THEOPOLIS IN THE COURT OF THE HIGH KING
I was in for a good lay
By way of Matilda
And the forest, the thought of
Bumping about in whatnot bushes and ferns
The only thing that “does it,”
it being a long time since I’d done
anything.
But them woods did not put out
them flames, and them twenty minutes spent
fruitless searching for my lazy eyeful
garbled me, and all was not good.
I was mistaken, then,
Bamboozling my way
Keenly past said honeypots,
Your wells and thickets
Drolled up to look like
Wells and thickets.
Staying was
Unexpected. I sucked on
Zero pomegranates, planned no
magpie assimilation
Slowly or with a rapid hup-hup
and jump to it, did not conjecture
nothing.
It was whimsy what beat me
no dreams of hunting, but
horny hurt and
bored among woodland creatures
I was content to plod after
some shiftless doe
albinism struck
not particularly fast.
And when your dogs found me
Luckless facedown in the lake
I was brought here, as if my criminal hands had crinkled
Bones and crunkled rim wits to the edge. I admit, I walked
Them three miles, and I tempted that deer
a handful of seed
some slow creeping steps
and if she had come close I would have
maybe bashed this or shamed her ups
the head, pluct sinew from teeth and been a general terror
for the sake of a sad man, or anything comes up, but there was
no waiting or walking, I watch that hind split and rise, it goes by.
these days I walk through the forest and I am the absence
of anything the forest wants, I am set with jewels
in the shape of my teeth
and hands legs offset anything hair and twitchy smile
a line of hairs that surprise and disappoint
warning Noli me tangere to a universe
which learns Latin
just for this.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Harold is Made of Balloons
Harold is made of balloons
completely, while answering phones
at Best Buy, watching Eddie Murphy in
The Haunted Mansion he fills himself with static
and touches himself, feels tethered
to the pole he is tied to
and also his life, which he is told he will go home to
though at home there is a carton of ice cream
and Seinfeld, and the books did not tell him
this was life. It was :Fireman, Policeman,
Astronaut. Or going home to something
different, he is pretty sure there is a small blue
eyed boy involved, though Harold doesn’t like boys,
who try to pop him or let him go into the sky
until he disappears against the blue
or black if it’s night
though often Harold thinks that he should let himself go
against the blue (he is afraid of the black).
There is also a pretty girl who is not blond
who opens the door and offers him pasta in a glass dish,
though Harold is modern and would not mind offering her pasta
in anything, and she tells him (he is sure) that he is
Doing The Right Thing
going to Best Buy the next morning and learning
not to hate Eddie Murphy while rubbing himself
against his own hair, and he believes her because
she fills him up fresh every night
and pulls him under the covers so he doesn’t float away into the
Terrifying Black suspended above him, though sometimes he wonders
If you fall up long enough do you turn into a star?
The books told him that stars take a million plus years to reach here
and most of them died a million plus years ago
and while this sounds less foreign to Harold, who thought
he would be a star for years and years, and
dead for millions of years seems within his grasp,
he is happier under the covers
of the books that told him everything, and though he makes his own book
which is very small and filled with promises to write a big book about the
Truth and Best Buy and The Haunted Mansion, he would not
tether himself to it, he thinks
he might not tether himself to anything.
completely, while answering phones
at Best Buy, watching Eddie Murphy in
The Haunted Mansion he fills himself with static
and touches himself, feels tethered
to the pole he is tied to
and also his life, which he is told he will go home to
though at home there is a carton of ice cream
and Seinfeld, and the books did not tell him
this was life. It was :Fireman, Policeman,
Astronaut. Or going home to something
different, he is pretty sure there is a small blue
eyed boy involved, though Harold doesn’t like boys,
who try to pop him or let him go into the sky
until he disappears against the blue
or black if it’s night
though often Harold thinks that he should let himself go
against the blue (he is afraid of the black).
There is also a pretty girl who is not blond
who opens the door and offers him pasta in a glass dish,
though Harold is modern and would not mind offering her pasta
in anything, and she tells him (he is sure) that he is
Doing The Right Thing
going to Best Buy the next morning and learning
not to hate Eddie Murphy while rubbing himself
against his own hair, and he believes her because
she fills him up fresh every night
and pulls him under the covers so he doesn’t float away into the
Terrifying Black suspended above him, though sometimes he wonders
If you fall up long enough do you turn into a star?
