Plastic Parade (a poem)

duck-face-mom-yearA-typical Rolex submariner sits on the dad’s wrist like a beacon of arrival,
his too-tight Ed Hardy tee sticks to his cross fit chest like an extra layer of skin.
those hours in the gym, the broccoli, the grilled chicken, the spinach salads……
Eyes scanning the crowd looking for that 25 year-old who hasn’t yet sunk the botox into her forehead

Wifey to his left, flipping her platinum dyed hair again and again and again
She, looking for someone to make fun of, looking for someone to help her feel better about her collagen duck-faced lips,

her third tit job, her fourth anal bleaching, her fifth affair with a new trainer,Tattoo reads “MILF” along the panty line that only a select 50 or so willing erections get to see.

She, peering at the younger women while licking her lips with the misguided confidence of an American Idol contestant

Continue reading


milf deconstructed (a poem)

Marriage: Years 1-5

Each day, cotton candy fluffy marshmallow clouds

floating between comments of “I love you” and “You’re beautiful honey”

hubby home from work, healthy dinner served,

glass of $50 wine that is difficult to pronounce so it must be fucking great

Tongue down throat, barely make it to the bed, face in the pillow

deep, penetrating cock inside you like he “fucking means it” love making, so in love his sweat tastes like cupids own saliva

true, fucking, love

smile like a clown as you walk outside to get the mail,

waving stupidly at the neighbors with your “the world is mine” look

because your life is better, your BMW is newer, your skin is tighter

you still stay up past 11 each night

and don’t yet know about Lifetime movies

Years: 6-10

The cotton candy begins to stick to your fingers now,

damp from the low hanging clouds circling above

3 kids now and damn you are tired

Hubby still hasn’t responded to your “hope you had a good lunch” text

such a foolish ruse

when you really wanted to text “is she prettier than me, does she taste better than me?”

he sees directly through your less tanned, heavier hanging skin bull shit

it pisses you off, but you stay silent

Dinner, hit start on the microwave and watch the lasagna spin around like a good American,

but don’t get too close, the radiation may fuck with the botulism in your lips

“He used to kiss me all the time,” that voice whispers in your head as you stare at the cheese bubbling over the paper towel you placed on top

But then, a text!!!! Some excitement, a little clit tingle, just like old times

“Don’t forget to walk the dog, don’t want him pissing the rug again,” he typed

Crushed again

Hubby home, eats dinner on the couch watching Fox News and bitching about Mexicans, niggers and why Obama sucks giant donkey dicks

he takes his laptop in the bathroom for another 40 minute shit as you clean up behind him, you dive in to that box of Franzia wine the neighbor brought over for your birthday

you taste the plastic and cardboard grapes, but are indifferent

settle into the couch and watch “Cyber Seduction; His Secret Life”

cry yourself to sleep again

Years: 10-???

Kids don’t listen, hubby has more “meetings” than ever

random text from a 20-something hussy saying that your hubby’s cock tastes old and he’s a fucker, says he won’t leave your wrinkled ass like he keeps promising,

something about the kids or some other lame cheating excuse used a million times before by all the other pussy chasers

you hit “delete”, pretend the text was a mistake as you park your minivan and go in for you ass-bleaching appointment, no tears

next day, different doctor for mysterious soft tissue back injury to get that oxy prescription

at least the pills make the boxed wine taste better

two months since you’ve seen hubby’s dick,

Jesus the lawn guy is beginning to look like Erik Estrada now,

just like an old porno, ask him if he’s thirsty, invite him inside

bad carpet, bad music, face back in the pillow

it doesn’t count if you don’t kiss with tongue,

his sweaty hand on the back of your neck

“So this is what is used to be like,” that voice whispers “So this is what it used to be like.”

Ramada Inn Tiki Bar (a poem)

(I wrote this a few years ago when I was staying at a shit hotel near Miami for work)

I ordered a Heineken and immediately I’m an alien.
“No Bud Light? No Miller Light?” They know I’m an outsider.

There are four men at the bar and me the fifth. Everyone smoking except for me. One guy is a New Yorker who recently moved here. Another guy is ex Navy, or so he says. Military guys always make sure everyone around them knows they were in the service.

