The Presidential Ball

Look around the room,

THIS is fancy.

My caviar is

glistening in the finest oils,

my oils are glistening

on the finest abs,

and my abs are just

glistening.

THIS is fancy.

Half the men are wearing

suspenders and the other half

are talking with monocles

attached to their face

with nothing but they're there nevertheless.

THIS is fancy.

Where all good and cordial ladies

are wearing hoop skirts

you could fit a grain silo under

and where my mothers talking to the mayor

and the mayor is smoking a cigar-

not listening to what my mother is saying.

THIS is fancy.

Here the drinks are flowing

like the Exon vel Deeze and

the governor is sharing a drink

with the president when my mother, again,

fails to edge her way into the fancy conversation.

THIS is fancy.

So gird your loins

and bite your thumb

and for god sakes somebody

talk to my beautiful mom,

because THIS is fancy

and my mother can't get a word in edge wise.

 

A Holy Connection To Jesus And Savings

Thrift stores, consignment shops, donation bins, walk-in-closets,

they all invite me in with a “WOO LAWD!”

type of welcome

and an itchy pseudo-crotchless sorta smile,

that feels good at first,

then a little weird,

but then...

“Holy crap, is this shirt only 50 cents?”

“Nice.”

I feel an almost spiritual connection to thrift stores.

As if I'm the lone wooden toggle on their corduroy pants.

As if I'm the only thing separating them from utter pants-less-ness.

When I walk into a thrift store I feel like I should have been born

there every single time, like I'm a virgin baby plucked out of a hamper of dusty grandpa coats.

I was born to shop with frugality, I was made to comb these aisles,

I was fabricated to tap into these sales, just look at these platform shoes!

God damn! So fresh!

I mean they'll fit,

they just need some tissue paper in the front,

and the back, but that's okay,

my foot will be encased in softness-

like an angel's whisper between my toes,

and that's a good thing!

What's not, however, are the fickle hands

of time on a glass door

who say,

“Better luck next time,”

or

“Sorry we're closed,

but I accept these like

lover's quirks and have grown

to admire them even,

as the fastidious treasure hunter does

who always has his eyes on the prize.

“Your only open from 9:00 – 9:25?”

I ask Sister McGinty,

“Jesus himself couldn't make this unholy schedule!”

“I beg the lord, the almighty in heaven, somebody bless me with a workable timeframe!”

“Grant me extra time so that I may buy these sequin pants you have!”

“So that I may buy them and walk in the garden of their splendor!”

“Can I get an amen, SISTAH MCGINTY!”

“Well,” she replies

while handing me the pants,

“Jesus wasn't no punk.”

 

Baby Gladiator

New-born babies

birthed with helmets

boots,

and spears.

Oh Baby Gladiator

you weren't forced to march

with the others.

You weren't stolen from your crib

and gently placed here.

You crawled here

on your own acord,

But tell me, baby,

how do you expect

to wield the mighty flail?

Will your juvenile sprints

be able to evade the lions'

fangs?

What is it you want

Baby Gladiator?

Whose stunted gaze

do you wish to catch?

Or is it just for the

prize of pulverized

peas you fight?

If I'm to be honest, Baby Gladiator,

we all thought you

a scholar,

a Baby Gladiator of intellect,

one who would help,

not hinder,

but if you'd rather just

wave your broadsword at me

then fight,

fight Baby Gladiator.

Taste the milk of victory!

Gorge on the organic

Sesame Street Cookies of combat!

Tonight you'll be throwing

up on my shoulder.

Love In A Diner

In a diner “Systematically” has no boundaries but I can only fill up 14

little-syrup-bottles with this measly amount of sugary-sweetness! We need more syrup!

My boss went home, but he wrote a note in case this happened. It says:

If you run out of syrup

please examine the following:

The window-rabbit store-display.

The pancake reflected in the mirror indefinitely.

The inside of a home-fried-potato.

All things in order and perfectly arranged

like the stars where Copernicus found the schematics

to the universe.

Love, Carl

True love is a clean microwave for Carl, but this thing is beyond any galaxy of grime.