The books told him that stars take a million plus years to reach here
and most of them died a million plus years ago
and while this sounds less foreign to Harold, who thought
he would be a star for years and years, and
dead for millions of years seems within his grasp,
he is happier under the covers
of the books that told him everything, and though he makes his own book
which is very small and filled with promises to write a big book about the
Truth and Best Buy and The Haunted Mansion, he would not
tether himself to it, he thinks
he might not tether himself to anything.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Fragment
no philosophy stills the setting sun
and though what graceful pauses come
and lengthen moments later lost
horizons swallow all celestial.
and though what graceful pauses come
and lengthen moments later lost
horizons swallow all celestial.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Love Poem #4
the infinite distance
between us
is the same infinite distance
between the two most distant mirrors
in two mirrors
facing eachother.
between us
is the same infinite distance
between the two most distant mirrors
in two mirrors
facing eachother.
Love Poem #3
YOUR BODY
your body is everything
you say it it– broken
into, boring
through hours like a
larval wasp
through the belly of a caterpillar incubator
when you unworm, pinch
the loving meniscus of
them years
until it tears
you will be beautiful, measured
in grains of sand and hurricanes
cause. you will be a
fantastic contraption
your body is everything
you say it it– broken
into, boring
through hours like a
larval wasp
through the belly of a caterpillar incubator
when you unworm, pinch
the loving meniscus of
them years
until it tears
you will be beautiful, measured
in grains of sand and hurricanes
cause. you will be a
fantastic contraption
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
slowly the years
slowly the years
you unfold
an oragami anything
yourself
to me
now spread plain
with creases
you unfold
an oragami anything
yourself
to me
now spread plain
with creases
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Sports. Sports!
Your affiliated stepsons move in.
one four
six three
you are under appreciated
dead
enough
in enough time.
Enough? No!
Hold the gates! Bar the hold! Hold the bar
down
tuesday wednesday
father's day–you are
under appreciated.
who do we appreciate?
Sports!
one four
six three
you are under appreciated
dead
enough
in enough time.
Enough? No!
Hold the gates! Bar the hold! Hold the bar
down
tuesday wednesday
father's day–you are
under appreciated.
who do we appreciate?
Sports!
C-C-Clean
remove one lung
rinse wash repeat
mistake
call her flowers,
plow her, call
on weekends, Thanksgiving
have parades, have
had parades,
a better word
for dry hump,
banana parts throwed away
dip eyed is dry hands is ask:
miss giving(s)?
no, miss
taking, miss Miss don't touch me
here
parades for flowers,
the other way around–
don't remember this
is not an order.
it happens, doesn't
have happened
for long.
rinse wash repeat
rinse wash repeat
mistake
call her flowers,
plow her, call
on weekends, Thanksgiving
have parades, have
had parades,
a better word
for dry hump,
banana parts throwed away
dip eyed is dry hands is ask:
miss giving(s)?
no, miss
taking, miss Miss don't touch me
here
parades for flowers,
the other way around–
don't remember this
is not an order.
it happens, doesn't
have happened
for long.
rinse wash repeat
Friday, November 20, 2009
Love Poem #2
If you were a tanker
bleeding black gold
onto penguins
and variform seabirds
letting fire rise in ungainly tides for a moon
that only knows it’s reflection
I would not be the ocean
or the variform seabirds
or the volunteers
toweling off variform seabirds
or the moon sun
nearest geographical landmass
overhead plane
or said plane’s passenger.
I would not be the newsman lamenting
the tanker’s owner, the tanker’s owner
cousin son dentist best friend
I would not be the small native population
adversely affected for years to come,
their Walntgut berries slowly dying or
the pasty sand that would no longer brick up.
I would be me
here
still.
bleeding black gold
onto penguins
and variform seabirds
letting fire rise in ungainly tides for a moon
that only knows it’s reflection
I would not be the ocean
or the variform seabirds
or the volunteers
toweling off variform seabirds
or the moon sun
nearest geographical landmass
overhead plane
or said plane’s passenger.
I would not be the newsman lamenting
the tanker’s owner, the tanker’s owner
cousin son dentist best friend
I would not be the small native population
adversely affected for years to come,
their Walntgut berries slowly dying or
the pasty sand that would no longer brick up.
