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Ode to Bromantic Moments

Posted: August 5th, 2010 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | 1 Comment »

You and your friends, imbibing at your favorite establishment,

The perfect place for enjoying times well spent.

Like singing in unison to your favorite song,

Or noticing a tigress with an enchanting thong.

But sometimes things can get out of hand,

Where you find yourself the next morning trying to understand.

What did we discuss and what was said?

I recall emotionally putting my arm around Ted.

And sharing with him the story of how he saved my life.

When I was stuck in the middle of a shame spree of strife.

Did I really tell him, “You touched my heart, you freakin’ care,

I will always remember that, I love you, Big Bear.”?

Yet what’s so wrong about a little fraternal affection?

You try to reason to yourself while you’re deep in reflection.

It was a slip of the tongue, nothing more, nothing less

All you did was completely mutilate your rugged manliness.

The first print ad written in complete nonsense.

Posted: May 18th, 2010 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | 3 Comments »


Welcome to a place where fleet jowls lashing fib meek.


That’s because urchin icky pip lynch.


We don’t skimp on the onyx February mission fort. No, we’re all about flagellating industry mantis, that grows porpoise jelly gym. Rest assured, magma nickel practice pixie trinket. So when you’re leaking nibble wreckage lipstick, head on to a parchment fissure riblet goo. Litmus winnow pike.


Wrinkle lapse. For pineapple tint flat.

My Beautiful Bionic Commando

Posted: January 13th, 2010 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Comments Off

We started out on the run,

Fleeing an exploding building.

I looked at Spence and said this is fun,

But he just said something about dual-wielding.

He shot a guy in the leg, a soldier from the Empire of Badds.

That guy tried to laser my face,

But my Spence put him back in his place. Stupid Imperial spazz.

And in that moment I realized:

He was beautiful,

My very own Bionic Commando.

He had a retractable arm

And tactical charm

A half-man half-cyborg Rambo.

So we came upon a ledge,

but luckily we didn’t fall off the edge.

The next platform we were trying to reach didn’t look that far

So I told Spence lets jump, it won’t be hard.

He looked at me and laughed, and just then his Bionic arm attached

itself to a post-looking thing, he grabbed me and we began to swing.

And in that moment, I realized:

He was beautiful,

My very own Bionic Commando.

He had a retractable arm

And tactical charm

A half-man half-cyborg Rambo.

We got back to the Federation alive,

And Spence told me to wait inside.

I calmly obliged while he debriefed his superiors outside

His arm looked so shiny, his face worn, yet brave

We did what we came to do, and we didn’t have to hit save.

Spence stopped the bad guys and I got to come along for the ride.

What a great time, me and my beautiful Bionic Commando.

I heard you talking about me after I left the elevator.

Posted: January 6th, 2010 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | 2 Comments »

These closing walls have ears.

And eyes.

Because I installed a web cam in there last week so I can see what you’re saying about me any time I want.


A song that Cake or Weezer or Jonathan Coulton should sing.

Posted: September 11th, 2009 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | 3 Comments »

I’m a normal guy, graduated from college in 2005
Don’t have a real job, still figuring out what to do with my life
I know all the cool bands and movies, and sometimes art even moves me
but there is one thing I’m good at and that’s wearing my howling wolf hoodie

It’s called irony, look it up in your urban dictionary
It’s irony, please, don’t take me seriously
It’s called irony, everything is awesome
It’s irony, like singing a guitar solo from Boston.

I never get stuck in a serious conversation
I have sideburns because I think they make a statement
about what? I don’t know, who cares
there’s even something ironic about growing facial hair

It’s called irony, I kinda know about politics
It’s irony, but I’d rather make fun of MMORPG-aholics
It’s called irony, everything is awesome
It’s irony, like singing a guitar solo from Boston.

So don’t try to include me in a generation,
And don’t try to sell me your freaking radio station
I’m past the point of being cynical, I’d rather celebrate
everything that you think I’m supposed to hate.

Nobody Cared.

Posted: September 3rd, 2009 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | 3 Comments »

He began the project three years ago. It was a project that would test his patience, intelligence and his relationships. He just figured that if he could complete this project, he’d be on the cusp of greatness. That he’d rise to an echelon that only a minority dwelt in.