It has caked on loops of estranged pancakey-syrup-spray, and speckled in its stars along the outer-rim is a pizza-chip-casserole like some failed experiment to prove the big-bang theory.

I took all the precautions too, but Aunt Jemima must have sludged her way in before closing

for a contest with some Marshmallow-Peeps and Stove-Top-Gravy

because, since then the Palmolive-Hand-Soap has been applied in VEIN!

I mean I've tried: hand-soap, lip-balm, club-soda, tooth-paste and bleach, systematically, in order,

but the hotbox is still smelling.

If only my astrologer boss would come back; I'd ask for his “schematics to the universe.”

 

The Swimmer

I come from a family of swimmers so as soon as I could walk it was: “Give him the Speedo, he's doing it.”

No time for wading slowly, you think there's time for slow wading?

You have to dive son! Dive!

Let that water rush up your nose, get really deep and philosophical,

and then break the surface with a chlorinated belch. That's how it's done!

Now son look at Sandy. Look how Sandy's doing it.

nice flutter-kick Sandy! Way to go Sandy!

Academic Achievement Award for Sandy!

Successful lemonade business for Sandy!

Blow jobs for Sandy!

I always loathed Sandy because she too came from a family

of swimmers, but, she was really good.

I was always the little buoy of swim class.

Rotund and ever-floating all you needed to do was look for

the sonar blip with love handles and you found me,

but Sandy, she was like an underwater Gazelle!

She had grace and speed but an antelope without predators is like an

armadillo without a shell and when she'd shed her modesty

at the front door all I wanted to do was roll her into a Lion's den.

So one especially boring day I concocted a scheme,

a “naturally selective” scenario that would weed out the wicked

and slap Sandy in her little swimming cap.

I'd do a stunt so stupendously stupid it would demand some swift population control,

turning me from the deep-sea blip I was to a deep-sea Rhinoceros in one dazzling display.

I called it the “Rambi Flip” and it was ready to pounce, and when it did

it roared like a Lion, sprinted full stride, bared it's fangs, and was merciless.

It was truly a sight to behold.

One of those acts of violence that elicits a response from even the most seasoned tour guides

as they try to console the bystanders.

“It's all part of nature children,”

“It's the natural order of things.”

“The perpetual give and take, some might call it.”

I think some would disagree but since then I doubt

The diving board has ever seen such a display of visceral carnage as

when my banana hammocked carcass veered off course and

landed right on Sandy mouth agape, eyes widened,

bracing herself for the rhino's charge.

 

Arcade Adventure

Though it's something that seems antiquated,

out of date, and trite, I took a trip to

an arcade last week and it was...

well, it was totally rad.

I'm eternally infatuated with arcades,

with all those flashing lights.

It's a place that really speaks

to me, using words like

"Bleep," and "Bloop,"

to communicate.

"Oh, you had me had "Bleep Bloop Bloop Bleep,"

video arcade,

"Let's go back to my place and you can feed me crullers."

They're such a throwback,

these digital dungeons,

like real-life time machines.

They take you to a time long ago,

a mystical era, the 80's,

to a time that I wasn't

even around to experience,

but I can only assume was...

well, totally rad.

Nostalgia runs rampant at these dimly lit play stations,

the few that survive at least,

and they pulsate with passion,

standing like castle sentries

against the vast array of couch potato

mentalities that suggest basement cave-dwelling

is a better way to spend an afternoon.

What are you thinking?

Public cave-dwelling exists in arcades!

At least it did!

Why does everyone have to so solitary now?

So alone? Can't they share? Can't they be passionate in a public setting?

Not just some internet alias over a headset in Cambodia?

Maybe that's why arcades went out of style. Cambodia.

I pondered the fate of the mystical video arcade a lot during

my trip last week, and as I passed through the automatic doors on the way out,

pit-stains aglow, I think I'd figured it out.

In essence, the reason is, Xbox is just...

well, it's just totally rad.

 

The Wheel

I think the wheel is an invaluable invention

and I'll tell you why.

There are wheels on my town's taco truck,

and my town's taco truck rocks!