I would be me
here
still.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Friday, November 13, 2009
Love Poem #1
You are my bison
I am your salt lick.
You are my fenceposts and chickenwire.
I am your sandcastle kicker.
You are my rhombus and pine, my wind-pulled steel roof.
I am your discount theater.
You are my creases and accents.
I am your appliance.
You are my utilities district.
I am your corn.
I am your salt lick.
You are my fenceposts and chickenwire.
I am your sandcastle kicker.
You are my rhombus and pine, my wind-pulled steel roof.
I am your discount theater.
You are my creases and accents.
I am your appliance.
You are my utilities district.
I am your corn.
Love Poem Project
I've found myself writing love poems at odd hours, for nobody in particular. The form of it got me or something horrible like that, and while some perfectly fine poets have written oodles about love, I am fair game tired of it, and want out. So I've decided to embark upon another project that I may or may not complete, my "love poem a day until I can't write love poems anymore and stop."
I hope to god this doesn't backfire.
I hope to god this doesn't backfire.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
My Grandpa
He was discovered for the bird wings he kept under his bed.- oh it was too little a thing, a thing off odd comforts to him, how he would reach down to that gap, a gap o no more than of four inches,. And he’d pull himself out some finch’s wings, tiny without being petite. He would sit with them in his palms, a little gristle working its way downwards in slow drops as he rotates them in his hands, look at it from all angles. Here it is the sail of a ship, and in the distance another ship. Rotate, two arches, architecturally sounds and cold and brown. Rotate, he sees two wings broken off a bird rotate there is nothing sinister in his analysis. He rotates them until they are no longer a pair of bird wings, stares at them so long his memory for the shape grows dull, as might yours when you say “cupboard” a hundred times, and know that it cannot possibly be a word. Just a strange combination of sounds, foreign and difficult, and it wants to go back, to pretend you can set cup up on it, but that shelf cannot escape.
He does this with the wings, looks at them from every angle until they simply cannot be wings. “Wings” won’t sit for them, they are outside the stream of words, their metaphor ill and porous and leaking cold yogurt all over the place and the gristle and the object disappear. The man is still holding something, but once-wings have moved, just barely beyond language, sublimed by their complete immersion in his eyes.
At this point he grows dem wings to his back and flies off, He spreads the gristle like chickenfat across his shoulders, and plops the once-wings right there, where they grow and melt and meld because it is so strange when something that “is” in a way that we really can’t say goes and touches something that is so surely as he is, things get confused. His backs screaks and scruffles, his profile seesaws to blind as his nonexistent cinematographer focuses in and out of the scene. His not-wigs let him light on the ground– he’s not flying with ‘em, which would have all the peace ease charm and pudding you want in it, but he just walks, --no, lights. He touches the ground like a half-assed plan, tossing it about in his mind until a stronger option emerges. To walk is to make a series of formal compacts with the ground, to deliver force and receive resistance. But for him there was no deal, no certainty. He might, just, touch and light and be content to stand or stroll or jump for a second. He might.
He does this with the wings, looks at them from every angle until they simply cannot be wings. “Wings” won’t sit for them, they are outside the stream of words, their metaphor ill and porous and leaking cold yogurt all over the place and the gristle and the object disappear. The man is still holding something, but once-wings have moved, just barely beyond language, sublimed by their complete immersion in his eyes.
At this point he grows dem wings to his back and flies off, He spreads the gristle like chickenfat across his shoulders, and plops the once-wings right there, where they grow and melt and meld because it is so strange when something that “is” in a way that we really can’t say goes and touches something that is so surely as he is, things get confused. His backs screaks and scruffles, his profile seesaws to blind as his nonexistent cinematographer focuses in and out of the scene. His not-wigs let him light on the ground– he’s not flying with ‘em, which would have all the peace ease charm and pudding you want in it, but he just walks, --no, lights. He touches the ground like a half-assed plan, tossing it about in his mind until a stronger option emerges. To walk is to make a series of formal compacts with the ground, to deliver force and receive resistance. But for him there was no deal, no certainty. He might, just, touch and light and be content to stand or stroll or jump for a second. He might.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Please Love My Ghost Fat
If you have the right
amount of fat
it shakes and moves
some sad half-seconds after you do,
and this is the
the worst echo.
I wish it would
wait, do all it’s moving
after I die.