The first day began with much optimism. He came up with a solution within a couple hours. Then he put down the project at 2 am, his hands trembling, his mind seeing colors and rows and rows.

The next day, he almost undid his first day’s work. Even though he managed to salvage his progress, he didn’t get anywhere, he slammed down the project and considered giving up.

By the end of the week, he added to his first solution, but quickly changed his optimism to realism. Sure, he could maybe come up with a solution once or twice a week, but how long would it take to complete the project? And what if he made an irreversible mistake? That would be a disaster that could shake his ego.

So, he took a week off. He went outside, he hung out with friends. Saw some movies. Ate dinner regularly. Essentially, he enjoyed himself. But something in the back of his head kept nagging at him. He knew that he had to return to his project, that he had to work on it again, or else he’d live forever in the ordinary and not taste success.

He picked up his project with a renewed resolve, with a steely determination and a zeal that resembled his first day of work. He toiled. He tinkered. He tested and experimented. He’d think of an idea, try it and fail. He tried mapping it out on paper first, thinking he could make some headway. That didn’t get him anywhere. Doubt settled in. Maybe he wasn’t as smart as he thought he was, maybe that potential he thought he saw in himself was misplaced, that it was just an aspiration, not a reality. He told his mind to shut up, passed out with his project in his hands and missed the first half of his actual job the next day. His tardiness made him think about things. Perhaps this project is where he finds true significance–not his current job. He realized that while he was mired in menial tasks at work, that he was daydreaming about his project. That must be a sign. A sign to quit work and do something that really mattered to him. So he did. Now he had virtually 24 hours a day to work on his true passion.

A year went by and according to his rough calculations, he was 16.6667% close to completion. That’s not bad. He accomplished a lot. But not enough. If he continued at this pace, he’d be done with his project in six years and that was too long. Then he rationalized that this first year was thrown off by his working at that dead-end job for half the time, therefore he should be able to pick up the pace working solely on the project.

He never worked that hard in his life. He took up residence in a man-made shed in a forest just outside of town. He had a beard that was beginning to make him look a religious zealot. He stopped communicating with human beings. His sole purpose was his project. He brought it everywhere he went. Like when he was hunting for food in the woods. Like when he was bathing in the stream. Or when he was stealing corn from the nearby farm. Thankfully, he sold his mirror so he couldn’t get a realistic glimpse of the being he’d become. His hands had become arthritic and he developed carpal tunnel. His eyesight also changed as a result of constantly staring at colors all day long. The only self-maintenance he performed was the trimming of his fingernails–if they were too long, they’d get in the way.

A second year passed and he calculated that he was 50% done. He was right, he did improve his pace, but the end still seemed far away. Depression started to settle in. He would kill squirrels for sport–not food. He started throwing rocks at deer. He wrote obscene messages on fallen branches and threw them in the stream. But he didn’t see these instances as signs of depression, he saw it as something he needed to do to maintain his sanity.

He decided that a change of scenery might improve his speed, so he packed up the few man-made contraptions he had and hitchhiked all the way from the woods of Oregon to the Rainforests of Ecuador–diligently working on his project in whatever train, tractor-trailer or car he was in. He fashioned a hut out of palm fronds, banana leafs and what seemed like bamboo. He learned what bugs to eat and what fruits were safe. He didn’t encounter too many natives, but when he did, he managed to ward them off by dancing and flapping his beard up and down.

One night, when he furiously working by a slow-burning fire, everything clicked together. He had done it. He had completed his project that he started over three years ago. He screamed out loud. He started running towards civilization, holding up his project like a trophy. He entered a village and caused such chaos that the local authorities tranquilized him with a anesthetic dart and detained him. They quickly discovered that he was an American and alerted the nearest Embassy. Cross-checking his DNA with his fingerprints, they were able to figure out who he was and sent him back to Oregon.

Once he got back home, he cleaned up as best he could and called up his friends to tell them to meet him at a local banquet hall that he rented for this special occasion. About 40 friends, family members and co-workers showed up that night, itching to see him after all this time and anticipating what he had done in the last three years.

After a rousing dinner with music and stories of his travels, he rose to the podium and pulled a shrouded object from behind it. He spoke, “Friends, when you see what I have achieved, you will marvel at the capabilities of the human brain and become inspired to attempt the same project.” He signaled the local high school drum line to give a drum roll, slowly took the sheet off the project and revealed a multi-colored plastic cube. He raised it over his head, bowed and began to thank his audience. Except, no one applauded. No one even made a noise. They looked at him, looked at each other, some cleared their throat and some wondered what was on TV that night.

