Here there be pirates! And Doughnuts!

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Yarrr! This doughnut has got no holes. And it be long like my friend Davy Jones’s locker. And there chocolate upon it, like the hair on my chest, dark and thick inside thar be treasure! Creamy treasure! It reminds of the time me and Jack Sparrow and Red Rackham and Wade Simpson went on a rum bender ’cause they wasn’t rationing it then, I tell you! Yarr! Rum and opium and oriental food blow a mighty squall in bowels I tell ye! Yarrr! We all blew a brown typhoon! But this doughnut, avast if it twasn’t holeless and not like them Shanghai wenches at Madame Lee’s Nasty House where me and Lucky Jack Aubrey and Dougie Slavatchek was reaming them like they was cannons and we was the balls and we was broadsiding Lord Nelson’s canoe! Yarrr! But this doughnut it had no holes and was coated in chocolate and was a rectangle and filled with cream and I liked it like I like my ownself. Yarrr! And that’s the tale of the Long John and never will dead men tell it! Yarrr!

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Sex Poem 1435 BCE

He had a cock with the head of Anubis.

She had a honey pot called the “Well of the Souls”.

When they screwed it was like 

the Pharoahs had returned.

(Had they even ever left?)

(Nope.)

Building hot and fleshy monuments

To the erotic-Kings and sensual-Queens

That had come before. Oh so triumphant.

While out in the desert it was

All grunts and groans.

Like a million ass slaves

Was moving huge stones,

And not getting paid.

But instead of making pyramids

They was making love.

And instead of the Nile,

It was a cum-drenching flood.

Oh Egypt!

Oh Chaldea!

Oh Beefcake!

Oh Sweet Mama-mia!

Since the dawn of civilization 

People have been banging

Hard and sweaty and soft and fierce

And just like the Pharoahs

When they step out on the gallery

To address the throng—

Her meaty vagina.

His throbbing dong.

Witnessing their sex is liking seeing God(s)!

BOW DOWN! BOW DOWN! BOW DOWN!

Xylose Xylophones and Dextrose Dreams

bone-feteYou’re gonna need a shower, once you hear my song. ‘Cause my melody is gonna cover you in treacle. Yeah, thick and sticky and super sweet. Tough to wash off, but do you really wanna? Like when the slaves had a good day making the pyramids, stacking those big bricks, and the Pharaohs were pleased. They said, “Nice job, feel free to worship your weird one-man god.” And it was a smooth groove on the banks of the Nile that night. That’s what this poem is gonna do to you, so get ready. It’s one…two…three…the pickle’s in the brine. It’s soaking like a miracle in the bucket, makin’ love to the salt and and the sugar and the spices. Makin’ gherkins. Call the brackish midwife ’cause these cukes is giving birth. Like that night at make-out point, and you were the castle, and I was the knight riding hard after having just slain the dragon. We got that draw bridge down and I crossed that hot moat. Don’t tell the duke, but the keep might be pregnant. Now, this melody is floating in the sky like cumulonimbus cotton candy booming chocolate thunder and spraying lemonade rain. Sure, it ruined the picnic. But it mawkened up the meadow, and all the little children were lickin’ up the grass and chewin’ up the blossoms. Landscaping, baby, the delicious way. Mmm…mmm… mmm…what a melody, call the dentist and make an appointment because it’s so saccharine it’s gonna rot your teeth out. Time to invest in some pearly veneers. Because this verse is gonna have you smiling, and no one wants to see your pustular choppers. So lay back in the chair and open that kiss factory and let the good doctor massage them gums with this candied refrain. It’ll have them fangs feeling fresher than a constipated man after a voodoo doodoo, cleansing his bowels with the soothing power of the dark arts. Ooo…ooo…ooo…Prepare for this aria, it’s like a honey wine lotion drippin’ over your skin and makin’ you feel like that time when our boys stormed the beaches of Normandy. Ratatatatatatat! Boomboomboom! You’ve got sand in your eye but that’s not sand, it’s sugar, baby. You’ve got blood on your bayonet but that’s not blood it’s organic molasses, baby, because this song’s so toothsome that even the horrors of war can’t compete. Drape the flag on the coffin and the twenty-one guns go off and let yourself get lost in this syrupy melody. Yeah…yeah…yeah…what a time to be alive, when a tune like this can exist like bacon in the sun on a wagon to the west. Welcome to the frontier. Sure it’s hell but if you’re willing to work hard you can make a life here. Just look out, ’cause the natives are restless and they’re looking to cut your heads off and boil them up and hang them on the wall of their mud and thatch huts. But that’s not mud, it’s chocolate. And that’s not thatch but filo pastry. And those aren’t savages they’re high fructose corn syrup. And this all just a sweet, sweet melody. And we’re all the CEO of a Japanese confection concern. Dwop…dwop…dwop…