This truck will creep out of the shadows

to serve me Mexican cuisine;

It's one of those things like Sasquatch,

when you're looking for it, it will never show itself,

but when your down on your luck

face in the gutter, it'll be there,

like Sasquatch.

It's a pretty special phenomenon,

my towns taco truck,

and it's all thanks to the wheel.

I think the wheel doesn't get the credit it deserves,

and I'll tell you why I feel this way,

their are funny puns based off of the word wheel.

Like, when somebody asks,

"Hey, Ian you going to hunt down the elusive Taco Truck tonight?"

I can say, "I wheel."

Or when someone asks, are you going to finish that guacamole spread,

I can respond, "You bet I wheel,"

Or even when somebody asks me something serious and morbid like,

"Ian, your grandmother, she might not make it,

I assume you'll be there to pull the plug if she needs it,

I can retort, "I wheel..."

And I wood! And that's wood with two "O's,"

but that's just another contribution the wheel has rolled on to the

world...puns.

When it comes down to it, I think the wheel may be the most invaluable invention man has ever sculpted, and granted their are sculptors who have actually sculpted actual sculptures.

The wheel is just so much more outspoken than those.

I mean the statue of David, the Mother of Russia, the little mermaid- even though her film was amazing- I think the wheel is more modest and radiant in design than all those combined.

I'll tell you why the wheel has a special place in my heart, and that's roller derbies...

roller derbies and monster truck shows.

These are two sports that I've never participated in, but

have frequently watched, and lemme tell you- as the guy in the back of the bleachers eating

a chimichanga and acting very excited, I think I have the authority to say

the wheel rocks.

Laundry Time

It's Laundry Time!

And I'm thinking one solid load will do it.

Because one load will have to do it, because one dollar (and 25 cents) is all I have.

It's Laundry Time! And a rare occasion, because I am incapable of washing my clothes

when they're not melting disgusting.

I need mustard stains, and kidney beans for Laundry Time;

I want my clothes edible and delicious when I wash them

Because it's Laundry Time!

And when it's Laundry time the stupid machine doesn't

accept my nickles, dimes and pennies, or my excuses, or my folding songs.

And because it's laundry time my mother's eyes twinkle

with a “look at my little man” sort of pride

but my pants don't smell as good as they used to.

And they don't dry all the way through like they should.

So no, that's not my skirt,

this isn't math class,

it's Laundry Time!

And this things intake valve just caught on fire!

And nobody else is around to put it out, so during

Laundry Time

I have to put out an intake valve fire

or die?

Nobody wants to die during laundry time.

Just think of that obituary.

So I hum a tune, the Andy Griffith theme song,

and the lumpy women next to me grabs my

ass in shivering delight, really cupping it,

and I pretend I don't like it.

Laundry time makes me angry and spiteful towards wonderful displays of affection.

And I think it's because when it's Laundry time

all my other chores become these little badgers on my back,

that just rip out the cotton fibers of my freshly picked flannel,

and any pride my mom had becomes lost with my favorite pair of linen slacks.

It's Laundry Time but I couldn't feel

more naked, and as my car tire flattens under

my load of flower scented undies

that women, that woman with rope fingers

and love handles approaches and

asks me if I need a ride home.

All I can do is nod and say, “It's Laundry Time!”

 

The Red Cross

When I was first contacted,

I enthusiastically responded.

I wanted to do my part.

Be a Samaritan.

Be a nice guy.

I wanted to be the guy

I told people I was;

selfless, caring,

an altruistic bon vivant,

a guy covered in humility,

like a waiter with carpel tunnel syndrome

serving humble pie.

I wanted to show up,

show no pain,

and show myself I was shiny,

but now I'm getting called twice

a day and so I offer this advice:

Watch out for the Red Cross,

cause they're always out for blood.

Committing Crime!

Dunkin Donuts Dumpster Dive.

I almost didn't make it

out of this one alive.

First we turned the car off,

then we scouted out a path,

but then it sucked

because I had to jump

into the dumpster after

that.