Then two guys who could be gay, not sure, but they have that red-faced look that only seasoned alcoholics have and they are smiling weirdly at each other after each sip.

The bartender is tall, crack skinny with purple black, long hair and looks like she just came off of a meth binge. Her face is stained with pitted, shaded spots and she has a scar on her neck that probably came from a “dream” of bugs trying to scurry into her brain via her trachea.

The stories start rolling of their tongues like an AA meeting.

“Hello, I’m your bartendress Sylvia. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve been eating cat food for three days. I’ll suck you off for a burger, did you want another beer?”

“Hello my name is Ted, I’m from New York and my accent is fucking annoying and I’m wearing a Yankees shirt and I’m going to suck on this Marlboro Light like it’s a spearmint cock.”

“Hello my name is Sarge and I was in the Navy. I fucked a bunch of slant eyed bitches and you should thank me for your freedom, another Busch Lite please.”

“Hi, it’s me. I’m not pretentious, but holy fuck this is ridiculous. Thank god Karaoke starts at 8.”

I Like Glue in My Coffee

I like glue in my coffee because I’m a white, gangster, mutherfucking bitch.  Fuck the cream and sugar, I rip tags off mattresses bitches.

When my teacher told me not to eat the glue, I stood up at my desk and said, “I don’t need to eat the glue bitch, I like glue in my coffee mutherfucker.”  She sent me to the office and the principal asked me what my problem was.

I told him, “Fuck you honkey, cracker bitch, you wouldn’t understand what it’s like to be a middle-class white kid trying to make a dollar and pass the third grade.  Shit is real in my neighborhood, the HOA is cracking down on people parking on the streets and making my parents keep the landscaping presentable.  That’s why I like glue in my coffee bitch, because it eases the stress.” 

He told me if I had one more outburst that he was going to expel me.

So I replied, “That’s why I like glue in my coffee mutherfucker, because I want to get expelled, go to an alternative school where I will fit in better nigga’.  I’m tired of all these trick ass ho’s trying to make me do math and read and shit.  That’s why I like glue in my coffee.”

outlaw hipster poetry

hipsterpoetryOne universal truth………………. hipsters love their outlaw poetry.

Check it out: Jude the hipster tries outlaw poetry

Hipster Stories is a comedic blog detailing the love story/triangle between Hipster Jude, Clemmy (his love) and Billy Fucking Emo.

Check the site out if you are interested in a ridiculously sarcastic look at the hipster and emo subcultures.  Two subcultures that should absolutely be ridiculed as often as possible.


Malaysian Word Play

I’ve always been intrigued by the word “Malaysia”.  I’m not sure why, but it just sounds a bit cool.  But what really sounds cool to me is when I use the word for other meanings than it’s intended for.

Please enjoy my Malaysian word play:

  • I stepped in a puddle and got some weird Malaysia between my toes
  • I bent my wife over last night and gave her the Nasty Malaysia, she’s so lucky
  • A guy mugged me yesterday outside the 7-11, he said, Hands up bitch, give me all your Malaysia.”  I didn’t know what to do.
  • Breaking news; a Spotted Malaysia escaped from the San Diego Zoo this morning, be on the lookout.
  • Obama stated that a Declining Malaysia is the main problem for the economic downturn.
  • HBO’s new hit show, Dancing With Malaysia, premiers this Sunday
  • Raven said, “That’s So Malaysian

I really have no ill feeling towards Malaysia, but I couldn’t resist.

General Tso, who are you???

Wikepedia describes you as a general who lived in Xiangyin during the 1800’s, yet the dish named after you was never eaten there, nor anywhere else near your city. What gives General? Who are you General? The world wants to know. The “chef’s special” wants to know. The mall food court wants to know who you are.

I would be pissed if I were you, General. Did you not realize that your legacy has been immortalized into bits of deep, fried unidentifiable meat products? Some say chicken. Some say beef. Some say cat or dog. How does that feel General? Being named after odd meats dipped in mono-sodium glutamate filled batter isn’t exactly a royal homecoming. No awards for you General.

What horrible things were you responsible for General? Were you the village idiot? Did you cruise your village playgrounds wearing a creepy overcoat, exposing yourself to all the little generals playing cops and robbers? Or were you the victim of ill timed nepotism? Continue reading