Tag Archives: kansas

F*ck You, I’m from Kansas, now in 3-D

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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.
Signed,

Aging Hipster

Posted from my Iphone

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Scots, Emos, and the Pig: Och Aye!

This little ditty was written about a frenemy of mine who used to hang out at the Bourgeois Pig and chain smoke while wearing black and bitching about life.  You know who you are.  Hope you’re well.  It’s written in the style of Robert Burns because I was reading a lot of Burns lately cause I’m one-sixteenth Scottish, and that means I’m tight with the kilt klan.  If you don’t like it, suck a haggis.

Melancholy Bitch

Will Averill, after Burns

“She grew up on depression, Zoloft and tae Cure,

Wore all black loike aye witch,

She ne’er quite made it Aut ah Junior High School

Och, Aye, she’s a Melancholy Bitch.


Now she’s din Art, And chain smokes GPC’s,

Her voice ah gravely, monotonous pitch,

And tae man keeps her daun,

And tae music scene’s dead

Life’s hard on a Melancholy Bitch.

Dae nae cry fae her

As she fucking dinnae want ye pity,

Just hair dye and 70’s kitch,

One momentary glance,

Intae sallow eyes, reminds ays,

That she’s nowt but ay Melancholy Bitch.”

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Ten Businesses from Lawrence I Miss–Not a Poem

Wherein the author of some of the poems reflects upon his youth, and the places in Lawrence he hungout therein, and then upon the worst of those places, and then ends it premature lament to the eventual demise of the author’s favorite business in the world.

Ahhh, old school Lawrence.  Back in the days when Iowa Street was on the outskirts of town, there was only one Lawrence High School, we didn’t HAVE a T, and Central was, actually, central, instead of squarely in the heart of the ghetto.  Sure, reminiscence is a dangerous thing, but gahddamn I miss these places.

10. Paradise Cafe –Home of Paradise Eggs Benedict, possibly the perfect breakfast food.  No frills, no perks, just good food in a yuppie diner atmosphere.   Sure it got run down after a while, but for eight or nine years Paradise Cafe was the place to see and be seen for the breakfast set.  It’s little pink bastard step-brother, Milton’s, with eighteen types of coffee and purposefully disaffected staff is just one sign of the complete pussification of Lawrence which occurred around the same time we let people from Topeka and Kansas City build spore housing on Wakarusa Street.

9. New Yorker—I couldn’t tell you how the pizza was, my guess was pretty run of the mill, but no one went for the pizza.  No, we went to stick quarters the fuck in video games.  I came for Sinistar, but stayed for Cliffhanger, and Dragon’s Lair.  I had a date there once with my first grade teacher, when I was still in first grade.  I don’t think she took it as seriously as I did, but then I didn’t take her as seriously as my score on Mrs. Pac Man.

8.  The House of Hunan—Chinese on 23rd Street?  No one expected that.  The House of Hunan did move a few times, like a Room of Requirement filled with illegal aliens, but they did Hot and Sour soup like nobody’s business.  My fifth grade teacher took me on a date there.  I think he was more serious about it than I was.  He’s in prison now.

7. Lucifers—Apparently an old apartment building on 9th consumed by fire, or another Gate To Hell, Lucifers was the ultimate adolescent playground.  Filled with the detritus of people much older and cooler than us –used condoms, beer cans, cigarette butts, and charming yet Satanic graffiti, it was perfect for a late night wander promising just a hint of the chance of death.  It’s now a set of apartment buildings, most likely filled with used condoms, beer cans, cigarette butts, and graffiti, but at least it has a roof now.

6. Taco Johns downtown—Couldn’t tell you how man Potato Oles met their fate to my greasy, teenage mouth after school on Mondays, but I’m guessing it numbered thousands.  Looking suspiciously like one of my college theatre professors, Taco John welcomed Junior High kids with his cheery pseudo-Hispanic gut and leering smile, always with a big plate of tacos.  Always.  It’s a fish bar now.  Insert Fish Taco joke here.

