhose. And then she just wondered about those. She forked around some peas, as she was won't to do. And then she just got stuck in a pea or two, or some, which was only briefly assuaged by thoughts of these. Still, she knew the dreaded mother-of-all-mind muddle was coming. Yes, it was familiar strange to her on nights like these - nights destined to be lost to the pout-inducing deflation of unclear pronoun references. |
What she wasn’t saying is that she really thought that despite her best efforts at entertainment, there wasn’t really anything left between them after the moment when she made the alarming faux pas of saying that she really liked the scent in the bathroom when she would use it after her in the morning when she had finished performing that morning three s’s(shitting, showering and shaving), but without specifying that it was the after the shower smell that she truly enjoyed.
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And thinking of things stinking...
http://www.scotsman.com/webimage/1.2...1027827070.jpg
Auchentoshan, the whisky firm behind the move to celebrate an alternative Burns Night, said that the celebration of William Topaz McGonagall will be 'an alternative evening of whisky, terrible poetry, haggis and general mayhem.' Picture: Hulton Archive/Getty 15 January 2012 HE HAS long been cast as a bit of a joke figure and is routinely described as the worst poet in the history of the English language. But the name of William Topaz McGonagall is set to be celebrated at pubs across Scotland later this month on a night more traditionally associated with a rather more illustrious writer of verse. Fans of the eccentric Dundonian wordsmith will gather on Burns Night to toast the man they believe should be regarded as Scotland’s other national poet. In a move set to upset poetry purists everywhere, fans of McGonagall will take part in “alternative” Burns suppers, where dessert will be served first and there will be no renditions of the Address to a Haggis. Instead, diners will perform a selection of pieces from McGonagall’s own extensive and much-maligned canon. The brainchild of whisky firm Auchentoshan, the McGonagall suppers will take place at pubs across the UK, with venues being encouraged to serve a menu that starts with the traditional Scottish dessert of cranachan, before moving on to a main course of haggis and a starter of flaked salmon over oatcakes. Brand manager Hannah Fisher said: “Auchentoshan likes to do things differently and, just like us, McGonagall liked to challenge perceptions. It therefore seems apt that we host a series of dinners that takes an interesting twist on one of Scotland’s most revered celebrations. “It will be an alternative evening of whisky, terrible poetry, haggis and general mayhem.” (Wow. Booking tickets for 2013 now.) Among the venues taking part in the celebrations are the Hyde Out bar in Edinburgh, as well as three English venues in Darlington, Durham and London. McGonagall enthusiast Chris Hunt, who runs the website McGonagall Online, welcomed the idea of celebrating the poet on 25 January. He said: “I think this is a brilliant idea. “I’ve been to quite a few Burns suppers where I’ve tried to sneak in a bit of McGonagall – it’s nice to cover both extremes of Scottish poetic output in one evening.” Asked if the poet deserved his reputation as the worst Scotland had ever produced, he said. “Yes. He’s pretty much the bottom of the bottom in terms of quality, but his poems are entertaining. “We’re still buying them 100 years after his death, so he must have done something right.” Born in Edinburgh in 1825, McGonagall wrote about 200 poems, including the infamous Tay Bridge Disaster –often described as the worst poem in British literary history. Recounting the tragic events of 1879 in which the Tay Rail Bridge collapsed as a train passed over it, the poems begins: “Beautiful railway bridge of the silv’ry Tay Alas! I am very sorry to say That ninety lives have been taken away On the last sabbath day of 1879 Which shall be remembered for a very long time.” |
"To Suck or Not to Suck" - A Bad Haiku Hurling Response
I hand her kneepads,
And tap down her head, turn on the Hi Fi... 'Nuff said. |
You had me at haiku
The thing about sex in the shower
The soap drops, I slip Risky business yes, but then Clean up is a breeze |
I like haiku. Sort of. I don't know much about them though. They're a bit intimidating for someone who can't even tell you what they want for dinner in 500 words or less.
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Haiku You
It’s very simple
Five syllables then seven And five once again |
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I used my finger
Now under my fingernail Crusty ones linger |
It wasn’t real hard Kind of like a long noodle Not dishwasher safe :| |
For Inspiration?
