Kern's Holler Poem Bunker
Rev. BIOU 13
Ode to Steve Thompson
It was many and many a year ago,
When God made the first black guys
One was Al Roker and one was a joker
With sweaters and bulging eyes
And they fought to the death on the second day
Of the second month of the year
And over their grave was a cinnamon tree
Where the MLK Day Fairy thought it should be
And watered it with his tears
And thus he declared that for twenty six days
A hero would daily be crowned
With a Colt 45 that works every time
Billy Dee Williams was the first one around
And he smoothly begat the great Samuel L.,
Who wore jheri curl with class
And thus followed Webster, who danced with a stripper
But only came up to her ass
Hence came Richard Pryor, who burned in a fire,
And cracked up a path for Shaft,
And while Cowboy Curtis declined to hurt us,
Wesley Willis felt heads should be smashed.
And though Mr. T did not pity me,
It is said that he pitied a few
And we all got moronic on gin and the chronic
When Snoop was the hero we knew.
Marva Munson arrived with her tea and her piles
And the Crabman gave everyone crabs
But when Creflo A. Dollar showed up on the scene
Our souls were left covered in scabs
And as mid-month drew near, we craved chicken and beer,
In amounts that would bloat us like Buddha
And it felt like our doom when the hoes in our room
Came to herald the new hero Luda.
It was dyn-o-mite Tuesday when JJ was king,
And we all felt embarrassed and silly
When the rain took the blame and we all cried with shame
At our new heroes, Milli Vanilli.
But it turned out all right when the smooth Barry White
Made us wild to go sexin’ some penis
And our black founding father George Washington Carver
Calmed us with barrels of peanuts.
We all got what we need from hero Biz Markee,
Isaac Hayes introduced us to xenu.
Queen Latifah, a prize, who had both of her eyes
Unlike Sammy, the one eyed black Hebrew.
And then Blacula sucked, but James Brown had no luck
‘Cause his heirs wouldn’t bury him timely,
And another Brown, Cleveland, led off the conclusion
Of a month most heroic and rhymely.
The penultimate morning was sort of a warning
Of upcoming gluttonous evil,
As the Winans, all twelve, sent some zombies to hell
But then Urkel came over for meatballs
It was oftentimes scary to placate the fairy,
‘Cause life without thumbs can get ugly.
But I’d do all over again if I could
February was so dark and lovely.
Monday morning, coffee filters
See the stack so fresh and high,
And the coffee, strong and tasty,
She who drinks it will not die
Tuesday morning, coffee filters,
Stacked up there upon the shelf
Tho’ it has begun to dwindle,
She who drinks enjoys good health
Wednesday morning, coffee filters,
Barely does the level shrink
Surely there is youth remaining
There for she who takes a drink
Thursday morning, coffee filters,
There she’ll pause, observe the stack
Reflect a moment, life is fleeting,
Drink and push the feeling back
Friday morning, coffee filters,
Just ignore that nagging doubt
Drink the coffee, strangely bitter,
Life and coffee, running out
Saturday morning, coffee filters
Gathering darkness fills the room
Waiting coffee, in the perker,
Waiting coffee, in the tomb
Sunday’s coffee, final filter
Drink it in the setting sun
Savor every final mouthful
No more coffee for anyone.
This song is called Brad Delp Revolution, and it's about Brad Delp, and his revolution, but Brad Delp Revolution is not the name of the Revolution, that's just the name of the song, and that's why I called the song Brad Delp Revolution.
People will think you need all kinds of help, when you put up a pic of Delp
People will think you need all kinds of help, when you put up a pic of Delp
You can cure society’s greatest ills,
When you kill yourself with a mess of grills,
People will think you need all kinds of help, when you put up a pic of Delp
Now it all started on Martin Luther King Jr. Day, when my friend Anna Dynamite and I were craving cinnamon snacks, but Martin Luther King Jr. didn’t eat cinnamon snacks, that’s just what the Martin Luther King Jr. Day Fairy eats, with shriners, and nudists, and Asians, and all kinds of people in the thing there, and having a craving for cinnamon treats like that makes the fairy a little crazy, and seeing’ as how not everybody wants to hand over the cinnamon, sometimes the fairy will cut off your fucking thumbs if you look him in the eyes.
So we don't recommend looking him in the eyes.
Anna and I got up on the Facebook there and decided it would be a friendly gesture to warn everybody not to look the fairy in the eyes, unless you wanna get your thumbs cut right the fuck off, and have to wear your underwear backwards, and not have sex in airport bathrooms for at least a couple of months until the thumbs grew back on there around President's Day.