5. The Old Arts Center—I know it’s still around, but nobody goes in, and nobody comes out.  The old Carnagie Library was home to more theatrical ventures than I can name, starting with Summer Youth Theatre, where the boys ceremoniously urinated in the boiler room, and the girls dipped their girl parts in paint and made wall decoupage.  Convienently located near the train park for late night excursions and deadly injuries.

4. Vista Burger—No burger joint like it anymore.  You can bleat about Hayes, or Five Guys, or that place on Vermont all you want, I still don’t care what you say.  Vista Burger was the best.  Ever. Anyone who’s had a Vista Burger Birthday Party will agree.  Just one question—what the fuck was the mascotty Vista thing, and did anybody else think he looked like a cartoon drawing of an STD?

3.  Hole in the Wall Deli—I think it’s currently Rick’s Place, it had the best sloppy Joe in town for years, everything came wrapped in healthy, environmentally friendly tin foil, and with a gigantic slice of pickle, and served by big, smelly, hairy men.  Manly men.  The kind of men who would gladly kill the cow, and grind the meet between their teeth to make the Sloppy Joe beef, while smoking a cigarette.  Made Round Corner Cheese Shop look like a bunch of chumps.

2. Jennings Daylight Donuts—A big part of my youth died with the closing of Jennings Daylight Donuts, where the Chocolate Long John, and Apple Fritter made up a major part of my breakfast for years.  I could eat four or five Jennings Daylight Donuts in a sitting, and wind up feeling majorly ill.  In one of the most mis-informed business changeovers in the history of Lawrence, in my humble opinion, it was converted into a brewery, where I could drink four or five glasses of beer, and wind up feeling majorly ill.  Stick to donuts, people.  Please.

1. G. Willikers—Sure, I’m biased.  But you could get food, you could get cigarettes, and you could get beer.  Best part, if you worked there, you could get it all on a tab, which is why I ended up working for two weeks after I got fired to pay off my bar tab.  If the New Yorker was the go to place of my kidhood, and Taco Johns of the teenage years, G. Willikers was where I spent those formative late/post college years.  Amazing Reuben’s, and ladies got filmed in the bathrooms for FREE*.  How’s that for a wild night out!  *(for a limited time only)

Honourable mention needs to go to:

Tin Pan Alley—the alleyway entrance promised something illicit, and inside the hot wings delivered.

Bucky’s—the food was crap, but it was Old School Lawrence.

Cinema Twin—where I saw Red Sonja in all her glory.  Home of my first date, with Julia, where we went to see Mannequin, and then dad drove us home, where she proceeded to ignore me as she got out of the car.  Later had movies for a dollar.  ONE DOLLAR.  Now a Kohls, or Best Buy, or Home Depot, or some other boring, suburban shithouse department store.  Lookout charm and heritage—here comes Horizon 2020!

The Cafe in Woolworths—best grilled cheese sandwiches ever.

That Hot Dog Place on Vermont Street that only didn’t get in this list because I can’t remember it’s name. (Great American Hot Dog?) –Kept the relish and onions in big buckets on a condiment table, and I would eat them raw.  I was eight.  Dad was drinking.  Nobody knew.  Good times.

And finally, the Thank God You’re Gone, We Won’t Miss You At All Awards—

The Giant Racist North Lawrence Teepee—Don’t know what it did, or where it came from, but coming right off Highway 24, you couldn’t miss it.  Welcome to Lawrence, home of Haskell, and stunning fucking cultural sensitivity.

The Schoolhouse—Another of North Lawrence’s finest, a really shit dance club.  I only went there once.  Once was all it took.

The Other Jennings Daylight Donuts on 23rd Street—like the one on Mass, but with no charm.  Custard creams?  Fuck you.

