I read Christopher Hitchens’ latest Vanity Fair article with great interest—I was hoping he might start talking about the moist cave of my mouth again, like he did a few months ago. Delightfully, "Why Women Aren't Funny" addresses the subject of my mouth in even further detail: curving naso-labial furrows, full horseshoes of lovely teeth, etc. On the whole, I found it full of arousing insights about my own condition. And since Mr. Hitchens used poetry so persuasively in his own article, I thought I would respond in kind.
The Children-Squirters Is So Grumpy
Me brain so soft like hammered infant,
Milky smelly, biscuit chompy;
Me face-vagina stretch with laughter,
BWA, BWA, BWA like noising goat!
You smart comediennes, me think
Your pussies sewed shut all the way
With silky pubes of crafty lesbos.
Paula Poundstone make me giggle,
Tie she wears make me want kisses.
Pretty husband gnaw me eat-hole,
Suck out all the funny knowledge,
All me jokes fall down me cleavage—
Rutty husband, scoop them out
With diggy penis shaped like trowel!
I tried to make the first letter of every line spell, “HAVE SEX WITH ME CHRISTOPHER HITCHENS, I DON’T MIND ABOUT YOUR SWEATING” but failed at this in a number of ways. I was also unable to describe the euphemistic goat as being “slot-eyed—with lapping seas of golden water around those slits where Light goes in,” not wishing my credibility to be undermined by disparities in tone.
5 comments:
Your lack of status as America's Poet Laureate can only be due to our current President's lack of knowledge of what a "poet" or "laureate" is and/or does. Your stanzas blind with the brilliance of a tumescent, pubescent Jedi knight's plastic light saber. You are my sticky-bun hairdo'ed muse.
Every year in the U.S.A. 300,000 fat people wish you assholes would mind your own damned business. And if the day ever comes when I need my penis patched I'll take it to a tire center like the Lord intended.
For reals--although the Ultra Allure Pheromones sound fascinating. I've been meaning to add comments verification to stop the spam comments, but I am forgetful.
As for my tumescence, I'm pleased that you noticed. It doesn't get any more turgid than this--or rather, it does, but then I have to go to the hospital.
P.S. Will you be competing in the BRAINLESS DEVIL SWINE Tennyson contest?
I hope to participate -- the verses seem pregnant with photoshop promise. I have, however, been distracted with trivial appointments and the detritus of modern life. Not to mention, as if you had not guessed, the showing of the original Star Wars trilogy on cable. I now plan to change my name to "Chewy" not because I am covered with hair but rather to illustrate that my sentimental heart is like a creamy caramel center. When does the contest climax?
I'm accepting entries through the end of the month, and then I'll post them all here and ask an impartial party to judge--meaning, I'll probably hold my cat up to the screen and pick whatever submission she touches with her paw.
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