I like to think of it,
my ghost fat,
meticulously miming
my day to day
after death.
my descendants would be ashamed
and fascinated. my son would watch a poor
motion capture of his own conception,
vomiting but struck.
my ghost fat would have problems
living in the future, but ghost fat got
bigger things to think about.
ghost fat thinks about you,
sits in office chairs, rubbing
one footfull of ghost fat against another
restless and nostalgic
composing words been composed
a lifetime ago.
if I die before you, please try and
catch my ghost fat– it will love you
mercilessly, even if you are
old old by then,
wrinkly and veined and can’t remember it’s name
it won’t mind. just call it
ghost fat, or
my darling ghost fat.
amount of fat
it shakes and moves
some sad half-seconds after you do,
and this is the
the worst echo.
I wish it would
wait, do all it’s moving
after I die.
I like to think of it,
my ghost fat,
meticulously miming
my day to day
after death.
my descendants would be ashamed
and fascinated. my son would watch a poor
motion capture of his own conception,
vomiting but struck.
my ghost fat would have problems
living in the future, but ghost fat got
bigger things to think about.
ghost fat thinks about you,
sits in office chairs, rubbing
one footfull of ghost fat against another
restless and nostalgic
composing words been composed
a lifetime ago.
if I die before you, please try and
catch my ghost fat– it will love you
mercilessly, even if you are
old old by then,
wrinkly and veined and can’t remember it’s name
it won’t mind. just call it
ghost fat, or
my darling ghost fat.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Days of Being Wild(ly productive!)
This blog has devolved into a sad archive of good intentions, and I mean to rectify it. From this point on I plan on updating on a DAILY BASIS (possibly excluding weekend). At this point I would like to do a poem a day, but I would be happy just to get something origional/interesting down every day.
Disgusting Hands
knuckles attach to knuckles attach to a
giant knuckle and it’s all bulbous, and from the
beauty of the guitar comes the peeling calluses on the tips,
haggard with half nails–oral fixation–and flecking
quick–same–and this is the
American melting pot of German
sausage fingers and misplaced Italian hair.
the knuckles shouldn’t bud out of the fat
that clearly, but I have
disgusting hands.
Disgusting Hands
knuckles attach to knuckles attach to a
giant knuckle and it’s all bulbous, and from the
beauty of the guitar comes the peeling calluses on the tips,
haggard with half nails–oral fixation–and flecking
quick–same–and this is the
American melting pot of German
sausage fingers and misplaced Italian hair.
the knuckles shouldn’t bud out of the fat
that clearly, but I have
disgusting hands.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Video Game Idea #1
The main character of this videogame is clearly evil. His missions are clearly outlined at the start of each level (either by his own twisted mind or by some outside source. Possibly a hallucination that urges him to do ill). But the goal of the game( ideally) isn't to accomplish these fiendish plans, but rather to stop them. The player is in control of the main character's left hand. I'm not sure exactly how the control scheme would work, but the idea is that you use your control over the hand to thwart the objectives of the main character. As the game progresses you might be able to level up and control the whole arm, but at the same time the main character becomes aware that you are in control of his hand and he begins to work around it (no more ladders).
Alternately, the game could be played as a two player game, where one player is in control of most of the body and the other player is in control of the hand. They have digressing or opposite goals, and only one of them can succeed.
Alternately, the game could be played as a two player game, where one player is in control of most of the body and the other player is in control of the hand. They have digressing or opposite goals, and only one of them can succeed.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Health Bulletin #1
Dreamsickness
What is dreamsickness?
Dreamsickness type 1: Dreams become infected.
Dreamsickness type 2: A lack of dreaming.
What are the symptoms of dreamsickness?
Type 1: Dreams begin to bleed into your normal life and take over how your handbags behave. Infected dreams can cause insomnia, diffusion of the godhead, animate objects, inanimate people. Your skull may physically open (this is called cerebral flowering), and other will be forced to read and experience your dreams and will momentarily inhabit your consciousness.
You may have dreamsickness type 1 if you find yourself strangling a gameshow host with your favorite t-shirt, having a conversation with a conversation, keeping the beat to a flavor, mistaking leopards for ocelots, being mistaken for an ocelot by a leopard, your handbags are behaving poorly, or you have recently experienced intense emotional or mimeographic trauma.
