for John Derbyshire
Your chocolates won’t make me
love you.
And your card, a blot of insincerity
scratched in
Colored ink, makes my teeth itch.
So please —
Give it a rest, would you? And fetch
me a Coors?
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Back where I come from (Wyoming), we call Coors rocky mountain horse piss.
Fuggin Colorado queer.
Oh, and would you be my Valentine?
INKIST!!!!
All beer is for fags, real men go to places where they serve hard drinks for men who want to get drunk fast, and don’t have any characters around to give the joint “atmosphere”.
Wow, that’s maybe the most pathetic of all the pathetic “literary” offerings I’ve seen on this site. It’s like it was written by some paste-eating moron with pretensions…
Hamsters are funny
Just saying “Nyah, Nyah!” would have save keystrokes and bandwidth, Retardo.
Any luck with the ugly chicks and your…ummm…”poetry” yet?
End of March. CIRCLE YOUR CALENDARS!
stoners hog the bench
yo-boy plays with cat
i ask him if this is bullshit
or legit
but he doesnt answer
little black kids come
out with their mommy
they are impeccably
dressed and adorable
ready to conquer school
nappy girl shows too
much cleavage
to my delight
she was awakened for
sure
two slim figures come out
dark and clingy
they are lovers
i was once as he is
in that very space
the gay guy stares
as per usual
i’d talk if he weren’t
so far over there
the elderly lady is
behind me
with her cat
she is friendly and trusting
i am a windshield
i shiver and think of mila
in the rain
— excerpted from “Fire Alarm” by
Retardo MontalbanHTML MenckenJesus, how that makes my soul ache!
jake
You’ve never watched The Quiet Man?
I think jake would ask you if you’ve never watched It’s a Wonderful Life, Darleen
oh boy
Actually, Jeff, at the risk of some sort of blasphemy, I don’t particulary like It’s a Wonderful Life and make pains to avoid it during the Christmas season.
Give me The Duke and Victor McLaglen
spending upwards of 15 minutes bashing out each other’s teeth across the Irish countryside, interrupted by pints of porter
There’s masculinity on a platter.
Oh, I love Quiet Man. And it’s my wife’s favorite movie.
She, too, doesn’t like It’s A Wonderful Life—though that is because she has an unnatural dislike for Jimmy Stewart.
I only brought it up because most of the line Jake used comes from that movie.
I only brought it up because most of the line Jake used comes from that movie.
Ah! No wonder I didn’t recognize it.
And your wife is a woman of fine taste, Jeff. My hope is that you two had a wonderful Valentine’s day.
Well, she fell asleep in front of the fire, and I wrote a silly poem while—ha!—drinking Guinness.
All I need now is a red head to drag along behind me and the night will be complete.
Oh for the days of yore……..
The first time I saw “Wonderful Life” about 30 years ago, I caught the last half hour and couldn’t make head nor tail of it. Then I saw it later and liked it, I thought it set up the last half hour beautifully. Plus, Donna Reed was quite beautiful as a young woman.
However, the movie has suffered from complete overkill in the intervening decades.
I didn’t like “Quiet Man” because I never thought Maureen O’Hara was attractive. Well, that’s part of it.
I thought the second poem Jeff wrote was actually pretty good. I have no idea what he has with Darbishure.
When I drink, I usually go straight shots of cheap rye, followed by show shots of good whiskey. Beer is occasional only. Coors is a very nice beer.
the “serve drinks and get drunk fast” line was delivered by Sheldon Leonard, of course.
Darleen: Kudos on the Absolut ad. Nicely done.
Am I free associating enough?
steve —
The “second” poem isn’t mine. It’s from one the guys at SN! And it’s so goddawful that it makes me cringe for white people everywhere.
Lots.
But to each his own, I guess.
Well, I was taking into consideration the fact that you were drunk at the time of composition. What the hell is SN? Also, in my defense, I thought the poem was ironic.
Reminds me of an old New Yorker cartoon: two guys are in a theater, they are crying, and everyone else is laughing their heads off. The one guy turns to the other and says, “You mean, this is SATIRE?”
“Quiet Man”–eh.
“Big Jake” and “True Grit”–now THERE’S the Duke.
SN! = Sadly, No!—a leftwing attack site who is proud to claim me as one of its chief targets.
And no, the poem’s author was deadly earnest—though he often uses irony as a safety net.
But if you dig it, send him a few bucks. Support the arts, my brother.
John Derbyshire would have to offer a lot more than just chocolates and a card to make me love him.
A huge pile of cash, with no strings attached, would be a nice start.
What’s else? Well, I want to see him dance with the armadillo, as I think that panzer rat will whup Derbyshire’s ass but good. Besides, we’ll finally get to see the armadillo dance.
As an incentive, I’ll split the cash with the armadillo, and throw in a case of Everclear, a dozen or so cans of frozen grape juice, three bag of ice, a package of plastic cups, and a brand new 55 gallon garbage can. That’s what we used as the primary source of mixed drinks for college parties. It ain’t the mixed drinks one sees in the bar, but after 3 drinks, your tongue is numb, killing all tastebuds, so who cares?
Queers, cats, old ladies and putrid imagery. For a moment I thought I was in the presence of that master of the quill, Jack “Fat Boy” Goff.
As mainstream American beers go I always rated Coors higher than most.
Well, I appreciate your poem for the absurd humor. SN’s poem might have nice rhythm, but it is all style and no substance. Why is he the windshield? Is being a solid sheet of glass the only way he can momentarily not be full of anything, esp. shit?
I think its an okay poem, but only on the surface. Since it isn’t employed for humor, you can tell how shallow the guy is.
That’s just my opinion. But writing a love poem to, of all people, Mr. Derbyshire? Hah, priceless.
???
Jeff, you didn’t cringe hard enough. I doubled over in a mix of laughter and dry heaves. That was really someone’s effort at “poetry”? Lord Byron may continue to rest easy in the grave.
PS: I wrote my own (just a general poem) for a special lady:
The Song of the Heart
A word doesn’t describe it
Though it is written
The eye can’t see it
Though it is seen
The hand cannot touch it
But tactile it is
The mind cannot conceive it
But dwells on it always
The man cannot do it
And continually it is done
The woman cannot hold it
And grasps it just the same
It was never born
Yet lives it on
It cannot die
Yet a word ends it
A bond it is
And liberty
And gravity
And labor
And life;
It is-
Love.
(Kind of sappy, I know. But cut me a break.)
My ex was a great poet… but he was a lousy husband. My husband (I hate saying “my second husband,” because it always seems to me to imply that there’ll be more) is a perfect husband, or as close as God chooses to create for this mortal coil, in every way that counts, which doesn’t have to include poetry if all the other pieces are functional. (Poetry is a bonus. I love poetry. But I don’t demand it.)
Of course, he still suffers from hysterical blindness concerning socks left on the floor and dishes in the sink, but he makes all the phone calls I hate to make, puts the seat down (AND the lid!), makes terrific coffee (once received a proposal of marriage from an oil rig hand for the coffee he made in an ancient percolator that had probably never been cleaned or de-scaled), and doesn’t complain when I sing along with the radio.
I think Derb is too busy ogling the 16 year old grocerystore checkout girl with perky tits to fetch you a beer, Jeff.
You say that like it’s a bad thing.