Well we warned everybody and Rev. Erazuu and Mister Sister and all kinds of people on the SubGenius bench there was eating cinnamon buns crackers breadsticks cinnamon sticks and all kinds of stuff that they sell at the store there, and we all had a cinnamon snack feast that couldn’t be beat, and suddenly there was a knock on my door.
I opened the door.
I didn’t see anyone on the other side of the door.
When all of a sudden the fuckin MLK Day Fairy, came flying into my house underground and knocked the fez right off my crazy head and said GIVE ME ALL YOUR CINNAMON BITCH, NOW! NOW! NOW! But I had eaten all my cinnamon.
And the MLK Day Fairy said, “Rev. BIOU, I found your name on the bottom of a receipt for Metformin, and lancets, and cinnamon graham crackers and saltines and skim milk, can you explain that?” and I said yes sir, MLK Day Fairy, Sir, I put my name on the bottom of that receipt.
Well, the MLK Day Fairy didn’t appreciate my excuses so he took out a bolt cutter and snapped off my thumbs on the spot. It was extremely painful. I mean I don't think I can express with words exactly how much it hurts when an angry Equality Fairy fucks you up with a pair of boltcutters that way. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.
Well, after all that happened, my thumbs grew back and the next day was Brad Delp Revolution Day because Brad Delp killed himself with a stack of barbecue grills in the bathroom, and he was a vegetarian, and he stole his suicide note from an episode of twin peaks and Anna and I thought that was so darned funny we decided it ought to be a revolution – the Brad Delp Facebook Picture Barbecue Suicide Massacre, and all you gotta do to join it is to sing it the next time it comes around on the guitar, which is right now,
People will think you need all kinds of help, when you put up a pic of Delp
People will think you need all kinds of help, when you put up a pic of Delp
You can cure society’s greatest ills,
When you kill yourself with a mess of grills,
People will think you need all kinds of help, when you put up a pic of Delp
That was horrible. If you want to grow your thumbs back and celebrate diversity and barbecues and stuff you got to sing loud.
I've been singing this song now for almost five minutes. I could sing it for another five minutes. I'm not proud.
So we'll wait till it comes around again, and this time with four part
harmony and feeling.
We're just waitin' for it to come around is what we're doing.
All right now.
People will think you need all kinds of help, when you put up a pic of Delp
People will think you need all kinds of help, when you put up a pic of Delp
You can cure society’s greatest ills,
When you kill yourself with a mess of grills,
People will think you need all kinds of help, when you put up a pic of Delp
Da da da da da da da dum
Brad Delp Revolution!!
From the Horse's Behind
should be taught in the science classroom.
Hispanics lie so much
Hispanics lie so much
And Employers,
And Housing Department,
And Clinic Employees,
And Your Parents,
and Neighbors,
And old friends from High School,
and the Mailman,
And everyone here on alt.slack,
Hated you, but don't let it sway,
I hope you come back....someday.
The sun is setting early and the snow is on the ground,
It's time to put your face on and your finest evening gown.
Time to dance and sip some nog and light a festive candle,
Slip some stockings on your legs and hang some on the mantle,
It's that time of year again - the Tranny Society Christmas Party!
Everyone will be there and they're all looking their best,
Some will look like Charo in a sequinned cocktail dress,
Some will look like Cher with feathered torches in their hair,
Liza's adam's apple shows, but no-one seems to care.
'Tis the season to look smashing - the Tranny Society Christmas Party!
Get your act together now, 'cause Santa's on his way,
Grab your tupperware of dip and plate of crudite,
Last year's turnout wasn't bad but this year will be big,
And all this entertainment's gonna make you flip your wig.
Deck the halls with girls with balls - the Tranny Society Christmas Party!
I realize it was a shitty thing to do, snubbing all those blind people, and when my most recent encounter with the blind resulted in me getting smacked in the head with a walking stick, It seemed that I had got my comeuppance. But I stand by my actions, because there are some messed up people walking the streets around here. Just keep in mind that just because that guy LOOKS like Fred Rogers, doesn't mean he won't pull his johnson out on the subway and try to swipe it across the back of your hand.
So here is a poem about some of the people in my neighborhood, in my neighborhood:
Crazy man in the train station,
Why are your pants stained with pee?
Isn't the wall by the metrocard line,
Pissed on by bums since the dawn of time,
Good enough for thee?
Crazy lady on the express bus,
Why do you pick at your crotch?
It's far too early for smelling so sour,
But if you must dig at this ungodly hour,
Do you think I desire to watch?
Crazy guy at the Chase Bank,
Why do you scream at the wall?