Type 2: Patients exhibit of inanimacy, vacuity, monotony, placid and flaccidness, a slight echo in their voice, their hearts increase slightly in weight, moonlight does not play across them, butterflies and hummingbirds actively avoid them, they dislike the word “moist,” uninteresting blood pressure, cracked lips, and a desire to live vicariously through a child or fictitious character.
What causes dreamsickness ?
Type 1 is spread by most things containing flax, also soap and love.
Type 2 is spread by word of mouth and overextended metaphors.
How can dreamsickness be prevented?
Type 1: Waiting.
Type 2: Dreaming
Can animals get dreamsickness?
Wolves experience dreamsickness regularly.
What is dreamsickness?
Dreamsickness type 1: Dreams become infected.
Dreamsickness type 2: A lack of dreaming.
What are the symptoms of dreamsickness?
Type 1: Dreams begin to bleed into your normal life and take over how your handbags behave. Infected dreams can cause insomnia, diffusion of the godhead, animate objects, inanimate people. Your skull may physically open (this is called cerebral flowering), and other will be forced to read and experience your dreams and will momentarily inhabit your consciousness.
You may have dreamsickness type 1 if you find yourself strangling a gameshow host with your favorite t-shirt, having a conversation with a conversation, keeping the beat to a flavor, mistaking leopards for ocelots, being mistaken for an ocelot by a leopard, your handbags are behaving poorly, or you have recently experienced intense emotional or mimeographic trauma.
Type 2: Patients exhibit of inanimacy, vacuity, monotony, placid and flaccidness, a slight echo in their voice, their hearts increase slightly in weight, moonlight does not play across them, butterflies and hummingbirds actively avoid them, they dislike the word “moist,” uninteresting blood pressure, cracked lips, and a desire to live vicariously through a child or fictitious character.
What causes dreamsickness ?
Type 1 is spread by most things containing flax, also soap and love.
Type 2 is spread by word of mouth and overextended metaphors.
How can dreamsickness be prevented?
Type 1: Waiting.
Type 2: Dreaming
Can animals get dreamsickness?
Wolves experience dreamsickness regularly.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Least Summoned Superheroes
10. The Inaudible Man
9. The Good Guesser
8. The Handicapper
7. Lady Desperate
6. Seizure Lad
5. Lysdexio
4. Captain Puberty
3. Dopplegangster
2. Secondbest
1. The One-upper
9. The Good Guesser
8. The Handicapper
7. Lady Desperate
6. Seizure Lad
5. Lysdexio
4. Captain Puberty
3. Dopplegangster
2. Secondbest
1. The One-upper
Socially Awkward Member of Group Fails to Realize He is Socially Awkward
Edgar Franken (’11), known on campus
for his social awkwardness, has consistently
failed to realize his own social ineptitude.
“I’ve got my stuff pretty well together,” said
Franken. “I mean, I think its just hard to
fi nd people to hang out with, but usually
I can catch them walking across campus. I
mean, we’re hanging out, right?”
Tom Bruntwosen (’11), a member of
Franken’s social circle, expressed concern
over his behavior. “Ed really doesn’t under-
stand how things work. I mean, I don’t
answer his calls, but every few minutes or
so..” Bruntwosen trailed off, holding up
his vibrating phone.
When asked if there were any awkward
members of his social group, Franken
responded with incredulity. “I don’t think
anybody is really awkward in my group.
But if you’re really looking, I think most of
them are really bad about answering their
phones.” Franken then returned to his table
at the Bon, sat silently for twenty minutes,
and left with a quiet “Goodbye.”
for his social awkwardness, has consistently
failed to realize his own social ineptitude.
“I’ve got my stuff pretty well together,” said
Franken. “I mean, I think its just hard to
fi nd people to hang out with, but usually
I can catch them walking across campus. I
mean, we’re hanging out, right?”
Tom Bruntwosen (’11), a member of
Franken’s social circle, expressed concern
over his behavior. “Ed really doesn’t under-
stand how things work. I mean, I don’t
answer his calls, but every few minutes or
so..” Bruntwosen trailed off, holding up
his vibrating phone.
When asked if there were any awkward
members of his social group, Franken
responded with incredulity. “I don’t think
anybody is really awkward in my group.
