Magnetic Poetry on My Door At Work

I love poetry. I know, that makes me sound about ¾ gay, but I can live with that. Something about making words flow with some sort of rhythm and resonance appeals to me. Plus, being able to use words to lure girls out of their panties is a great skill to have.

Years ago, I bought one of those Magnetic Poetry sets and kept it in my office in grad school. When I got an office at work, I put it back up. But it has sat mostly unused for years.

No more.

I threw some things together using the original Magnetic Poetry kit and another with 1950s references. Here’s what I came up with:

One Man’s Vision
Delirious with power, I moon Nixon
A black shadow is my gift to the drunk
Sleep light, bitter Dick
I show you the finger

Untitled
Picture it
An enormous Marlon Brando plays out
Like petals rusting beneath roses
Gorgeous in eternity

An Elaborate Show
I heave produce above the screams of my mother
A smear of juice and meat and skin falls from the apparatus
Lick the repulsive symphony of McCarthyism

Untitled
The world is like a summer crush
Ready to leave you behind
Without recall or a whisper of love

I’ll see what else I can come up with in the next couple of days.

Are you ready for the interruption?

Yup, our fearless leader, G-Unit, is going on television tonight to talk ‘bout some immigration stuff. Thank goodness he’s not preempting any good shows, or else I’d be pretty steamed.

When I first started thinking about doing a blog, I decided I would make a conscious effort not to drift into anything political. Why not? Well, you could throw a bag of turd out your window and hit someone with a political blog these days. Then, you’d be out a perfectly good bag of turd and you’d become the subject of their next posting. It’s a lose-lose situation. But mostly it’s because I can’t stand any of this left-wing, right-wing, buffalo wing crap. I can’t stand people who make every opinion out to be some political agenda. And, I mostly can’t stand people who anchor themselves to some side of a political spectrum and refuse to even admit the very real possibility that the two-party system sucks balls.

My balls, specifically.

However, since people at work think I’m pretty smart, they’ve been asking me what I think about immigration reform. I’ll be honest, I’m not versed enough in either side of the issue to even remotely debate one side or the other.

I think the retard hillbillies who claim immigrants are stealing their jobs and should be rounded up and deported are, well, retard hillbillies. That goes without saying. Their argument is so ludicrous, I won’t even begin to ridicule it. By the same token, I’m nowhere near ready to start granting mass amnesty either. This is a problem that requires a creative solution.

Enter the Donkey.

I propose a three-part plan to clean up the immigration mess.

Step 1: All hot chicks stay. I’m not sure there’s anyone who’s willing to argue this point. Have you ever been to a party and said, “Man, there are too many hot chicks here, I’m leaving.”? No way. It’s like a dude looking down his pants and saying “Too big.” It’s just not going to happen. Even the retard hillbillies are on board with this. It doesn’t matter whether you have a chance with these hot chicks or not. More hot chicks means more fun for everyone.

Except the ladies, they need some goods as well. That leads me to. . .

Step 2: Any dude that can kick my ass can stay. I’m putting a ginormous cage in my front yard and challenging all immigrant dudes to a no-holds barred, old-school cage match. I’m a big guy and I used to be stronger than about 99% of the U.S. population. Not so much anymore, which means they’ll have a chance. No weapons, no groin punching, and no eye-gouging. That’s it. You win, you get a green card. You lose, you get a green shirt that reads “I got my ass handed to me by the Donkey.” That way, everyone leaves with something. Plus, I’m not above whoopin’ some old dude’s ass or some handicapped dude’s ass. No exceptions to the cage match if you’re a dude.

But, there’s got to be some exemptions, right? Of course, that’s why my plan has three steps.

Step 3: If you’ve been deemed not hot enough or not badass enough, there’s still hope for you yet if you want to stay in the U. S. of A. Can you say, “Scavenger Hunt?” This won’t be some sissy-ass scavenger hunt either. You’ll need to find more than a button from an old jacket and the same old crap you used to find on these lists when you were a kid. Nope, it’s going to include stuff specifically that I want and currently can’t get. Things like Courteney Cox’s underpants. Or a good pepperoni cheese steak with mayo. Awesome stuff. Finish the list and you get to stay. That’s it.

So, why should people adhere to my three step plan? Simply put, it’s not just because I’m awesome. It’s because a couple of weeks ago, I was awesome enough to march in the immigration rally in Chicago. We all have our reasons for marching in these things. Fair wages. Health insurance. Retirement benefits. But, my purpose was much more noble. Did I want to feel like I was part of something historic? Absolutely. Truth be told, that wasn’t the main reason. When it comes down to it, I just wanted to cross the street.

See, I was down at McCormick Place for a tradeshow that morning and we had an event up on Monroe and Michigan Avenue that afternoon. I was with some ladies from work and we took a cab up north around noon so we could get there by 2:00. At 12:45, it showed no signs of letting up, so we grabbed some lunch and hoped it would clear up before we had to be there. At about 1:30 we went out and it was still curb-to-curb marchers for as far as the eye could see. We had to make a choice: move forward or give up. I wasn’t for giving up.