This is the third time I’ve seen you abuse it,
When other street people just want to use it
For a public bathroom stall.
Loonie on Madison Avenue,
Insisting I'm going to hell
But standing around with his pants full of crap
Ranting and raving in front of the Gap
Displeases the Lord with his smell
New York City, a wonderful place,
Full of excitement and culture
Museums and restaurants all over town,
But just watch your back as you're walking around
And never let anyone touch ya.
Once in a SubGenius forum, while I fought malaise and boredom ,
Over many a long and tiresome thread of CYPHER’s to ignore,
While I nodded, nearly sleeping, suddenly there came a creeping,
As of some one sadly seeking, some approval, what a bore.
`'Tis irrelevant,' said someone, `to this newsgroup anymore -
Only this, and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it occured in mid-November,
Though I wished I could dismember Martian on my chamber floor.
Eagerly I picked a topic, but the screen became myopic,
From the repetition of the kooks whose words I do deplore-
For the dull and stupid lolspeak of the kook's sad repertoire-
Irrelevant for evermore.
And the sullen dork would not go, neck of beard and eau d’taco
Sickened me – and thickened him with rolls of fat and lard galore;
So that now, to still the failing of my interest, I stood wailing,
`'Won’t somebody kick this lowlife out and lock the chamber door? -
With the new technology can’t anybody find a key to lock the chamber
door? -
This I ask, and nothing more,'
Presently the wretched loner; with a strong and ripe aroma,
Unleashed here a torrent of some gibberish he had in store;
But the fact is no one reads it, yet so often he repeats it,
And consistently he leaves it, lying at the chamber door,
Like an offering, pathetic – whining at the chamber door -
Martian there, and nothing more.
And they say he is irrelevant, A gruesome, smelly human elephant
Nothing useful or intelligent, uttered from his stinking maw,
Greasy hair all flaked and curly, tragic bane of poor old Shirley
This I whispered, while his ghostly stench offended to my core,
“Just a troll, and nothing more…”
Then he claimed he had a lady - eager, willing, fine and ready,
Climb his belly, slow and steady, to his confidence restore.
But he could provide no pic of someone who would have his dick
Some mythical young woman of a distant Northern shore,
Some strawberry blond Canadian blind retarded rooftop whore
Bullshit here, forevermore.
POETRY!!! The Most Exciting Day of My Life
You are fat, Doctor Martian, the Big Boss said,
and your neck has become very thick
Yet you gobbled fried chicken, and nachos, and bread,
Pray, how can you still find your dick?
Eye haf t00 be writing haik00!
yop yabbo de nenslo oof dirka dirk,
doo deedly susie the floozie! .
Ode to the Guy in the Next Cubicle
Hey man, thanks for sneezing every time you pass me
I really like the dewy mist of your germs driving into my face.
And I love hearing you tell your fiancée
What you had for lunch
French onion soup? Sounds good.
But she made you that sandwich
You’ll eat it tomorrow. Don’t be mad, baby
When you blow your nose,
Those really wet, phlegmmy honks,
They make my day. I swear it.
And your daily egg and onion breakfasts
With a side of cough,
I look forward to them like I looked forward to Christmas morning
When I was a little kid
Seriously, what is it about passing my desk
That makes you sneeze?
You’ve had this cold for about 16 months now
Maybe it’s time to see a doctor
What can I do you for?
What can I do you for?
How’s it hangin’?
Hot enough for ya?
I can’t wait for the office Holiday Party
I am going to drop a shrimp tail in your drink
And tell your fiancée that you throw away those sandwiches
Every day
God bless you. Here’s a tissue.
Tell Me More About Your Fantasy Football Team
I guess you can tell
By that look in my eye,
And my eager expression
And my open and welcoming posturing,
That I am really interested in knowing more about your Fantasy Football Team
You’re good at reading people, and my subtle cues are not lost on you
This is why I’m glad we work together
I love people who are alert, and observant
I guess it was when I edged away and said,
“I don’t really care about football,
I never watch it, and I don’t understand it,
And I can’t name a single player or team,
And I genuinely have no interest in this at all”
That must have been what made something inside you click,
And you thought to yourself,
“This is the person I’m going to tell all about my Fantasy Football Team”
It’s a pretty unlikely scenario
That I will ever take the handset of my plastic office phone
And smack you upside the face with it,
Seven or eight hundred times
Until your head is a pulpy mass of mush,
Festooned with splinters of my disintegrated phone
I’d have to wait a week or so
Until the replacement phone was delivered,
And I need that phone, to get my work done
So don’t worry about that happening at all.
I’m sure you’re gonna be fine.