The Lake Union Seattle Beat First Annual Bad Haiku Contest
April, 2011 We were inundated with hundreds of entries for this contest and most of them were very bad! In fact, we’d like to congratulate Seattle on having so many truly terrible poets. In addition to the very, very bad we received many gross submissions, and, sadly, some good stuff we couldn’t use. The following are the 10 runners-up climaxing with the worst Haiku we had the pleasure of reading. Most men like melons Especially ripe and juicy Hands off those are mine ~~~~~~~~~~~ Jews atone for sins Once a year, on Yom Kippur Beats confessional ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Soft pink Elephant You are my OCD dream Touch touch touch touch touch ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Young man, young woman He asks, she asks, his hands Move apart, show size ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I do not like poems I just want fifty dollars Show me the money ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A Big Mac mouthful A loud belly rumbling Oh crap no toilet paper ~~~~~~~~~~ Oh hipster fixie Skidding thru stops helmetless Pants tight, German bag ~~~~~~~~~~~ I like my women The way I like my coffee In large quantities ~~~~~~~~~ Haiku are three line Poems that no one who speaks English can write well ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Loud, shrieking voices Shattering of glass vases Time for a spanking ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Winner! Worst Haiku 2011 Slippery pasta Broccoli, pepper, garlic We ate, we had gas |
Oh, Anya, those are delightfully bad. These two really made me laugh -
Soft pink Elephant You are my OCD dream Touch touch touch touch touch I like my women The way I like my coffee In large quantities |
Thank you Anya! Being the juvenile that I am at times, I loved the Melons, Toilet Paper and the Gas ones, but my favorite was the one ending in "Move apart, show size". :D |
I don’t really need Much tender attention now I just plug it in |
Sad haiku
Sarah Burke is gone
Hope heaven has some snow for An angel on skis |
Being bullied blows Until karma kicks someone In deserving ass :) |
Financial crisis blah blah blah
Credit default swaps
Means now instead of Visa I’ll pay with AmEx |
Anya Inspired Haiku...
Bought a used mattress Scratch, scratch, scratch. Fumigation The bedbug horror. |
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I just spent a weekend in a hotel (! :bedfuck: ) and when I got home, had to unpack everything in the garage, put it all in the wash and leave my suitcase in the garage (for next time) encased in a plastic bag. No it was not a fleabag and was a nice hotel but I keep reading about the bedbug epidemic and it freaks me out. I now return you to your usual programming.... (public service, among other things, announcement) |
"Tossed on a wrecked mucus foam..."
TS gives this a thumbs up, and Hollylane is right. This needs to be shared here as well. As usual, Fry and Laurie nail "bad poetry":
“Mr. Drip tells me that it’s one of the most mature and exciting poems he’s received in some time. Don’t suck your thumb boy.” “’Inked ravens of despair crawl holes in the ass of the world’s mind.’ What kind of title for a poem is that?" “Scrotal threats unhorse a question of flowers.” “I asked for answers and got a head of heroine instead.” “When time fell wanking to the floor…” “My body disgusts, damp grease wafts sweat balls from sweat balls and thigh fungus.” “Unhappy bubbles of anal wind popping and winking in the mortal bath” “If this is poetry, then every lavatory wall in England is an anthology.” |
I drank the Patron I licked the lime and the salt But still got shivers |
Never tried Haiku...therefore...writing bad Haiku should be a snap!