I was like “Awww, gross, a dumpster!”

and I distinctly remember landing funny,

sort of backwards on my spine,

and I remember thinking to myself:

“This place smells like a years worth of crusty old bagels,”

“I can't believe I'm crouching in a dumpster

and it's only like 7:49.”

Then the cops showed up,

like a minute later too,

so I guess we never really had a chance,

and as the man with the shades

grabbed my friend in a daze,

I sugared and creamed my pants.

Getting Down To Brass Tacks

Getting down to brass tacks

is something I do, occasionally,

I think,

but I never treat it lightly.

You should never immediately go

down to brass tacks,

use discretion you filthy animal.

Here's a scenario:

We're building a boat,

I say:

“pass me my sandwich.”

No see you failed the test.

Boat builders live for their lunches,

by handing me my sandwich

we just got down to brass tacks.

Try again, let's arm wrestle.

Nope, your totally stupid, by agreeing

to a friendly arm wrestling match

you lose!

We're both dudes,

all we do is Arm Wrestle all day long:

That's brass tacks,

you just brought it

down to brass tacks.

What happens when

something loses all its meaning,

when it becomes warped

beyond recognition?

I think it sounds like “Getting Down to Brass Tacks.”

But you can't judge all

Brass Tacks by the color

of their elephant and you can't

talk to me, when I'm talking about

brass tacks because I just won't listen.

So let's just do it, let's just

get down to brass tacks,

all right?

You drove me to it,

I didn't want to, but,

I'll get the pineapple,

you get the turtle,

and we'll get down to brass tacks.

The Forboding Nugget

The end of the world is a foreboding nugget

at the back of everybody’s minds like

an itchy foot.

No telling when it’s going to happen,

or how.

If by leaky earth fluid spitting out into space,

or by too much pressure built up

underneath the crust.

Implosion or explosion.

eggbeater uprising or chaotic conga line gone too far.

Nothings written in stone, and if it were

It’d be gone with the rest when the moon hits the earth;

exiled under molten explosions,

torrential tide spouts,

and electrical surges.

Some scientists say that

The Earth is need of a cataclysmic impact.

That since our last one, every year gone by increases

the indefinitely high percentage of another extinction.

I hope a barbeque is my final resting place.

With my mother’s spicy chicken recipe

seared onto my skin like a tattoo

and our family pooch named Scooter by my side.

My father can be playing the banjo,

my grandmother playing cards,

and I can be humoring my uncle Steve,

laughing at some stupid jokes.

Then, that way, when the apocalyptic prophets cry:

“Here it comes! Embrace your loved ones!”

I can finally rid myself of the foreboding nugget

in a style all my own.

The Different Sequence

First I heard them say, "Let's save the whales!"

Then I heard them say, "Let's stop world hunger!"

Then I heard them say, "Let's eat the whales!"

Then I heard them say, "Whoa, wait, eat the whales?"

Then I heard them say, "Yeah! Eat the whales!"

Then I heard them say, "No, you can't eat the whales!"

Then I heard them say, "Yes, yes you can eat the whales!"

Then I heard a crunching sound in my ear drums.

This was a heated debate.

It happened right this morning while I was eating breakfast.

At such an unholy hour I became trapped in a triangle of aquatic mammalian tension.

My outlook looked grim just looking at it.

I remember dabbling on a bunch of different ways to include myself.

I could be the guy that yells, the guy that repeats what others have said in different ways,

the guy that whispers, or even the guy that gets really into moving his arms while he talks.

I was thinking that maybe with the proper timing I could drop

some tact filled quote of famous dead guy origins;

but in the end that just seemed like trap.

I knew the inevitable conclusion anyway.

It would turn out like all the others.

Like the diabolic discussion about protecting the polish,

the dreadful discourse on prohibition,

and the spicy speech on pro-abortion that came before it.

I had nearly resigned myself to this same old sequence too,

silently chomping away at my cheerios,

when all of a sudden the free speech inside of me manifested itself

into a cloud of righteous-protest-energy.

As sporadically as the conversation was created

I was bestowed with the power I needed to stand up

and convey my thoughts on the subject.

So I did just that, and before I knew it I was ordering pancakes,

two miles away, at a Denny's. It was stimulating.