Christmas Begins...NOW

My family has decided to a do a White Elephant Gift Exchange for Christmas this year which is such a bad idea--I believe, no lie, that it will end in a literal fistfight. It wouldn't be the first time! My aunt once broke my uncle's rib in the course of a "friendly game." This was a long time ago, though, and I don't really remember it, although a photo does exist of me and my cousin at this legendary gathering. I am smiling beatifically at the camera, an Easter basket in my hand, and my cousin is squatting behind me taking a secret, effortful dump in the garden. Our parties are the best! Anyway, no one asked for my opinion about this White Elephant business so to get revenge I chose as my contribution a Circus Hobo Clown Band:

Contents: 

One gold saxophone

One gold trumpet

One monkey, clad in a red diaper

One tambourine

One hobo who plays the accordion

One hobo who plays the drums

Priceless music that emanates 

from a small machine inside the stage

It is so good, it is such a good present. And why stop there, I thought, and additionally purchased a Hobo Clown with Squirting Sunflower:

Contents:

One hobo clown with umbrella hat
One sunflower with squirting capabilities

If you are a family member who reads this blog, consider yourself warned--this is my gift to you. Although if you're the sort of person who reads this blog, you might actually want a Circus Hobo Clown Band, to display in your home as art. I know I do! I want it so bad it gives me a physical pain, and I may end up keeping it. I always choose gifts that I myself would like to receive, much to the sorrow of any person who has ever gotten a gift from me ever.

ALCOHOL STORY

Oh no I went to a bar again! It was even worse than last time because there was "live music," which meant a squat rectangular gentleman in a cowboy hat singing Don Henley songs in a fragile falsetto. When he was finished performing he came to our table and attempted to romance us, because why wouldn't he. And as you probably know, the best way to romance women is to tell them stories about how your dad used to beat you, "in a good way." He told me the reason he never tried any drugs was because his father had a bat called The Drug Bat, and he used to line up all the neighborhood kids and say, "I'm gonna hit you with this bat, and you're going to be unconscious for twelve hours and wake up woozy and confused," and when all the kids looked terrified he would shout, "That's what it's like to take drugs!" He believed that Kenny Chesney was his friend and had personally made "gay confessions" to him. At one point he screamed, "WHO YOU GONNA BELIEVE, KENNY CHESNEY OR THE MEDIA?" He was bothering my friend too much so I told him she was married, she had gotten married at Dave & Buster's and I performed the ceremony wearing wizard robes and a wizard hat. And he believed me. Favorite night of my life.

GIVE MONEY TO JIMMY WALES POEM

 
Jimmy Wales' face is freaking me out so bad on Wikipedia

Right now that I'm in danger of giving him all my money

As if his weird gaze were a kind of Knifepoint

One eye is the knife and the other is the glint

His nose comes at me like a pure threat

His nose will go between my ribs

I will bleed out on the sidewalk of the internet

My blood will turn to little copper coins

Heads up all of them, the heads of Lincoln

By far our most assassinated President

................Wikipedia will never need money again

CHALLENGE

Still sick as an elm. Make me well, tree surgeons of the internet, and I will return my shade, my sun, my moss and my crotch to you.

COLD MEDICINE POETRY

It's that time of year again! The time of year when I get bronchitis and take a massive dose of mind-altering cough syrup and lie down on my couch and think about the state of modern poetry! This usually results in a poem about poetry itself, called either "POETRY TODAY OH MY GOD" or "A POEM ABOUT POETRY I AM SO HIGH RIGHT NOW."


POETRY TODAY OH MY GOD

Heidegger lies down on the rose-colored sofa. His snatch is bleeding so bad he can hardly concentrate on philosophy. Still he persists, like a strawberry in the snow, dreaming about the fingertips that are reaching down for him.

Somewhere in Germany, a hart lowers his head to drink and sees the water wet with all of his self-contained blood—that is to say, his reflection. “There is the hart that killed my mother,” he thinks, “the hart that broke my mother in two.”

If there are too many harts in poetry today, it is because we all grew up reading a book called “Imogene's Antlers,” about a girl who woke one morning with a pair—and this will surprise you—of antlers.

If there is too much blood in poetry today, it is because we all imagined the day when Imogene got her period, and how she was now in even greater danger from the wolves.

The “woofs,” as we called them.

If there are too many woofs in poetry today, it is because in our childhood books, they were always a danger to the youngest, pinkest characters. And we were even younger and pinker than them.

Heidegger never read the story of Imogene. He would like to read it now, bleeding on his rose-colored couch. It would comfort him to think that perhaps his head is heavy because his head is growing upward.

If there are too many dead philosophers in poetry today, it is because we know that even in heaven they haven't stopped reading. They will get around to our poems after many eternities, and devour them like more-than-carnivores.

THE END