But if you’re really looking, I think most of
them are really bad about answering their
phones.” Franken then returned to his table
at the Bon, sat silently for twenty minutes,
and left with a quiet “Goodbye.”
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Top Ten Least Acceptable Things to Say At A Urinal
10. I don’t know, does it smell like asparagus to you?
9. I see you’ve been working on your technique.
8. Bonus multiplier times four! Multiball initiated!
7. Don’t worry, its not contagious.
6. You come here often?
5. I wish we could stay like this forever.
4. Go-go Gadget Urine!
3. You know, they don’t really taste like cake.
2. Can I draw you?
1. Nice watch.
9. I see you’ve been working on your technique.
8. Bonus multiplier times four! Multiball initiated!
7. Don’t worry, its not contagious.
6. You come here often?
5. I wish we could stay like this forever.
4. Go-go Gadget Urine!
3. You know, they don’t really taste like cake.
2. Can I draw you?
1. Nice watch.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Top Ten Next Logical Steps
10. Repeat
9. Eat the next fattest person.
8. Invent the tire.
7. See if the Bins has condoms.
6. Build a coconut grandpa.
5. Make a lolcat to illustrate howz u fhel.
4. Check for a pulse
3. Curse the gods and claw out your own eyes.
2. Zip up
1. Buy another kitten
9. Eat the next fattest person.
8. Invent the tire.
7. See if the Bins has condoms.
6. Build a coconut grandpa.
5. Make a lolcat to illustrate howz u fhel.
4. Check for a pulse
3. Curse the gods and claw out your own eyes.
2. Zip up
1. Buy another kitten
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Top Ten Rejected Top Ten Lists
10. Races
9. Meta Lists
8. Phrases that would cause the
administration to sue the Piolog
7. Synonyms for penis
6. Reasons to include Garik
Asplund (’10) in an article
5. Smells that remind you of your
grandpa
4. Kinda funny things
3. Single digit numbers
2. Sounds your mom makes
1. Self-congratulatory Backdoor
articles
9. Meta Lists
8. Phrases that would cause the
administration to sue the Piolog
7. Synonyms for penis
6. Reasons to include Garik
Asplund (’10) in an article
5. Smells that remind you of your
grandpa
4. Kinda funny things
3. Single digit numbers
2. Sounds your mom makes
1. Self-congratulatory Backdoor
articles
Apology issued for publishing a Bible Madlib
Recent articles on the backdoor have roused some
campus response, and we would like to take this opportu-
nity to apologize for our content. We here at the backdoor
have been routinely criticized as heartless bastards only
interested in fucking over the little man as he tries to go
about his meaningless existence conforming to whatever
ideology has been foisted upon him by the circumstances
of his birth. Despite threats of bodily harm, we have
resisted the pressure put upon us by our editors and
that little angel who weeps on our left shoulder in our
commitment to provide you with a consistent stream of
amusing bullshit.
Nonetheless, we are aware that there are sensitive is-
sues that may pass under our view without alarm, and in
an effort to amuse students without alienating them, we
would like to ask you for your input. If you could please
e-mail us topics and story ideas that you find completely
inoffensive, we will do our best to incorporate them into
the backpage. Until then, I hope you fuckers die.
campus response, and we would like to take this opportu-
nity to apologize for our content. We here at the backdoor
have been routinely criticized as heartless bastards only
interested in fucking over the little man as he tries to go
about his meaningless existence conforming to whatever
ideology has been foisted upon him by the circumstances
of his birth. Despite threats of bodily harm, we have
resisted the pressure put upon us by our editors and
that little angel who weeps on our left shoulder in our
commitment to provide you with a consistent stream of
amusing bullshit.
Nonetheless, we are aware that there are sensitive is-
sues that may pass under our view without alarm, and in
an effort to amuse students without alienating them, we
would like to ask you for your input. If you could please
e-mail us topics and story ideas that you find completely
inoffensive, we will do our best to incorporate them into
the backpage. Until then, I hope you fuckers die.
Top Ten Least Acceptable Txt Messages
10. wat
9. OMG thats redonkulus
8. Send me an IM abt it
7. u lost da game
6. We r over kthxbai
5. how do u get blud off kurtinz???
4. it wuz me dat kut ur dik off
3. itsnoturz
2. R U in Me?
1. u haz cancer?