He’s on the 13th floor of the 5th dimension!

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There ain’t no elevator here. No stairs neither. What if there’s a fire? Or some more sinister calamity? I’m just standing there and the klaxon starts screaming at me to get the hell out. Do I jump? I’ll need a window for that then. One that opens. Hopefully opens easy. I guess I could smash it if I had to. Use a chair or a coat-rack or if not that a well placed karate kick. I need to learn karate. Where’s the closest dojo? Good name for a dog that. Dojo. I should get a dog. I could train it to sniff out the smoke when there’s a fire. Do a special bark to warn me. Give me time to steel myself to karate kick out the window. You just don’t throw yourself into something like that. That’s how you get hurt. Pull a muscle, sprain something. Nothing more painful than a high ankle sprain. So I’d take the extra moment Dojo gave me to loosen up. Don’t freak out, stretch out. They should teach that in schools. Good mantra. Solid advice. Prevent a lot of needless injury. Kids these days get a lot more sprains. More than when I was a kid. Rehab costs have gone up too. So that affects everybody. Society and all. What with all the rising prices it’s hard to save a buck. Money in money out. Like piss in a bucket as the old timers would say. Kids would say something different. Probably something about how things are more tubular now. Including prices. A can of ham today is not the can of ham of yesteryear. You can say that again. Can of ham. Where’s the washroom? Usually it’s by the elevators. But then again not always. Toilets have changed too. For the better. That’s for serious. Outhouses used to be all the rage. Where are they now? Not anywhere I do my business. High-efficiency smell-less wonders of modern technology. That’s waste making and disposal in these future prefect times. Kids probably grow up never knowing the stench of a clapboard turd shack. You can’t put a price on that. But if you had to. Gotta be worth at least a couple large. Even a large ain’t as large as it used to be. One thousand ding-dongs now ain’t the thousand buckaroos of the old. Even the words are new. You hear a kid say buckaroo you’re gonna look twice and wonder what went wrong. Now every second word outta their mouth is ding-dong this and ding-dong that. It’s all about the money. That’s one thing that ain’t ever changed. Good to known there’s at least one thing. That and the Indy 500.

Ye Olde Hippe-Hoppe Shoppe

Hear ye hear ye, ’tis a proclamation,

‘Bout the upcoming coronation.

The king is dead!

Now the prince be king.

To protect our heads,

Long live the king!

My name is MC Horse, and this be DJ Cart

Get your ass in the stable

‘Fore the party starts.

We got mead and gruel

And the blackest bread.

Did you hear the crazy shit

That the crier said?

I hear the plagues in town,

Which one you ask?

It’s Pneumonic and Bubonic,

Best known as black.

But don’t forsake it G,

We got it all worked out–

The beats and the bass

Will keep them damn fleas out!

No needs for a bleeding

Or for an arsenic rub,

Just grab a fresh flagon

From the liquor tub.

We got a fiefdom here,

For all you serfs of rap.

And tonight this party’s

Giving all tithes back.

Forsooth you say,

Yo, I forsooth you better.

And I’m dropping mad rhymes

Like a monk writes letters.

Cause he’s the only one

Who be literati,

All roads lead to Rome and the Illuminati.

Enough poking around

Behind them gilded drapes,

Or we’ll find ourselves

In inquisitionist straits.