Del taco calls, your IQ falls with every mastication,
With flooze obsessed, you pound your breast, indulge in masturbation,
But O', fart! fart! fart!
O' the drippy splash of brown,
Where on the couch my Martian lies,
Ass up, and face down.
O Martian! My Martian! Rise up and greet the day!
With topics like Steve Guttenberg, to wile my hours away!
For you we change the subject line, continue it elsewhere,
For you should change your preference for exotic facial hair,
Here, Martian! Dear kook!
Friend to old and noob,
It is our dream to lay our heads
Upon your manly boob.
My Martian does not answer, it appears his mouth is full,
My Martian does not recognize, we think he is a tool,
He makes jokes to amuse himself, about my giant head,
And fantasizes frequently of taking Flooze to bed,
Exult, alt.slack, and hear the blast
That tears our will apart,
Of greasy taco colon gas,
Doc Martian's nacho fart.
I
THE wind was a torrent of nacho gas among the Indio trees,
The kook was a helpless idiot clicking on keyboard keys,
The nachos were cold and clammy now, all over the hovel floor,
And the Epoopt came riding—
Riding—riding—
The Epoopt came riding, up to the newsgroup door.
Where Nenslo lurked in the shadows of his lustful memory;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like greasy string,
But he loved that fucking nenslo,
Obsessed over that nenslo,
Dumb as a dog he fantasized, and pulled his little thing—
Nazis, Zombies, Mother's Apron
These are things which plague his brain
Paranoia, crazed delusions,
And Steve Thompson is his name
Hither come the raging nazis
Here the zombies, how they smell
With their limbsies all a'rotsies
Chasing Thompson hence to hell
Those in power do abhor him,
Bind him in their apron strings
Alternately enrage and bore him
So he posts some random things
Zombies with their cold green fingers
Nazis play their moron game
All the while he types and lingers
And Steve Thompson is his name
POETRY!!!
Tribute
to the Heroes of Black History Month
When God made the first black guys
One was Al Roker and one was a joker
With sweaters and bulging eyes
And they fought to the death on the second day
Of the second month of the year
And over their grave was a cinnamon tree
Where the MLK Day Fairy thought it should be
And watered it with his tears
And thus he declared that for twenty six days
A hero would daily be crowned
With a Colt 45 that works every time
Billy Dee Williams was the first one around
And he smoothly begat the great Samuel L.,
Who wore jheri curl with class
And thus followed Webster, who danced with a stripper
But only came up to her ass
Hence came Richard Pryor, who burned in a fire,
And cracked up a path for Shaft,
And while Cowboy Curtis declined to hurt us,
Wesley Willis felt heads should be smashed.
And though Mr. T did not pity me,
It is said that he pitied a few
And we all got moronic on gin and the chronic
When Snoop was the hero we knew.
Marva Munson arrived with her tea and her piles
And the Crabman gave everyone crabs
But when Creflo A. Dollar showed up on the scene
Our souls were left covered in scabs
And as mid-month drew near, we craved chicken and beer,
In amounts that would bloat us like Buddha
And it felt like our doom when the hoes in our room
Came to herald the new hero Luda.
It was dyn-o-mite Tuesday when JJ was king,
And we all felt embarrassed and silly
When the rain took the blame and we all cried with shame
At our new heroes, Milli Vanilli.
But it turned out all right when the smooth Barry White
Made us wild to go sexin’ some penis
And our black founding father George Washington Carver
Calmed us with barrels of peanuts.
We all got what we need from hero Biz Markee,
Isaac Hayes introduced us to xenu.
Queen Latifah, a prize, who had both of her eyes
Unlike Sammy, the one eyed black Hebrew.
And then Blacula sucked, but James Brown had no luck
‘Cause his heirs wouldn’t bury him timely,
And another Brown, Cleveland, led off the conclusion
Of a month most heroic and rhymely.
The penultimate morning was sort of a warning
Of upcoming gluttonous evil,
As the Winans, all twelve, sent some zombies to hell
But then Urkel came over for meatballs
It was oftentimes scary to placate the fairy,
‘Cause life without thumbs can get ugly.
But I’d do all over again if I could
February was so dark and lovely.
