Miss It

        Miss It

I miss the good old forklifts,

The kind that steer from the rear

And reek of liquid propane. 

I miss being good at something

Small to the rest of the world,

But big in my microreality. 

I do not miss the swelter

Of hot-tempered youth

Where every twinge of pain

Means the world's all wrong again,

Irretrievably dreadful, 

Like dying on the first day of summer.

Dear Sir

The best, most valid, well-conceived argument against homosexuality is this statement: 

God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.

Precisely! Intellectually flawless. This serves as proof positive that ideas like gay marriage must be terrible. A gay couple would probably have disobeyed God when he insisted that they not eat from the Tree of Knowledge. They'd have gotten themselves kicked right out of the Garden of Eden. Furthermore, the gay couple would not have been able to conceive children; they would have been forced to adopt and, no doubt, their lamentable gay parenting would have produced a crazy child capable of almost anything, even murdering his own brother! 

Just goes to demonstrate that bumper stickers and protest signs are never wrong or overly simplistic. 


Dear Sir, 

I just learned to read yesterday
And object very strongly to what you say.
If this is the kind of thing that appears in print,
I'd be far better off remaining ignorant. 
Your points aren't pithy, your jokes aren't funny;
It's no wonder you've never written for money. 
Just go back to your boring day employment
And leave the Internet for porn and gambling enjoyment. 

Complimentary Lyrical Analysis

Having recently listened to a fair quantity of contemporary popular music, I have compiled a few observations, mostly with respect to the lyrics. It is probably best not to subject song lyrics to intense critical analysis, but I just couldn't help myself. 


I’d catch a grenade for ya 
Throw my hand on a blade for ya
I’d jump in front of a train for ya
You know I'd do anything for ya
I would go through all this pain,
Take a bullet straight through my brain,
Yes, I would die for ya baby;
But you won't do the same.

Earlier works by Bruno Mars indicate he has some legitimate talent, but this is pure melodramatic twaddle. Why doesn't he just take out the trash, wash the dishes, and treat her nice most of the time? That would be far more practical than offering to do these other things. Under what circumstances, for instance, would it be necessary to jump in front of a train for someone? And obviously, the most extreme example involves the grenade. Setting aside the unlikelihood of him or his romantic partner ever encountering a grenade at all, what good would it do to "catch" the thing? The problem remains unsolved, Mr. Mars.


"We're dancing like we're dumb, dumb, du-uh-uh-umb
Our bodies going numb, numb, nu-uh-uh-umb." 


I hope this is meant to be tongue-in-cheek because Kesha isn't merely dancing like she's dumb; she's singing like it too. This is truly a grating song.

I feel like I could write better lyrics without a great deal of preparation. Let's see how it goes:

I got rage, back in the saddle
Are you ready for the battle?
Make your thin walls rattle.
Rampage! Don't get caught in the middle
Trying to solve the little riddle
Because I know your body's brittle. 
Well, I was stuck in idle; it was my life to waste
Now I'm back in the race spitting rhymes in your face
Give me one for the treble, give me two for the bass
Give me two for the bass and I'll tear up the place
Now, how can we get the people to the next page?
What do you got now? I got rage! 

This is easy! Okay, probably not if you have to do it more than once. 

Last Sunday

        Last Sunday

    Off in the distance,
    A tall church looms,
    One hundred years removed
    From its last triumph.
    The bells still bong
    A dull, faded song,
    More dirge than invitation.

    When you start a new job, the typical pattern of social interaction goes like this:

    Week One: You are quiet, distant, sullen, and speak to very few people.

    Week Two: You open up a little and realize the people are quite friendly.
 
     Week Three: You begin to see that Jeff is a filthy pervert, Ann is a lush, and Nicolas is a bigot. Screw them all!

     We think you're going to like working here.

Own A Clone

Man, I just want some pie! Is that too much to ask? It is, because a shopping trip today demonstrated there wasn't decent pie available anywhere nearby. That makes me angry.

There are at least six different names for autoerotic asphyxiation, including breath control play and hypoxphilia. These phrases refer to the deliberate restriction of oxygen to the brain for sexual arousal, which killed actor David Carradine and possibly INXS vocalist Michael Hutchence. Why are there so many names for something that hardly ever makes news? Incidentally, don't get the idea that David Carradine and Michael Hutchence died of autoerotic asphyxiation together at the same time because that would be, you know, really embarrassing!

Don't have kids if all you want is a little you, someone you're going to name "Junior" or, worse, "The Third", somebody whose nails you intend to paint like yours or whom you intend to teach to play football even though "The Third" loathes it. If that's what you want out of life, get a human clone instead. Human cloning should be allowed on a trial basis, strictly as illustrative examples. Think how much easier it would be to identify the world's useless twits!