So back to the party,

And the task at hand,

And bend yourself to it

Like DJ Cart demands,

He’s gonna turn it out,

Like he was the Duke of G’s.

And all you party peasants

Get olde time funky.

SUPERGAME ’66

It was a hot summer day in 2066 when they played what can only be mostly remembered as the greatest game of Wonder Sport ever. Anyone you ask who’ll say they were there will tell you to your face how it started with a cold fog, like a deep Britsh November, coffee sales were brisk in the stands, tacos as well, and the mood—well, the mood was a nervous joviality that bordered on subdued mania. And that was just the concessionaires. The stands were full of bucktoothed wide eyed kids, single moms, and beer bellied sacks of manure. One big happy family, fans them all. This was their game, the people’s game. Our game. Your game. The game. Game. Game. Game. Game. Game.

 GAME ON! 

With bated breath and polite applause, the teams took to the Tarmac, the bell whistled its klaxonorous retort and Big Lando Mulligan took the stand. The initial toss, a whiffer, from central position Wince Williams, a bony drink of water from North Central Kentucky. Mulligan took it, groin deep, for ball one. Literally, his left teste. Next toss, a stinker, up in Mulligans sweet spot, and he made such sweet love to that sphere that it didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. It did both, sailing up and down and away, kissing the sky. That had the chalk boy chalking one up for the good guys on the chalk board. The crowd went nutso. The nut vendor messed himself. It was nuts. nuts all over. Poor nut boy. Having to clean up all those nuts. That’s life in the bigs. 

Up next was Donarius White, the yellow flash himself, pride of Windingo. He strutted on up to the portcullis like a bat out of Cheyenne, all huff, puff, and gaseous guff. Not a lady in the crowd failed to swoon. And the gents, well, holy doodle, they went bonkers. As in super swooning. It was like your ponytailed uncle’s Hustler subscription. Erotic and mythical. It was only the precursor to the second play of the match and already emotions were at an all time high. Like seventy five feet of emotions. That high. Like I said, all time. Whoa. 

Nor-cen Kentuckytown USA’s favourite son, Wince, lumped one up high and droll, and it tied Donarius up tighter than a Nun’s pretzel. You could feel the emotional wound open and all that erotic energy bleed out. Donarius was done. The press, in a Pulitzer Prize winning piece of creative genius would later call it “DONE-arius does-nothingus”. A car in the parking lot honked in sadness.

Next up, bonker ball, the most hellacious time segment in the game time. Period. Six minutes and thirteen seconds of liquid fury. Facing off, Horatio Rogers and Gerry Jeek. Or to put it mildly, monolith v. monolith. Ball in play, monolith takes it from monolith back to monolith, monolith runs, monolith blocks, tackles, monolith shimmying, jinny, jiving, the bang-tango, monolith, over the top, slides under monolith, when monolith wit the steal, monolith scores. Monolith monolith monolith monolith. All hail monolith. 

It was an equal opportunity celebration in the stands as folks felt a 1:1 ratio of good cheer and intense sorrow. The clouds parted, rain fell, an old man lost his shoe. And when the smoke and dust and mist and halitosis finally cleared, there towering over the gravel field up on the big board, chalked up and official, the final score of the most legendary, jaw-dropping, mind-bending, soul-crushing, up-lifting match of sports in the history of sports since Yahweh and Allah went SupremoMano y SupremoMano on the handball court over who got to lay claim to Australopithicus. 

1 – 1.

Tie game.

You couldn’t have written a better script.

Sports.

The Whistling Dix

It came on the wind, high-pitched melodiousness thick like molasses that had the dogs a howling and the old folks in their rocking chairs tapping their toes. And it grew. Bigger, louder. We all came out of our hovels wondering “what the whazzu was going on?” They came over the hill, a bunch of them, like a gang. Whistling to beat the band. Which they were doing. Beating the band. And our brains. Because that shrill fee-dee-dee blistered through the ether into our heads and sent the blood and puss and mucus streaming out any orifice that was open to God’s green Earth. Damn. It was hell. It was messy. But it’s also the stuff that memories are made of. Whistle on, maniacs, whistle on.