Monday morning, coffee filters
See the stack so fresh and high,
And the coffee, strong and tasty,
She who drinks it will not die
Tuesday morning, coffee filters,
Stacked up there upon the shelf
Tho’ it has begun to dwindle,
She who drinks enjoys good health
Wednesday morning, coffee filters,
Barely does the level shrink
Surely there is youth remaining
There for she who takes a drink
Thursday morning, coffee filters,
There she’ll pause, observe the stack
Reflect a moment, life is fleeting,
Drink and push the feeling back
Friday morning, coffee filters,
Just ignore that nagging doubt
Drink the coffee, strangely bitter,
Life and coffee, running out
Saturday morning, coffee filters
Gathering darkness fills the room
Waiting coffee, in the perker,
Waiting coffee, in the tomb
Sunday’s coffee, final filter
Drink it in the setting sun
Savor every final mouthful
No more coffee for anyone.
This song is called Brad Delp Revolution, and it's about Brad Delp, and his revolution, but Brad Delp Revolution is not the name of the Revolution, that's just the name of the song, and that's why I called the song Brad Delp Revolution.
People will think you need all kinds of help, when you put up a pic of Delp
People will think you need all kinds of help, when you put up a pic of Delp
You can cure society’s greatest ills,
When you kill yourself with a mess of grills,
People will think you need all kinds of help, when you put up a pic of Delp
Now it all started on Martin Luther King Jr. Day, when my friend Anna Dynamite and I were craving cinnamon snacks, but Martin Luther King Jr. didn’t eat cinnamon snacks, that’s just what the Martin Luther King Jr. Day Fairy eats, with shriners, and nudists, and Asians, and all kinds of people in the thing there, and having a craving for cinnamon treats like that makes the fairy a little crazy, and seeing’ as how not everybody wants to hand over the cinnamon, sometimes the fairy will cut off your fucking thumbs if you look him in the eyes.
So we don't recommend looking him in the eyes.
Anna and I got up on the Facebook there and decided it would be a friendly gesture to warn everybody not to look the fairy in the eyes, unless you wanna get your thumbs cut right the fuck off, and have to wear your underwear backwards, and not have sex in airport bathrooms for at least a couple of months until the thumbs grew back on there around President's Day.
Well we warned everybody and Rev. Erazuu and Mister Sister and all kinds of people on the SubGenius bench there was eating cinnamon buns crackers breadsticks cinnamon sticks and all kinds of stuff that they sell at the store there, and we all had a cinnamon snack feast that couldn’t be beat, and suddenly there was a knock on my door.
I opened the door.
I didn’t see anyone on the other side of the door.
When all of a sudden the fuckin MLK Day Fairy, came flying into my house underground and knocked the fez right off my crazy head and said GIVE ME ALL YOUR CINNAMON BITCH, NOW! NOW! NOW! But I had eaten all my cinnamon.
And the MLK Day Fairy said, “Rev. BIOU, I found your name on the bottom of a receipt for Metformin, and lancets, and cinnamon graham crackers and saltines and skim milk, can you explain that?” and I said yes sir, MLK Day Fairy, Sir, I put my name on the bottom of that receipt.
Well, the MLK Day Fairy didn’t appreciate my excuses so he took out a bolt cutter and snapped off my thumbs on the spot. It was extremely painful. I mean I don't think I can express with words exactly how much it hurts when an angry Equality Fairy fucks you up with a pair of boltcutters that way. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.
Well, after all that happened, my thumbs grew back and the next day was Brad Delp Revolution Day because Brad Delp killed himself with a stack of barbecue grills in the bathroom, and he was a vegetarian, and he stole his suicide note from an episode of twin peaks and Anna and I thought that was so darned funny we decided it ought to be a revolution – the Brad Delp Facebook Picture Barbecue Suicide Massacre, and all you gotta do to join it is to sing it the next time it comes around on the guitar, which is right now,
People will think you need all kinds of help, when you put up a pic of Delp
People will think you need all kinds of help, when you put up a pic of Delp
You can cure society’s greatest ills,
When you kill yourself with a mess of grills,
People will think you need all kinds of help, when you put up a pic of Delp
That was horrible. If you want to grow your thumbs back and celebrate diversity and barbecues and stuff you got to sing loud.
I've been singing this song now for almost five minutes. I could sing it for another five minutes. I'm not proud.
So we'll wait till it comes around again, and this time with four part
harmony and feeling.
We're just waitin' for it to come around is what we're doing.
All right now.
People will think you need all kinds of help, when you put up a pic of Delp
People will think you need all kinds of help, when you put up a pic of Delp
You can cure society’s greatest ills,
When you kill yourself with a mess of grills,
People will think you need all kinds of help, when you put up a pic of Delp
Da da da da da da da dum
Brad Delp Revolution!!
From the Horse's Behind
You just can't believe that genuine earth creatures are psychic
Alabama has many leaves on many trees
It was a shocking blow to me when I saw it while web surfing
Butter a piece of bread,
put a spoonful of spaghettie on the bread
You may be surprised at how good a "spaghetti sandwich" actually is.
