Soylent Hillary Insults My Intelligence

Hillary's golden years before her golden years.  (Photo credit: Henry Dunay)

Hillary’s golden years before her golden years. (Photo credit: Henry Dunay)

If Soylent Hillary
is made
out of people…

Will she degrade
and fade?

Donations,
Benghazi,
Email,
Controversies pervade.

Corpses.
(Her fault or not,
the dead feel betrayed.
They made her what she is.)

The consultants strayed
and made
The Soylent One.

Her new views are coming.
Her loyalists start drumming.
She drinks lemonade.

It’s bitter.

Once again
the Queen ascends
to nothing.

Made from people,
but not people herself.

Seemingly.

Cursed by her own deeds
to grow old
as Bill’s doting wife
with privacy
and inevitability.

Inevitability?
He’ll get laid.

How
does a former
inevitable
failed candidate
loser
defeated by her own faults,
unmade
by her own weaknesses
become inevitable again?

The addition of more
baggage?

Tirade?

No one deserves to win
except “me.”

Getting Higher Insults My Intelligence

Go towards the light, little ants!   (Photo credit: Vampiress144)

Go towards the light, little ants! (Photo credit: Vampiress144)

Picture it
on a busy day:

One person slips.
One person trips
while climbing…
bad timing!

A child twirls,
the staircase hurls
the body, like a bowling ball.
It knocks them all
down.

Person
after person
after person
after person
after person.

One big thud
and a river of blood.

Picture it,
on a windy day,
on a rainy day.
Picture the gravity
of the situation.

Popular Businesses Insult My Intelligence

Beware
Of businesses.

(I could end my poem here and it wouldn’t seem incomplete, right?)

I think this guy has interviewed me a few times.  (Photo Credit: J.J.)

I think this guy has interviewed me a few times. (Photo Credit: J.J.)

Ahem…

Beware
of businesses
that everyone loves,
that everyone admires,
that everyone dreams of working for.

Two million applicants per job vacancy.
One million
nine hundred ninety nine thousand
reasons
they don’t have to
behave…
ethically.

HR can be
catastrophic.
Then comes the
job:
Long hours,
low pay,
no respect,
weak benefits.

You know the drill.

But if the office
has
a swimming pool,
pool table,
nifty decorations,
and free food…

No one will notice the shit?

Sadly…

Until the shit hits
their fan
and their replacements
show up and
eat
the free food.

Forgetfulness Insults My Intelligence

A very (Photo credit: Quinn Dombrowski)

The ghost of Christmas past has gotten a lot more dramatic with time.  (Photo credit: Quinn Dombrowski)

I remember.
Ten years ago,
You were interested.
You convinced our friends
to leave us
alone.

Idiots.

I wasn’t interested.
You didn’t talk to me
for a year
until they talked some sense into you.
Or cheer.
Or maybe a bribe.
Or tequila.

The good old days.

And now,
we meet.
You and yours.
A friend and his.
Me,
and your best friend.

She’s interested.
You know I’m not.
You’re setting us up.

Those who forget their history
are doomed to inflict it on others.

Your ego was
tolerated
until then
because I remember the old you.

You lost that memory
underneath the TV shows,
movies,
fast food adoration
and the willingness to
falsify your own memoir.

I’m not so willing
to jump
into razor blades
covered
with french fries
and chocolate pudding
because you
want to dance
without guilt.

Innocence is knowing that it’s the other person’s fault.
Thank you for freeing me.

Excessive Drinking Insults My Intelligence

(With apologies to Robert Frost… sort of.)

spider

Spiders are fun.  (Photo Credit: Kurt Nordstrom)

Some say the night will end with spiders,
Some say with mice.

(Photo credit: Nick Harris)

Mice are nice.  (Photo credit: Nick Harris)

And when I’ve guzzled ten hard ciders
I join with those who fear the spiders.
But if I go out drinking twice,
I think I could not stand up straight
And vomit would attract the mice.
Their squeak is great
And would suffice.

Junk Food Insults My Intelligence

Photo Credit: Elana's Pantry

Photo Credit: Elana’s Pantry

My greatest
Junk food weakness
Is salad.

Luscious lettuce,
Tantalizing tomatoes,
Crunchy cucumbers.
Poetic Pomegranate dressing
(lowfat, luckily)

But no croutons.
They’re too fattening.

Celery will suffice.

I eat this
to indulge,
to send my soul swooning,
to beckon my inner Bugs Bunny.