9. OMG thats redonkulus
8. Send me an IM abt it
7. u lost da game
6. We r over kthxbai
5. how do u get blud off kurtinz???
4. it wuz me dat kut ur dik off
3. itsnoturz
2. R U in Me?
1. u haz cancer?
Puberday
Intelligent Design’s biggest detractor is the final product;
we humans possess a number of design flaws that seem glar-
ingly obvious, and I believe it is time to correct these mis-
takes now, while we still have the chance to bribe our desper-
ate, amoral scientists to play god with our notably unsound
gene pool.
Puberty will be the first thing to go. This terrible period
in the human lifecycle transforms six to nine years of our
short lives into a confusing, horny, hairy snafu. Of course
this period is a necessary part of human growth, but it can be
condensed, limiting the time it sucks into its overeager maw.
The answer is Puberday. All of puberty condensed into
one horrible, horrible day. It will not be pretty, and it will not
be quiet, but there are so few options– it may be the only way
to reclaim the pleasantness of youth.
All children will be short up to the age of fourteen, where-
upon, some random day between fourteen and seventeen,
they will wake up on Puberday. At midnight, a raging river of
hormones will begin to flood through their bodies, suppress-
ing all rational thought. Most will grow at least a foot (gen-
erally more), as well as seven years’ worth of unwanted body
hair and a tidal wave of acne– all in less than 24 hours.
Parents will learn to hide; seven years worth of angst ex-
ploding out of an omni-pubescent body promises to incur
an incredible amount of damage. Th e teen itself will have no
idea as to what is happening– all the confusion, loneliness,
and social awkwardness of youth will be compressed into this
magical day. Special school counselors on PCP will be present
to counsel students, but generally it is a time of free growth
and experimentation, similar to the Amish Rumspringa.
Of course we cannot forget the psychological develop-
ment and the personal growth that this would bypass. To
balance this out, every moment of Puberday will be burned
forever into their memories, no matter how badly they want
to forget. Every kiss, stumble, and poorly kept secret will lin-
ger on the edge of every thought, neither fading nor wearing
thin.
As gruesome as it sounds, I believe it is for the best. We
can no longer allow puberty to destroy our youth and our
poetry. I would like to ask all you young science majors to
look back a few years, and with that disgusting taste still in
your mouth, look forward and help me create a better future
for tomorrow’s tomorrow.
we humans possess a number of design flaws that seem glar-
ingly obvious, and I believe it is time to correct these mis-
takes now, while we still have the chance to bribe our desper-
ate, amoral scientists to play god with our notably unsound
gene pool.
Puberty will be the first thing to go. This terrible period
in the human lifecycle transforms six to nine years of our
short lives into a confusing, horny, hairy snafu. Of course
this period is a necessary part of human growth, but it can be
condensed, limiting the time it sucks into its overeager maw.
The answer is Puberday. All of puberty condensed into
one horrible, horrible day. It will not be pretty, and it will not
be quiet, but there are so few options– it may be the only way
to reclaim the pleasantness of youth.
All children will be short up to the age of fourteen, where-
upon, some random day between fourteen and seventeen,
they will wake up on Puberday. At midnight, a raging river of
hormones will begin to flood through their bodies, suppress-
ing all rational thought. Most will grow at least a foot (gen-
erally more), as well as seven years’ worth of unwanted body
hair and a tidal wave of acne– all in less than 24 hours.
Parents will learn to hide; seven years worth of angst ex-
ploding out of an omni-pubescent body promises to incur
an incredible amount of damage. Th e teen itself will have no
idea as to what is happening– all the confusion, loneliness,
and social awkwardness of youth will be compressed into this
magical day. Special school counselors on PCP will be present
to counsel students, but generally it is a time of free growth
and experimentation, similar to the Amish Rumspringa.
Of course we cannot forget the psychological develop-
ment and the personal growth that this would bypass. To
balance this out, every moment of Puberday will be burned
forever into their memories, no matter how badly they want
to forget. Every kiss, stumble, and poorly kept secret will lin-
ger on the edge of every thought, neither fading nor wearing
thin.
As gruesome as it sounds, I believe it is for the best. We
can no longer allow puberty to destroy our youth and our
poetry. I would like to ask all you young science majors to
look back a few years, and with that disgusting taste still in
your mouth, look forward and help me create a better future
for tomorrow’s tomorrow.