I don't intentionally look at porn, so I don't know that much
about it
Hispanics lie so much
why can't you be a nice fag and get married like Neil Patrick Harris?
I INVENTED ISLAM
especially the part where you fill the can with rocks and shake it
sometimes they just want any old anus they can get
The Bible was probably the FIRST BOOK.
It recorded EVERY DAMN THING IMAGINABLE
if you haven't sent me a Christmas card in 20 years, I DON'T KNOW YOU
should be taught in the science classroom.
Hispanics lie so much
Hispanics lie so much
A poem, for Schizobeck.
In ancient memories,
Sweet home Alabama,
There was a poor Grimace, who lived in a shack
She thrived upon noodles
In sodium sauces,
And offered us love, but we threw it right back
Oh Schizobeck!
Oh Schizobeck!
Churning out endless insufferable dreck,
You gave without taking,
We sent you away,
I hope you return...someday.
It's not that we needed
More off-topic banter
The kooks and the nuts are in ample supply
We just miss the coupons,
And trailer-park intolerance
That always brought tears of joy to my eye
Oh Schizobeck!
Oh Schizobeck!
Let me throw my arms around your meaty neck!
You donned your best purple cape and flew away,
I hope you return...someday.
The dark days of winter
Are one sad reminder
Of the Precious Moments of light in my life,
There's one consolation,
One fat abomination,
But if you like tacos, he'll make you his wife.
Oh Schizobeck!
Oh Schizobeck!
Life here without you has made me a wreck!
And Employers,
And Housing Department,
And Clinic Employees,
And Your Parents,
and Neighbors,
And old friends from High School,
and the Mailman,
And everyone here on alt.slack,
Hated you, but don't let it sway,
I hope you come back....someday.
Schizobeck's
refrain
Tranny Society Christmas Party
- Twelve scheming negroes
- Eleven spiteful nurses
- Ten Mexicans taking jobs from Americans
- Nine Precious Moments figurines
- Eight trips to the mailbox
- Seven Papa Johns Interviews
- Six Lipton's Noodles & Sauce Packets
- FIVE PURPLE TARPS!!!
- Four griping hicks
- Three trailers
- Two parents' shame
- And a resume printed on your own paper
Tranny Society Christmas Party
The sun is setting early and the snow is on the ground,
It's time to put your face on and your finest evening gown.
Time to dance and sip some nog and light a festive candle,
Slip some stockings on your legs and hang some on the mantle,
It's that time of year again - the Tranny Society Christmas Party!
Everyone will be there and they're all looking their best,
Some will look like Charo in a sequinned cocktail dress,
Some will look like Cher with feathered torches in their hair,
Liza's adam's apple shows, but no-one seems to care.
'Tis the season to look smashing - the Tranny Society Christmas Party!
Get your act together now, 'cause Santa's on his way,
Grab your tupperware of dip and plate of crudite,
Last year's turnout wasn't bad but this year will be big,
And all this entertainment's gonna make you flip your wig.
Deck the halls with girls with balls - the Tranny Society Christmas Party!
I realize it was a shitty thing to do, snubbing all those blind people, and when my most recent encounter with the blind resulted in me getting smacked in the head with a walking stick, It seemed that I had got my comeuppance. But I stand by my actions, because there are some messed up people walking the streets around here. Just keep in mind that just because that guy LOOKS like Fred Rogers, doesn't mean he won't pull his johnson out on the subway and try to swipe it across the back of your hand.
So here is a poem about some of the people in my neighborhood, in my neighborhood:
Crazy man in the train station,
Why are your pants stained with pee?
Isn't the wall by the metrocard line,
Pissed on by bums since the dawn of time,
Good enough for thee?
Crazy lady on the express bus,
Why do you pick at your crotch?
It's far too early for smelling so sour,
But if you must dig at this ungodly hour,
Do you think I desire to watch?
Crazy guy at the Chase Bank,
Why do you scream at the wall?
This is the third time I’ve seen you abuse it,
When other street people just want to use it
For a public bathroom stall.
Loonie on Madison Avenue,
Insisting I'm going to hell
But standing around with his pants full of crap
Ranting and raving in front of the Gap
Displeases the Lord with his smell
New York City, a wonderful place,
Full of excitement and culture
Museums and restaurants all over town,
But just watch your back as you're walking around
And never let anyone touch ya.
Once in a SubGenius forum, while I fought malaise and boredom ,
Over many a long and tiresome thread of CYPHER’s to ignore,
While I nodded, nearly sleeping, suddenly there came a creeping,
As of some one sadly seeking, some approval, what a bore.