FantasyLand—where I was supposed to go as a youth to get conditioned to bad 80’s music and to come to terms with a personal romantic style that would later be termed ‘fumbling at best’, it’s sad that it’s gone and all, but at least I don’t have to be reminded of my pathetic past everytime I drive down Iowa.  Now also a Kohl’s, or Best Buy, or some shit.  Thanks Horizion 2020!

Last Call—Obvious, but thank fuck that’s gone.  Now if they could get rid of that Piano Bar.

Someday, the Bougeois Pig may go, and at that point my heart will die, and I’ll sever all ties with Lawrence, until then, this remains my fond farewell to bidnesses past.

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F*ck You, I’m from Kansas

This here’s a little rant I came up with after hearing people in England complain about two to three inches of snow.

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FUCK YOU, I’M FROM KANSAS

Two inches of snow in Norwich and this city shuts down.

“There just isn’t enough grit!”

Fuck You, I’m from Kansas

Where grit comes from the inside

Where blizzards bury children in as little as eight minutes

And you just deal with it.

Socialized health care?

Fuck You, I’m from Kansas

If you get cut, you die.  Simple as that.

Sure, we’ll pray for ya’ll, but that’s about it.

We buried pa in a field by the Kaw River after the rustlers came,

And ma died while trying to birth that calf, kicked in the head to death,

Little sister was bitten fifty-two times by a rattlesnake before she managed to bite off it’s head, and we couldn’t afford the antidote cause the cattle died of blight.

The poison still courses through her veins today.  Makes her mean.

And when the well ran dry, fifteen kids tripped and fell into it

Cute little blonde-haired blue-eyed kids,

Like the kind you save in movies

Movies that are never set in Kansas

And as they fell to their tiny deaths

We just watched.

Health and Safety?

Fuck You, I’m from Kansas

I went to school in a class of four hundred

Only eight of us are still alive

We couldn’t find Billy Ray after that twister got him.

He’s probably somewhere in Missouri

Or Ohio

Or maybe Iowa.

Or maybe bits of him in all three.

Did we miss him, yup,

But Fuck You, I’m from Kansas

It’s just part of God’s plan

We just got color in ’94, before that, everything was black and white

Except the people, they were just white.

I’m not racist, Fuck You, I’m from Kansas.

When the Indians come

You’ve got to circle the wagons to survive

I learned to dodge arrows from an early age

In the grim light of the campfire and smoke signals.

The smoke signals crying out “Get the fuck outta Kansas.”

Because Kansas was named after the Kansa Indians.

Before we shot them.

Fuck you, Indians, this is our Kansas.

Nineteen of my friends died of dysentery,

Cholera got the other six

My Facebook page reads like the book of the dead

The dead of Kansas.

I cried once, when I was two, and pa punched me in the face

Fuck you, son.  We don’t cry.  Not in Kansas.

Nothing tastes better in Kansas than pain.

We like our women to have teeth

But it doesn’t always work out that way

You don’t always get what you want in Kansas.

In the Kansas winter people freeze to death, and in the summer they die of heat stroke

The spring brings tornadoes which kill thousands and destroy our livelihood and our precious trailer homes.

Fall’s cool, though, in Kansas, fall’s cool.

If you don’t drink a case and a half of Pabst Blue Ribbon a day

Fuck you, get out of Kansas.

If you don’t stop at the titty bar along the highway

Fuck you, get out of Kansas.

You can’t be queer in Kansas, or that’s a shootin’.

Our capital, Topeka, is built of sticks and mud.

We added a brick once, and the whole thing fell over.

Forty thousand people died.

So we just started again.

Fuck you, I’m from Kansas.

I graduated at the top of my class in Kansas because I went to the library and read the book.

Now I’m governor.  Governor of fucking Kansas.

So when the snow comes next, and ya’ll English are trying to push your faggoty French cars out your ever-so-slightly frosted over roads, don’t come whining to me.

I’ve seen it all.  On the cold, cold prairie.

Fuck you, I’m from Kansas.

 

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