She sits idly by never to let herself live what's a girl to do |
How to write bad poetry in 2 parts, 19 steps and one sigh:
From -
http://theverybadpoet.blogspot.com/2...n-19-easy.html 1. Iambic Pentameter can go f%#@ itself 2. Always use clunky words you don’t really know (e.g. incorrigible & verisimilitude) 3. Try to fit a knock-knock joke in whenever possible 4. If you must Haiku, please clean up after yourself 5. Irony isn’t dead but it has been hit on the head with a frying pan 6. Inappropriate rhyming will always save you (e.g. moose and Jews) 7. The good news is no one else knows what e.g. stands for either 8. If you run into writer's block, try writing in a foreign language you don’t speak. It's de rigueur 9. If you write a ‘concrete’ poem, try to use actual concrete or cement 10. If you accidentally use ‘alliteration’ simply type the letter A for the duration of the poem. This gives it much more meaning. |
11. Contrary to popular belief, people really do want to know what you had for breakfast as long as it’s in verse form
12. If you’re worried about meaning in your poem, don’t. We’ll all be dead soon enough 13. When making a ‘list’ poem, be sure add toilet paper to it. No one likes to drip dry or use your clean hand towels next to the sink http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IvgQGy7NbF...c-restroom.jpg 14. Poems to imaginary childhood friends will most likely win you a Pulitzer 15. Don’t worry about your ‘audience.' They don’t give a crap about you either 16. The best poems are the ones you plagiarize (see previous blog entry) 17. It helps if you were dropped on your head as a child 18. Things you should know as a poet: Along with Leaves Of Grass, Walt Whitman also wrote several Motown hits for Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell 19. If you've been looking for your ‘voice’ as a poet and can't find it, there’s a good chance someone stole it on purpose |
Two words, three words, tops Really full conversation? Should we grunt instead? |
Oh yes, grunt away
Conversation hurts my brain Please skim the surface |
So there I was. My tongue touching the bottom of my glass, and using it to stir the cherry around the bottom and looking seductive as all hell at the object of my desire. She was leaning up against the juke box, one hand on her crotch the other tipping her cowboy hat at me. Swoon. Her bulging biceps were hanging down over her elbows, and I just wanted to swing on her arm like Jane confusing Tarzan for a swinging vine. But I played it cool with my tongue still teasing that cherry at the bottom of that glass. Who could resist this tongue flirtation? I was hot that night, and I did end up leaving with her. It only excited me all the more when I woke up the next morning hog tied in the garage with the door up, with the neighbor’s boy staring at me in admiration, and her phone number written in lipstick on my naked ass cheek. Thank god for the full length mirror I had marked for the garage sale, ‘cause anyone who respects a gal like that, I’m gonna ask out to bingo right away.
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Plunger is missing. Toilet is overflowing. What’s that on my sock? |
This morning at Scrumptious/Tick manor
Early morning rush
There's orange peel in my shoe And where are my keys |
You may be from Mars Maybe I am from Venus So what? I’m still gay. |
The story to nowhere....
So I took this trip. No, not the kind I did last year, with the peyote, the desert, and the bald guy in a tutu. It was an actual trip. Down to San Diego, and that was where I had the most notable experience of my life. Right there among the sweaty brown bodies, buried beer bottles, slimy seaweed, and with sand in my crack because I forgot the $5 towel I bought from the gift shop on the corner down near Mission Beach. Or was it Mission Bay? I don’t know it was one of those tourist places and there was some water and people on roller blades and then there was the guy that nearly ran me down with his rented beach comber while wearing flip-flops and no underwear under his ridiculously short tropical pastel shorts, but I digress.
So again, down in San Diego, near a body of water, I ran into Lola. Lola was the catalyst to life changing events. Lola was standing there in her front yard with the pink flamingo and wearing a bright green sarong, while I was frantically attempting to pick my ass crack free of sand at the sidewalk shower, and she said “honey, can I help you with that? I got a 20ft hose with your name on it”. I looked up in surprise and relief and said, “Hell yes, I can’t walk another step without chafing my cheeks!” So, Lola, she smiles and grabs the long green garden hose and drags it out onto the sidewalk, and it was at that moment that it occurred to me that my plane ticket was for Alaska. I guess that explains why I was standing on the sidewalk near a body of water in my underpants and thinking that it was unseasonably warm for Anchorage at this time of year. Doesn’t it? |
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All of you are are such talented writers! I love to read each of of you and all your "works". I know I have been MIA. I simply must pick my head up off the nightstand and set it back on my shoulders and let the neurotransmittors begin to flow in order for those synapses to once again begin to fire. (How is that for a long run-on sentence? By George, I might be ready to write badly again). :) |
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