Day 3

Today is like a cigarette,

Warm and nice, with fluffy clouds like little puffs of cigarette smoke.

The birds chirp like cigarettes, only they’re not on fire.

You call me upstairs, like a cigarette, to show me some work you’ve done–

sadly it’s work that doesn’t cause cancer or increase my metabolism, but jewellery to put on ladies.  I don’t respond correctly,

You yell at me for that, but

Like a cigarette, I’m unimpressed, my filter sucking out the most harmful of your words,

the rest tar and nicotine exhaled slowly.  I return downstairs, to see

The pack of cigarettes, which are like cigarettes, with four cigarettes still left,

I look at them and wonder if there’s any Free Will,

They stare at me disapprovingly like middle-aged English women at the pub, the kind who smoke cigarettes,

and exhale disappointment and dispair.

My patch on, but not a patch on them,  I slink away; a crumpled ten-pack, something halfway between

an addict and a stalling tactic.

It will take thousands of years for my cigarettes to decompose, but I’m losing my composure by the minute.


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Special Guest Poet John Osborne

I’m still trying to quit smoking and can’t think and nothing seems inspiring–so here’s some special guest poetry from John Osborne.  He’s funny, and English, and writes funny English people poems.  This one’s about the stifling predictability of middle class life and rampant domestic terrorism.  You can read more of his sweet-ass poetry, or buy one of his many books here.  Do it soon, because he’s pretty much too famous to talk to you now, and that’s only going to get worse.

p.s.  At first I thought this was a poem about men wearing Turkish pastries.  But that’s Baklavas.  There’s a difference.  Anyway, fucking read it.  It’s a good fucking poem.

What if men burst in wearing balaclavas?

by John Osborne

You shout crossword clues
while I iron work shirts.
and and there’s a stack of DVDs we ordered on Amazon
we still haven’t watched.
and Stuart Maconie is on the radio,

you like him
and we’ve skyplus’d The Apprentice
and it’s only two weeks until we go to New York
and the chicken is nearly roasted
and our friends will be here soon
and we’ve a case of red wine to get through

and a massive Toblerone
and Stuart Maconie has just played Whippin’ Picadilly
and if it’s still sunny at eight o’clock
we can drink gin and tonic in the garden
and tell everyone that Katie called this morning
to say she’s getting married in September

but as I sit waiting for our guests to arrive
I can’t help but look at the patio doors,
I imagine an elbow through the glass,
a man holding a gun in your mouth
as I am told to fill a bag with valuables.

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Living Will for an aging Lawrence Hipster

People of Lawrence:

1.  When I die, I am to be buried in my leather jacket and Chuck Taylor converse all-stars, with my PAW albums and my Mac.  Please do not remove any of my piercings. This is vital.  Instruct the mortician not to trim my nails, as their continual growth after my death will be an awesome reminder to everyone who comes to my funeral of their own mortality.  You may apply make-up, but not lipstick.

2. The funeral must be light-hearted, full of life, and above all IRONIC. The funeral should begin approximately forty minutes after the close of the Replay.  I should still have an open 12-pack of PBR in my fridge which may be distributed to the guests.  Guests should arrive late, be on something, and complain about how the funeral scene in Lawrence was much cooler in the 90’s.  At least one guest should be encouraged to piss on the Hearse, and another to vomit somewhere out of the way in the home so that it stays there, unfound, for quite some time.

3. The music during my funeral will be a continual loop of Freebird, which gets louder and louder with each playing.  This, again, is ironic.  Anyone taking it seriously should be asked to leave  and attend a second, more sombre, service at the Mustard Seed Christian Fellowship.  That service will be for someone else.

4. I’d like to start with a closed casket, which opens in time to the music about halfway through the funeral, with a smoke machine and lazer light system inside.  This is less ironic, and more awesome.

5. As I will be cremated, please encourage guests to throw their empty cans, fast food boxes, and weekly recycling in the casket with me.  There’s no reason I can’t help the environment, even after my death.  Organic waste from the funeral should be composted in the backyard.  Please DO NOT let the landlord see you doing this.  I will need the security deposit to pay back my folks.

6. After the funeral, the wake should be held at the Pig, where the sadness of my friends will be countered by an inappropriate gallery display centering around MS Paint drawings of vaginas saying funny things.  There could be cartoon bubbles where they speak.  The vaginas should say nothing about my passing.  Their presence alone will speak volumes.  There should be more vomiting.

7.  I would like my ashes ground into the floor of the following establishments–

*The Bourgeois Pig (Natch)

*Eighth Street Taproom (Good Times.)

*The Piano Bar (IRONICALLY)

*Liberty Hall (Where I worked)

*Pizza Shuttle (Where I worked)

*On the ‘T’ (So at least someone is riding it)

*Borders (Where I worked)

*Fatso’s (Again, IRONICALLY)

*The Set of 1-on-1 Trivia (still IRONICALLY)

*Bagel & Bagel (Where I worked)

*Allen Press (Where I worked)

*And Harbor Lights (if they’ll allow it, as I may still be banned)

8.  In lieu of a set mourning period, I would like all of my friends to be slightly disconcerted for approximately two weeks or until their next payday.  At least one should leave an after-party early (before 3a.m.) feeling “down” about my passing.  Two other friends may recite the following dialogue (while drinking)

A: Hated to see him go.