So, we moved down one block and walked right in. Slowly, over the course of the block, we made our way across. Along the way, one of the ladies got smacked in the face by a Mexican flag fluttering in the breeze. I laughed because, well, co-workers getting hit in the face is funny. But then I asked myself, “Why are they carrying all these Mexican flags?” It seemed sort of counterproductive to me. You want the same rights as American citizens, but you’re not willing to let go of your native land. It’s called having your cake and eating it, too. There’s nothing wrong with being proud of your heritage. I’m cool with that. I’m just saying it’s probably not the best way to garner sympathy with the average American.

Let’s say, hypothetically speaking, you were once dating this average-looking girl, and things were fine, but there was one problem: she’d never give you a blowjob. Eventually, you decide that she either starts giving you blowjobs or you’re moving on. Your ultimatum passes and still, no blowjob. So you leave that girl and set out to find another. Now rumor has it that there’s a hot girl across the street who gives great head. If you spend some time with her and treat her right, provide her with things she can’t get from other guys, she’ll eventually start smoking pole. Now, she’s got some high standards, and you’re not always the first guy she’ll start sucking, but if she thinks you’re worth it, you’re golden. Why, with that kind of set up, would you then start marching around with pictures of your uglier, less fellatially inclined ex-girlfriend and demand that the hot chick move you up into her good graces. Yeah, that plan will work.

Yes, it’s a poor analogy and yes, it’s in poor taste. You know what? I don’t care. I just know that this nation was founded on hot chicks giving great head. That’s such a beautiful thing, I don’t want anyone to screw it up for the rest of us.

All right, I’m done talking about this. It’s time to get back to more important things, like taking wagers on how soon Aras from Survivor starts becoming a serial killer. There’s something not right in that dude’s head.

You know what pisses me off?

Cans of Diet Pepsi. Not Diet Coke. Not Diet Rite. Not Diet Whatever Generic Brand Your Store Carries. Just cans of Diet Pepsi.

As far as diet drinks go, Diet Pepsi tastes pretty good. The problem is that Pepsi puts their carbonation on steroids. That shit in the can goes flat in about 3.8 seconds. If you don’t shotgun it, you’re going to be drinking flat pop. Seriously, open up a can and before you can get to “Four Mississippi” it’s just murky brown water.

Jagoffs.

I'm not saying it needs to be carbonated for an hour, but it would be nice to enjoy a bubbly beverage for at least 10 minutes. Someone needs to do something about this. Soon. Otherwise, I'm going to be back on the overpass chucking cans at everyone I see. If I have to go back to prison again, so be it. Just don't say I didn't warn you all first.

Long Time, No Write

Well, I’m back after a long hiatus. I’d like to say I was off saving the world from the forces of evil. So I will. Truth, baby. I was fighting the evils the only way I knew how—by growing my hair. Seriously, my hair is awesome. It’s been a full-time job keeping this bad boy looking smooth.

I’ve never had long hair before. Even back in the 80s, when everyone and their cousin was mulletting up our nation, I bucked the trend and sheared mine off at the roots. Now, as I discover more and more strands working their way down the shower drain every morning, I want to give my hair the sendoff it deserves. So, I’m not stopping until I get rock star hair. I’ve trimmed it once since about November. For a while, it was looking as bad as Tom Hanks’s hair, but it has since reached the “awesome” phase. Seriously, look at how shitty his hair looks here. My hair kicks his hair's ass!

I rule. And now that I’ve cemented my rule, I’ll be back to posting about all the stupid stuff I’ve wanted to do in the past. My hair gain is now your blogging gain.

“When are you going to grow up?”

That’s what my wife said to me when I told her I’d dropped trou inside the Double Door at a Bob Schneider concert. I have to admit, I didn’t know how to respond. It’s what I do. Drunk. Sober. Somehwere in between. It doesn’t matter. I'm just that kind of guy. I mean, she had to have known this was the guy she was marrying years ago.

I used to take off my pants as soon as I got home from work. Marriage is all about give and take. I gave up dropping my pants at home and took it on the road. Kind of like a bizarre amalgam of performance art and carnie show.

The way I see it, the only way for me to allay her fears is to help the world see what kind of experience this can be. So, I need your help in spreading the word. Taking off your pants is A-OK. It’s cool. It’s liberating. Basically, it’s just one more way to be awesome.

In order to spread the gospel, I’m including a little how-to guide for all my publicly pants-less prophets. You know you want to be one. Here goes:

1. Get over your fears. Taking off your pants can be intimidating at first. It’s all about taking the first step, or undoing the first button, as the case may be. Ask yourself over and over, “What’s the worst that could happen?” You’ll realize soon enough that you don’t really want to answer that question. Proceed with pants-dropping anyway.

2. Wear underwear. I know, this may seem basic, but some days go by when I forget to wear underpants. Those are not good days to take off your pants in public. All it takes is one time when you’re not willing to take off your pants and your reputation is sullied forever. Your underpants don’t need to match your outfit. But if you’re more comfortable with a nice, colorful, coordinated ensemble, go ahead with it.