`'Tis irrelevant,' said someone, `to this newsgroup anymore -
Only this, and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it occured in mid-November,
Though I wished I could dismember Martian on my chamber floor.
Eagerly I picked a topic, but the screen became myopic,
From the repetition of the kooks whose words I do deplore-
For the dull and stupid lolspeak of the kook's sad repertoire-
Irrelevant for evermore.
And the sullen dork would not go, neck of beard and eau d’taco
Sickened me – and thickened him with rolls of fat and lard galore;
So that now, to still the failing of my interest, I stood wailing,
`'Won’t somebody kick this lowlife out and lock the chamber door? -
With the new technology can’t anybody find a key to lock the chamber
door? -
This I ask, and nothing more,'
Presently the wretched loner; with a strong and ripe aroma,
Unleashed here a torrent of some gibberish he had in store;
But the fact is no one reads it, yet so often he repeats it,
And consistently he leaves it, lying at the chamber door,
Like an offering, pathetic – whining at the chamber door -
Martian there, and nothing more.
And they say he is irrelevant, A gruesome, smelly human elephant
Nothing useful or intelligent, uttered from his stinking maw,
Greasy hair all flaked and curly, tragic bane of poor old Shirley
This I whispered, while his ghostly stench offended to my core,
“Just a troll, and nothing more…”
Then he claimed he had a lady - eager, willing, fine and ready,
Climb his belly, slow and steady, to his confidence restore.
But he could provide no pic of someone who would have his dick
Some mythical young woman of a distant Northern shore,
Some strawberry blond Canadian blind retarded rooftop whore
Bullshit here, forevermore.
POETRY!!! The Most Exciting Day of My Life
Life is long,
Full of drudgery,
The rote and routine of an average day.
Sandwiches, TV,
Working for weekends,
So I want to die in an abnormal way.
If God would just grant me this one special wish,
I want to be torn to pieces in a shocking and brutal chimp attack in front of 30 small children on a school field trip.
Every day,
The same old thing,
Movies and banter and disarray,
Traffic, commercials,
Grocery stores,
I want to go out with a bang someday.
My life would mean more if the means to my end
Was to rupture internally and shower a hundred photographing Japanese tourists with the contents of my stomach after winning first place in a hot dog eating competition.
(Let us imagine,
Just for a moment,
The universe is one microscopic speck
Of a hairy mole on the back of a pig,
And the world is a crumb on the universe’s shoelace,
And each of us is one billionth of a percent
Of a molecule of a booger stuck to one of the world’s nose hairs.)
The things that we do,
Don’t matter at all,
And it seems there’s no point going out of our way.
Let’s all shoot for one
Of the top shelf prizes
At the end of life’s game that we’re all forced to play.
When the curtain goes down and the lights go out,
I hope it’s because I’ve been smashed to smithereens by a hurtling chunk of frozen toilet water from a UFO while attending a televised parade.
The End.
Full of drudgery,
The rote and routine of an average day.
Sandwiches, TV,
Working for weekends,
So I want to die in an abnormal way.
If God would just grant me this one special wish,
I want to be torn to pieces in a shocking and brutal chimp attack in front of 30 small children on a school field trip.
Every day,
The same old thing,
Movies and banter and disarray,
Traffic, commercials,
Grocery stores,
I want to go out with a bang someday.
My life would mean more if the means to my end
Was to rupture internally and shower a hundred photographing Japanese tourists with the contents of my stomach after winning first place in a hot dog eating competition.
(Let us imagine,
Just for a moment,
The universe is one microscopic speck
Of a hairy mole on the back of a pig,
And the world is a crumb on the universe’s shoelace,
And each of us is one billionth of a percent
Of a molecule of a booger stuck to one of the world’s nose hairs.)
The things that we do,
Don’t matter at all,
And it seems there’s no point going out of our way.
Let’s all shoot for one
Of the top shelf prizes
At the end of life’s game that we’re all forced to play.
When the curtain goes down and the lights go out,
I hope it’s because I’ve been smashed to smithereens by a hurtling chunk of frozen toilet water from a UFO while attending a televised parade.
The End.
You are fat, Doctor Martian, the Big Boss said,
and your neck has become very thick
Yet you gobbled fried chicken, and nachos, and bread,
Pray, how can you still find your dick?
In my youth, said Doc Martian, while stroking his fat,
I used to complain and confound it,
But I need it to pee, if for nothing but that,
So I just tie a long string around it.
You are greasy, Doc Martian, the Big Boss said,
and your pants are encrusted with piss.