B: It sucks.

A: It really fucking sucks.

B: To him.

Then drink.

9.  If someone wants to hunt down my ex-girlfriend Anne and punch her in the boob, that would be much appreciated.  Hated her.  She’s probably the reason for this.

10.  Please do not delete my Facebook account, as I relish the idea of you all getting messages that say ‘Reconnect with him’ with my picture on it after I’m gone.  Ha-ha, suckas.

These conditions are all legal and binding, and I will come back and haunt you, ironically, if you don’t adhere to them.

Aging Hipster

Posted from my Iphone

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When we were Pirates

Remember when we were Pirates?


You swung a cutlass, and I cried ‘Yaarrrrr’

At the tide and the swelling sea.

You looked me in the eye,

(the good eye, the one without the patch on it)

And said ‘I suppose it’ll be hard tack for supper again’

And we laughed.


We buried treasure on the island,

and promptly forgot where,

leaving fifteen dead men to guard it.

I want to know where it is now, though, when I need it.

Things matter now that didn’t then, when we were pirates.


On the deck you said to me,

‘Yaaarrr, isn’t this a beautiful sunset.’

It looked the same as every other sunset.

I wish I’d have paid more attention now.


We drank rum in ports,

And chased women and dreams

The women now faded, the dreams more so.

Washed up in the tides and the swell.


They didn’t know whether to hang us or give us medals then,

We sailed in and out of ports with no repercussion

Most of those ports have long since closed down

The medals have tarnished, the nooses frayed.


God what I’d give for a cannonball right now.


Please don’t be upset, but I always hated your parrot.

It didn’t fly off like I said.

It’s at the bottom of the ocean.


I spend these days telling stories about those days.

The pirate days.  They say I have a twinkle in my eye–

(the good eye, the one without the patch on it)

–when I speak of it, but my voice is barnacles and rust, iron gone to rot.


I hear your new crew is stalwart and lusty,

shouts louder than we ever did.

They say you’ve got shanties written about you,

And your name brings dread to all that hear it.


Marks the spot

Of those days we  buried long ago.

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Those Wacky Cultural Differences

Tony Blair on 7/7 —

“It is particularly barbaric this has happened on a day when people are meeting to try to help the problems of poverty in Africa”

George Bush on 9/11 —

“Terror unanswered can not only bring down buildings, it can threaten the stability of legitimate governments. And you know what? We’re not going to allow it.”

Vladimir Putin on 29/3 —

“A crime that is terrible in its consequences and heinous in its manner has been committed…I am confident that law enforcement bodies will spare no effort to track down and punish the criminals. Terrorists will be destroyed.”

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Acrostic Poem to Lord Vader, from the 3rd Grade Class of the Death Star

Large, Black, Shiny Deadly Machine Man

Often Pissed Off in the End,

Respirates very loudly

Drives a TIE Fighter Advanced Proudly

Very Evil Overlord Who

Annihalates the Rebellion

Doesn’t  take no shit lip from no man

Especially Captain Needa, who he chokes to death

Really awesomeness uses the Force for badness.

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Folk Wisdom for the Modern Age

Folk sayings.  We all grew up with them, and our grandparents repeated them over and over again till we wanted to punch them in their geriatric, oatmeal cookie-ish, wrinkled old people faces.  Sure, they’re chalk full of wisdom, but they aren’t exactly relevant to today’s world, now are they?  Here are some brand new Folk Sayings for our Modern World.

The longest journey begins with a single metal detector, a security pat-down, and possibly an anal cavity search.

A Stitch in time will cost you approximately $23,215.53, provided your HMO agrees to co-pay.  Plus the ambulance.

Beauty is in the eye of the holder of the Botox.

A penny saved is worth absolutely nothing.

Every cloud has a silver lining, which conveniently covers up THAT HUGE WHOLE IN THE OZONE YOU MADE.

God helps those that send me a check for $100 so I can build a great church in his name. Ignore that hooker. Can I get an Amen?

What goes around, comes on Tiger Woods.

If at first you don’t succeed, fail miserably, write a self help book, get on Oprah, and tell us all about it.  We’d love it.  Seriously, we fucking would.  Can’t wait.

Necessity is the mother of internet porn.

People who live in glass houses usually also have solar panelling, drive SMART cars, eat vegan, recycle everything, and shit in compost heaps because they’re ‘helping the earth’.  In short, people who live in glass houses are Total Dicks.

The best laid plans of mice and men oft get completely fucked up in the Senate.

The early bird catches AIDS.

An Apple a Day, makes you a pretentious graphic designing bastard.  No one cares about your iPod, your iPhone, or your iPad.  Get a man’s PC, art fag.

If the shoe fits, think fondly of the 8-year old Korean who made it with his little, bloody hands.

A friend in need is a friend who needs you to send him some seeds or something stupid thing on Farmville and keeps posting about it.  God, hate him!  Hate Farmville.  Stop sending me things, Nelson!  Tard.

A fool and his money are soon leading a war on Iraq.

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