3. Boxers or briefs? I prefer the hybrid boxer brief. First of all, you get the support of the brief, with the modesty of a boxer. With briefs, you always run the risk of freaking out the ladies with an unnecessary grossness quotient. With boxers, you sometimes have issues with a fly that won’t stay shut. Remember, the only difference between a fine and a misdemeanor is a little flashing of the wiener. If I’m thinking ahead of time, I have a couple pairs of boxer briefs that don’t have a fly at all. Those are the ones I go with.

4. Avoid belts if you can. Pants that don’t need to be unbuttoned are even better. You want to be able to pull them up quickly if need be. The more gear you have to work with, the less likely you are to get back to a completely dressed stage.

5. Identify exits. Know the quickest route out of the bar. If someone sees you and takes issue with your procedure, you need to be able to get away before you can be escorted out.

6. There’s safety in numbers. The more people you have around you, the less likely you are to be spotted by bar security. Get your friends with you for support and screening. Photographs are ok, but be warned that they draw attention. If that’s what you’re looking for, go for it.

7. Act like taking off your pants is the most normal thing to do. I can’t stress this enough. People can sense fear and apprehension. It emits a foul odor, much like a combination of moldy cheese and my friend Terry’s farts. Once your pants are off, own the place. Maintain the illusion that you have not dropped your pants. It’s a pretty neat Jedi mind trick, if you can pull it off. If you can’t pull it off, pull off your pants anyway.

8. Keep your back to something substantial. I can’t recommend this enough. Depending on how drunk everyone is around you, you always run the risk of one of your friends becoming a complete and utter douche bag. He (or she, but most likely, he) will think it’s incredibly funny to pull down your underpants. It’s not about being unwilling to show your wanker, it’s about protecting your ass. Suddenly, this goes from a goofy thing you do, to a reason for someone to call the cops. If I take my pants off and can sit down on a barstool or something, I will. Know which of your friends are assholes and keep them in front of you.

9. Know when enough is enough. Just because you take your pants off doesn’t mean they have to stay off for the evening. Set a limit in your head for how long your pants will remain off and stick to it.

10. Have fun with it. ‘Nuff said.

That’s pretty much all I have to say about that for right now. I’m sure I’ll think of more as the days pass.

Here’s a list of all the bars where I’ve taken my pants off. Note, this does not include people’s parties where I have taken my pants off. After all, the saying goes: “It’s not a party until the Donkey takes his pants off.” My friend Ed can attest to this. He’s always quick to inform me of whether or not I am at a party when I am over at his house. Nor does this list include wedding receptions where I have taken my pants off. Those are too special to ever chronicle here. One of my prouder moments was getting a group of about a dozen guys to take our pants off in a mirrored elevator at the hotel where the reception was being held. THAT was an awesome way to put those disposable cameras at our table to use.

The LIST:

The Lodge
Alumni Club
Mystic Celt
Double Door
Hunt Club
Mothers
Poets
Bamboo Bernie’s
The Big Nasty

That’s all I can think of. There may have been others, but I was too drunk to remember. Good times indeed.

An Open Letter to Brad Pitt

Dude, strap on a set.

Seriously.

I know she’s hot and she’s into some freaky stuff, but have you looked at yourself lately? She’s got you dressed like some reject from “Dazed and Confused,” holding orphan kids in countries no one can spell. She’s receiving citizenship left and right while you sit in the background holding diaper bags and reeking of baby wipes. I almost feel sorry for you.

Imagine that, ME feeling sorry for YOU.

We’ve all done stupid stuff for hot chicks. I’ve got pictures of me from 1985 wearing bright red parachute pants to prove it. We’ve done even more stupid stuff because sometimes those hot chicks actually sleep with us. Trust me. I know.

But you’re Brad “mothafucka” Pitt. You’re The Man. People Magazine habitually names you one of the sexiest men walking on the planet. They’re thinking about naming their award after you. You’re supposed to be better than all this pussy-whipping she’s putting you through. The siren song of the freakshow ‘tang can be mighty near impossible to overcome. But you have to rise up. Strike back against the evil empire that resides between her legs.

What’s happened to you? You used to be boss. Globetrotting is cool. Globetrotting with a hot chick is cool. Letting her hold your manhood in her passport is not cool. You’re supposed to be the epitome of all that is cool.

So be cool.

Instead, you’re playing “Mr. Sensitive.” Why? The sensitive guy has to be sensitive so girls have a reason to talk to him. Maybe you’ve always been sensitive. I don’t know. All I do know is that you weren’t traveling to third world countries and holding babies until after Angelina started holding your babies. In her mouth.

So, what’s up with that? Is this the real Brad Pitt we’re seeing now? Or, is this the only way you think of to keep yourself balls deep in her? Is it that good? Is it that much better than Jennifer Aniston’s perpetually erect nipples? Come clean with me. I won’t tell.

I’m not saying I would turn it down. Then again, I’m fat, married, and carrying outrageous debt. Something like that could help me through some pretty brutal Chicago winters.

But not you.

Shit, girls sling their panties at you if you happen to be in the same area code. I’ll never be on the receiving end of aerodynamic panties. But I’ve still got my pride.

And you’ve got Angelina Jolie.

Damn it. Never mind. I'm an idiot.