But not too often,
or else…
I’ll have to call doc.

Therefore, I suffer
under a restrictive diet
of ice cream,
fried chicken,
and liverwurst.

Legalese Insults My Intelligence

The world is beautiful and legalese is not… or at least it usually isn’t.  Contracts should be like poetry.  So… let’s play with an example from the Amazon.com Conditions of Use.

Amazon Poetry

License and Access

Subject
to your compliance
with these Conditions
of Use
and your
payment
of any applicable
fees,

Amazon
or its content
providers
grant you a limited,
non-exclusive,
non-transferable,
non-sublicensable
license to access
and make personal
and non-commercial
use
of the Amazon
Services.

This license
does not include
any
resale or commercial
use
of any Amazon
Service,
or its
contents;
any collection
and use of
any product listings,
descriptions,
or prices;
any derivative
use
of any Amazon
Service
or its contents;
any downloading
or copying of account
information
for the benefit
of another
merchant;
or any use
of data
mining,
robots,
or similar data
gathering
and extraction
tools.

All rights
not expressly
granted
to you
in these Conditions
of Use
or any Service
Terms
are reserved
and retained
by Amazon or its
licensors,
suppliers,
publishers,
rightsholders,
or other content
providers.

No Amazon Service,
nor any part
of any Amazon
Service,
may be
reproduced,
duplicated,
copied,
sold,
resold,
visited,
or otherwise
exploited
for any commercial
purpose
without
express written
consent
of Amazon.

You may not
frame
or utilize framing
techniques
to enclose any
trademark,
logo,
or other proprietary
information (including
images,
text,
page layout,
or form) of Amazon
without express written
consent.

You may not use
any
meta tags
or any other “hidden
text”
utilizing Amazon’s name or
trademarks
without the express written
consent
of Amazon.

You may not
misuse
the Amazon
Services.

You may
use
the Amazon
Services
only as permitted by
law.

The licenses
granted
by Amazon
terminate
if you do not
comply
with these Conditions
of Use
or any Service
Terms.

 

Moral of the story: if a lawyer is ever speaking to you in incomprehensible language, ask him to recite his jargon as a poem.  It’s more understandable that way.  Mostly.

And don’t worry. I’m not legally required to obtain Amazon’s express written consent before making fun of them.

Field Trips Insult My Intelligence

I wrote a parody of Maya Angelou’s poem “Still I Rise” as one of my earliest posts.  I liked the result but few people saw it because the blog was so new.  I’ve been meaning to write a sequel ever since.

That said, it’s time to revisit one of the cruelest topics I’ve ever dealt with: children and animals… so here’s another morbid poem.  (Admittedly, the original was better.)

You can take kids to the forest,
They will see a lot of flies.
You can tell them not to feed the bears,
But then some poor kid dies.

Can’t they listen to instructions?
Don’t they want to stay alive?
‘Cause they play like there’s no danger there
That they just cannot survive.

Just like George and like cats
Who are curious young guys,
Though his hope’s springing high,
Still, he dies.

Photo credit: VanBuren

Photo credit: VanBuren

Should we try for something safer?
Is the subway that bad too?
(Children falling in like teardrops
Ain’t what they’re supposed to do.)

We can try hard to restrain them,
We can offer them a prize,
‘Cause the third rail’s got some energy,
And it makes sure some kid dies.

Photo Credit: PDPhotos

Photo Credit: PDPhotos

We may choose to take the bus now
We may hope that no one fries
We may warn “That fence should not be climbed”
But always someone dies.

Does that image so upset you
That we’ll have to try the beach?
But there’s sharks there underwater,
When kids drown you’ll hear a screech.

Down to the depths of ocean’s floor,
He dies.
In through the teeth, they’re gnashing his brain,
He dies.
He’s a shark’s breakfast, bloody with pride,
Floating and bloating he flows with the tide.

Leaving behind cries of terror and fear,
He dies.
Into a stomach that’s wondrously clear,
He dies.
Bringing the flesh that his ancestors gave
He is the dream and the hope the sharks crave.
He dies.
He dies.
He dies.

Coherence Insults My Intelligence

Blah.

Time travel you say?   Who wants to revisit the bubonic plague, trench warfare, or the Gulags?  No one, of course.  If you’re going to make time travel sexy, you have to offer sexy destinations like Shakespeare’s England or postclassical Mayan civilization.  Unfortunately, relatively few people can fit in the Globe theater or Chichen Itza.  You’ll find too many time tourists and that can ruin your experience there.  Besides, neither of those high periods had particularly good medicine, so you’re likely to catch something small yet fatal among all those visitors.