Yet you steadfastly balk about cleaning your head,
So what is the reason for this?
In my youth, said Doc Martian, when money was tight,
We couldn't buy oil for our frying
So we squeezed out my hair by the stove every night,
And it's still free, so no point in buying.
You're pathetic, Doc Martian, the Big Boss said,
And nobody wants to be near you.
Yet you endlessly babble away on alt.slack.
Do you think anybody can hear you?
Eye haf t00 be writing haik00!
yop yabbo de nenslo oof dirka dirk,
doo deedly susie the floozie! .
Ode to the Guy in the Next Cubicle
Hey man, thanks for sneezing every time you pass me
I really like the dewy mist of your germs driving into my face.
And I love hearing you tell your fiancée
What you had for lunch
French onion soup? Sounds good.
But she made you that sandwich
You’ll eat it tomorrow. Don’t be mad, baby
When you blow your nose,
Those really wet, phlegmmy honks,
They make my day. I swear it.
And your daily egg and onion breakfasts
With a side of cough,
I look forward to them like I looked forward to Christmas morning
When I was a little kid
Seriously, what is it about passing my desk
That makes you sneeze?
You’ve had this cold for about 16 months now
Maybe it’s time to see a doctor
What can I do you for?
What can I do you for?
How’s it hangin’?
Hot enough for ya?
I can’t wait for the office Holiday Party
I am going to drop a shrimp tail in your drink
And tell your fiancée that you throw away those sandwiches
Every day
God bless you. Here’s a tissue.
Tell Me More About Your Fantasy Football Team
I guess you can tell
By that look in my eye,
And my eager expression
And my open and welcoming posturing,
That I am really interested in knowing more about your Fantasy Football Team
You’re good at reading people, and my subtle cues are not lost on you
This is why I’m glad we work together
I love people who are alert, and observant
I guess it was when I edged away and said,
“I don’t really care about football,
I never watch it, and I don’t understand it,
And I can’t name a single player or team,
And I genuinely have no interest in this at all”
That must have been what made something inside you click,
And you thought to yourself,
“This is the person I’m going to tell all about my Fantasy Football Team”
It’s a pretty unlikely scenario
That I will ever take the handset of my plastic office phone
And smack you upside the face with it,
Seven or eight hundred times
Until your head is a pulpy mass of mush,
Festooned with splinters of my disintegrated phone
I’d have to wait a week or so
Until the replacement phone was delivered,
And I need that phone, to get my work done
So don’t worry about that happening at all.
I’m sure you’re gonna be fine.
Del taco calls, your IQ falls with every mastication,
With flooze obsessed, you pound your breast, indulge in masturbation,
But O', fart! fart! fart!
O' the drippy splash of brown,
Where on the couch my Martian lies,
Ass up, and face down.
O Martian! My Martian! Rise up and greet the day!
With topics like Steve Guttenberg, to wile my hours away!
For you we change the subject line, continue it elsewhere,
For you should change your preference for exotic facial hair,
Here, Martian! Dear kook!
Friend to old and noob,
It is our dream to lay our heads
Upon your manly boob.
My Martian does not answer, it appears his mouth is full,
My Martian does not recognize, we think he is a tool,
He makes jokes to amuse himself, about my giant head,
And fantasizes frequently of taking Flooze to bed,
Exult, alt.slack, and hear the blast
That tears our will apart,
Of greasy taco colon gas,
Doc Martian's nacho fart.
I
THE wind was a torrent of nacho gas among the Indio trees,
The kook was a helpless idiot clicking on keyboard keys,
The nachos were cold and clammy now, all over the hovel floor,
And the Epoopt came riding—
Riding—riding—
The Epoopt came riding, up to the newsgroup door.
II
He'd a cock upon his forehead, a crusty beard at
his chin,
A freebee t-shirt of threadbare cotton, and taco sauce on his skin;
It fitted with never a wrinkle: It was stretched too tight to fold!
And he typed with a pitiful twinkle,
His buttcheeks all a-twinkle,
His glistening chins a-twinkle, sprinkled with cheese and mold.
III
Over the newsgroup he babbled away,
and desperately ached for praise,
And he blathered and whimpered and posted links,
while smelling like mayonnaise;
He
whistled commercial jingles, and who should be waiting there
But the the missing link of alt.slack,
Historical hero of alt.slack,
In the back of his mind, nenslo, in tight white underwear.
IV
Where Nenslo lurked in the shadows of his lustful memory;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like greasy string,
But he loved that fucking nenslo,
Obsessed over that nenslo,
Dumb as a dog he fantasized, and pulled his little thing—