Top Ten Awkward Times To Die
10. After being told to “Drop Dead”
9. While Revising the Poor First Draft of a Suicide Note
8. First Kiss (Last Kiss)
7. Bahmitsva
6. Playing the board game Life
5. Demonstrating the safety of anything
4. Performing the Heimlich
3. In the forest when there nobody around to hear.
2. In a Nerf war
1. While grave robbing
9. While Revising the Poor First Draft of a Suicide Note
8. First Kiss (Last Kiss)
7. Bahmitsva
6. Playing the board game Life
5. Demonstrating the safety of anything
4. Performing the Heimlich
3. In the forest when there nobody around to hear.
2. In a Nerf war
1. While grave robbing
Top Ten Least Appealing Product Names
10. Baby Bum Juice
9. Minority-B-Gone
8. Rickets & Gravy
7. Chigger-o’s
6. Rough Riders’ Double Sided Sandpaper Condoms
5. Extra-Desperate Virgin Olive Oil
4. Freddie Foreskin’s Klean-Slice® Home
Circumcision Kit
3. Nugget Lube
2. Chunky Cream of Puberty Soup
1. Grandpa Rinse
9. Minority-B-Gone
8. Rickets & Gravy
7. Chigger-o’s
6. Rough Riders’ Double Sided Sandpaper Condoms
5. Extra-Desperate Virgin Olive Oil
4. Freddie Foreskin’s Klean-Slice® Home
Circumcision Kit
3. Nugget Lube
2. Chunky Cream of Puberty Soup
1. Grandpa Rinse
Back to School
Alright kids, it’s back to campus, and you know what
that means. It’s time to fumble our way out of our halcyon
days and try to harrow our way through the dangers of
another school year. The greatest threat is, of course, the
weather.
We will live the next month in fear; each morning we
will wake up to the overcast sky and think- “This is it- I
have seen the sun for the last time.” Every sunset will break
our hearts a little bit as we sit there in the twilight, wonder-
ing whether it’ll be back the next day or whether we’ll have
to wait six miserable months.
There is only one answer, my friends. It is time that we
break up with the sun. We all know that this relationship is
abusive- a good two thirds of the year it treats us like shit,
while we still spend that time talking about how much we
miss it, how good times used to be, blaming all our prob-
lems on its absence. We need to admit to ourselves that this
is an unhealthy relationship and try to get over it.
So we have to get by on our own. But its hard- we’re
used to the light that the sun brought into our lives, to the
warmth- we don’t want to give that up. We just have to
admit that we can’t get that from the sun this year, and look
elsewhere.
So let’s date. It’s a forgotten art, I know, but it may be
our best choice. It will give some excitement to last through
the winter. Don’t be shy about going out and asking the
cute girl in the Mac lab to go on a ferry ride, or convincing
that guy studying at Maggie’s to break into the Japanese
Gardens with you after hours. Buck up, take the chance,
kiss the girl- it’s going to get lonely around here without the
sun, and we need to move on.
that means. It’s time to fumble our way out of our halcyon
days and try to harrow our way through the dangers of
another school year. The greatest threat is, of course, the
weather.
We will live the next month in fear; each morning we
will wake up to the overcast sky and think- “This is it- I
have seen the sun for the last time.” Every sunset will break
our hearts a little bit as we sit there in the twilight, wonder-
ing whether it’ll be back the next day or whether we’ll have
to wait six miserable months.
There is only one answer, my friends. It is time that we
break up with the sun. We all know that this relationship is
abusive- a good two thirds of the year it treats us like shit,
while we still spend that time talking about how much we
miss it, how good times used to be, blaming all our prob-
lems on its absence. We need to admit to ourselves that this
is an unhealthy relationship and try to get over it.
So we have to get by on our own. But its hard- we’re
used to the light that the sun brought into our lives, to the
warmth- we don’t want to give that up. We just have to
admit that we can’t get that from the sun this year, and look
elsewhere.
So let’s date. It’s a forgotten art, I know, but it may be
our best choice. It will give some excitement to last through
the winter. Don’t be shy about going out and asking the
cute girl in the Mac lab to go on a ferry ride, or convincing
that guy studying at Maggie’s to break into the Japanese
Gardens with you after hours. Buck up, take the chance,
kiss the girl- it’s going to get lonely around here without the
sun, and we need to move on.
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