Oh So Classy
She’s the girl I want to know
the sort of girl I hope will blow
my mind. She’s fine.
She’s oh so sassy.
She’s the type that’s so damned sweet
Someday I’d show her my meet
-ing place. Her face
is oh so classy.
I love her from afar.
If love her in my car.
I’d take her to the stars
and Mars
and get nasty.
She’s the one I need to love
but safely with a rubber glove
free her from all harm
and sperm.
She’s oh so sassy.
What you are going through
is something
I cannot be bothered to understand.
Your problems may be large
certainly, but
they are not mine
and, respectfully,
I wish you’d shut up
and let me get to my dinner
in peace.
Just a block from here
is where it stood.
On the sixteenth floor
through the second elevator bank
by the end of the hall
is the Office
that formerly held
The Comics Code Authority.
I know.
I was there
once.
It was a place of strong decisions
and quiet reflection.
It was the home of assessment
of the finest form
the States have ever produced.
It was electric.
It is gone now.
Such fine things
such noble bodies
cannot always last
in this wretched world.
But it was here,
then.
This is where
The Comics Code Authority thrived.
I know.
I was there.
The Times tells me
that the overweight are at lower risk of dying
which fits well with my long-term plans.
If weight decreases the threat of mortality
then my greater girth
may grant me immortality –
and soon, if my savaged scale
is any evidence.
I had planned on making no resolutions
this particular year
but having downloaded this article title
I now know
that soon
nothing will threaten my eternal life on this planet
but stroke, cancer and heart disease
and diabetes, sloth and gravity
and, of course,
the size of a target I soon shall be.
Thank you, Times,
for teaching me so much
and gifting me with this revelation
that has changed everything.
The donut flies
too often,
too poorly.
The donut flies
when flung
and then,
never again.
The donut flies
after frying
and before dying.
Sigh.
In the midnight tunnel
abandoned by all others
the hardy two sit together,
talking,
holding,
dancing in shadows
becoming one in ways
simpler than carnal.
They share secrets,
history,
pleasures that few others have ever known
for none have ever felt this way before
or ever will again.
These two are onto something
in the night
in the dark
in seclusion.
They are becoming one
in a unique and magical way.
There has been nothing like this
in all of history
and may never be again
after the dawn.
Santa’s ass is getting fat
I think it’s all the cookies that
we serve him every Christmas night.
His chance of slimming down? Quite slight.
Santa’s jowls are drooping down
a creepy geriatric clown
if weight watchers he skips, I fear
he might not last another year.
Santa’s girth is growing
Santa’s adding mass
His pants are getting tight
and his toes are out of sight.
Reindeer having trouble
carrying all that weight.
If Santa gets much bigger,
well, then he’ll become a state.
For… Christmas?
What do I want for Christmas?
Is that what you’re asking?
Really?
Is this idle curiosity
or are you actually offering something?
Well,
I guess I’d like you bound, goggled
in leather and tinsel
beneath my well-lit tree.
So I suppose i want a tree, too,
aflame
as it was back in pagan days
with naked children dancing,
prancing cupids and vixens
screaming profanities, heresies
and various biological impossibilities.
I want an end to gun control
with bullets flying above the sky,
ignoring laws of man and physics.
I want life different and dangerous,
dire and deadly in these darkest days of the year.
I want to forget everything from puberty
except the masturbation
– that was cool.
Oh, and I want to masturbate.
That’s what I want for Christmas
– or peace and goodwill.
Whatever’s cheaper.
I’ve been trying to figure out
just what it is about you that reaches me
in that special place
that is only for you.
Someday, I hope to understand
my feelings for you.
I want to know what it is
that makes me hate you so very much.
Is it the stupid things you say?
Your self-involved statements of inexact idiocy?
Is it your fat ugly face?
I’ve seen fatter faces, more ugly.
I’ve heard more facile folk,
fuller of themselves,
swearing that they were cursed
by assorted humblebrags:
“my car can’t fit all the girls that want to date me”
“my wall is buckling under the awards that I’ve hung”
“my eyes are strained by the zeroes and nines in my bank account.”
All of the above
are awful in you
but worse in others.
so why am I so muchmore tolerant
of Andy and Jenn
while hating you
oh so very much?
What makes you the worst?
Is it that in you
I see some small part of myself
that I despise?
I don’t have the answers
nor am I sure that I want them.
I’m not at all sure
if the research would be worth it.
History will reflect poorly on this show.
The reviewers will not know
what to make
of the self-reflective nature of the words
or the hyper-critical tone of the narrator
who surely could have spent more time on the content
and less on the abuse
of himself,
others, the audience
and history itself.
The stuttering
the sexism
the stagnancy of theme
and senselessness in story,
all will serve the gods of entertainment quite poorly.
The show, simply put,
will suck.
History will not speak well
of this performance
for history has high standards
and quick judgments that are slow to change
and there’s every reason for you to get up in the middle
and go in with your life
but keep this in mind:
you get what you pay for.
jonberger 