So let’s do an off-the-beaten path destination: mid-1910’s Europe.  If you didn’t sleep through your history lessons, you may remember trench warfare being all the rage at that time.  However, this blog doesn’t concern itself much with holding to the latest fashions from today or yesteryear, so we won’t focus on the glamor of war.

Instead, we’re visiting that period to learn about Dada so we can bring back some rhetorical insights for today’s world.  Just imagine the possible applications…

Let’s start with political debates:

Hillary Clinton: jar recede squash vermillion ratatouille flan go waft swan carcinogen hoopla.

Joe Biden: No!  hark pert persimmon quid pro quo kung fu, suture pantaloon.

Hillary Clinton: Fanta zamboni, ham circadian!

Wouldn’t that be more informative than what we typically get?

And then just try to imagine the improvements Microsoft could make to the instructions for its operating systems:

Windows 8.0 halalas blagh cortoros, monog gonog fogog.  Halooka sa yau twagala ra, massootookulu vam.  Horsala maklava zo yeash ta eaglet wampus system error.

I bet you understood more of that than the typical technical instructions.

By now, you’re probably objecting to this post; after all, Dada was an art form and I’ve been suggesting its use for more practical applications.  So let’s get artistic, and I don’t mean this gem from over thirty years ago:

The Talking Heads are dead for all intents and purposes, so we need a contemporary artist who captures today’s soul to join our time travels so that he may recapture the lost magic of Dada.  I suggest Justin Bieber… loaded up on Xanax, of course.  Imagine his next song once we return from the past:

Shi huanga blanga boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs

Yeah, he’s gonna party like it’s 1918 but with lyrics that will stimulate the public’s intellects more than his existing offerings.    And after that success, he’ll be crying “let’s do the time warp again” before you know it… at which point we should just lock him up in a Transylvanian castle without a video camera.

Christmas Zombies Insult My Intelligence

‘Tis the season for the same old Christmas greetings, or maybe not….

Slide1

Twas the night before Zombie Apocalypse,
and all through the house,
not a stanza was rhyming.
The poet’s a louse.

The parents were hung by the chimney with care
(literally, look at the nooses)
So exhausted from shopping, they didn’t much care.
The children were nestled all smug in their beds
They’d killed off their parents and eaten their heads.

So mamma in her ‘kerchief, and dad in a sack
Had just lost their brains to a zombie attack.
When out on the lawn there arose such a moaning,
Kids sprang from their beds to see who was groaning.

Away to the window they flew like a flash
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The blood on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Showed a lustrous buffet of humans below.

When what to their wondering eyes did appear,
But an iron-clad sleigh and eight fearless reindeer.
With a musclebound driver so lively and quick,
They knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.
(Sorry about that. People now claim it’s unhealthy for children to admire an obese Santa Claus. This poem needs to be family-friendly.)

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

So up to the housetop the coursers they flew
With the sleigh full of gifts, and St. Nicholas too—
And then, in a twinkling, he heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of kids so aloof.

As he drew in his head and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas was tossed with a bound.
He was dressed all in red, from his head to his foot,
Until the warm fire burned it all up to soot.

A bundle of gifts was left in the sleigh
When the zombie kids saw this, they started to say
“His eyes, how they twinkled, these presents, how merry,
We should cook up his brains with a bowlful of jelly.”

The satchel of gifts was drawn up with a bow
And the kids “borrowed” it, I’m sure you all know.
And then on the hearth they found the old guy,
The black smoke, it circled his head all awry.

He’d had a thin face and a fur-covered belly
That looked like a cat’s, not like some mint jelly.
Brains were roasted and crisp, a right jolly treat
The kids laughed when they saw him, they were ready to eat.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
And then after that St. Nick was quite dead.
He spoke not a word, the kids grabbed their forks
And filled up their gullets, “He tastes just like pork!”

And laying their fingers upon all those gifts,
The kids, they did cry… they felt they’d been stiffed.
“I wanted a laptop,” the first kid did whistle
“All that is here is a vacuum called Bissell.”

And I heard him exclaim ere they slept for the night
“Santa Claus is a bitch. These gifts just ain’t right!”

May your children be better behaved this holiday season…