Scary bench guy. (80s style rap song/poem)

Posted: September 2nd, 2009 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | 1 Comment »

I was walking down the street, heading back to my house
It was evening time out, the weather was great, no doubt,
When I came across the guy, kinda straggly and craggy
Who was holding on real tight to a plastic baggy.
As far as I could see, there was nothing in it,
Yet he held onto it as if his life depended it.
We didn’t exchange pleasantries, I didn’t even nod
but he stared at me intently, as if I insulted his god
or his mom, or like I had a bomb in my hand,
whatever man, I don’t know you and don’t want your baggie or rubber band.
I just kept on walking, kinda shaking my head
and he mumbled something, but I couldn’t figure out what he said
It doesn’t really matter, it’s not some kinda cosmic event,
that’s just the scary bench guy, no need to get upset.

The scary bench guy
You know you’ve seen him before, don’t lie
The scary bench guy
He’s got a nasty beard and a stink eye.

The scary bench guy
Always wearing the winter hat, no matter the time
The scary bench guy
He’s not really bothering anyone or committing a crime.

Dear gum. (song)

Posted: September 1st, 2009 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | 3 Comments »

Dear gum on the bottom of my shoe,

I really hate you and all that you do.


Where do you get off attaching yourself to me?

I was just walking by and there you are, stuck underneath.

I try to pull away, but you just sit there, all green.


Dear gum on the bottom of my shoe,

I really hate you and all that you do.


I scrape you against the ground, and on the side of a chair

While you get stretched and pick up pieces of hair.

You’re gross, disgusting, I freaking hate you to death

If I could kill you, I would, but you don’t have a breath.


Dear gum on the bottom of my shoe,

I really hate you and all that you do.


Posted: August 31st, 2009 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | 2 Comments »

You have your hat pulled low. You’re watching. You’re the mayor of the corner. “Yo money, what’s good?,” you say to the vendor walking by with his shirt cart. You chew your gum.  You’re in charge. Can’t nobody tell you to move. This is your throne. You rule from it. You pull into your pocket and check your phone. You chew your gum. Nobody called, but you play with it anyways. That racing game. That flyin’ game. You read a text from yesterday night. “She crazy.” You chew your gum. You spit it out to the trash can, but you missed. Oh well. You adjust your hat. You adjust your dreads. You ain’t got nothin’ to do but a whole lot to think about. Like what’s going to pop off tonight. You think to yourself, “What is going to pop off tonight?” You don’t know. But something will happen. Maybe you should write something. Maybe you should go into the booth. Maybe you need some new shoes. Or a shirt. Or both. Gotta look right for tonight. You mumble a rhyme to yourself. Some old lady walks past and looks at you. You suck your teeth and pull your hat lower. “‘Chu lookin’ at?” Chill, chill, she probably got cataracts or somethin’, you think. Aight, office hours are about up, it’s time to bounce. But to where? To what? You don’t know. But you’re gonna act like you know. Can’t let them see the fear and the uncertainty. You’re the mayor, remember?

The Firing Squad becomes a Firing Squad.

Posted: August 27th, 2009 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | 5 Comments »

This is my first day on the job and I’m started to regret it

I mean, this guy, what did he do, but stand up for his rights?

That’s a lot more than I can say, my whole existence has been pathetic.

My brother told me to join this and I’m not the one to put up a fight.


I thought that holding this gun would be cool, I’d have so much power,

Thought it would be an honor to carry out my duty: inflict judgment.

But I am supposed to perform efficiently with no care for who I shower

with bullets and pain— I pull this trigger and it stains those who disagree with the government.


We’ve locked, we’ve loaded, and soon we will be given the signal to fire

But I look in this guy’s eyes before he’s blindfolded and I realize that I know him

That’s Joe from high school, and I’m about to send him into the pyre

Without a care for his soul, without thinking of his family, without emotion.


Wait, this can’t be right, I will not take his life

He believes what I believes, yet he’s the one who spoke his mind.

And I’m the coward with this killing machine, about to widow his wife

No. I anticipate the final order and use this tool to eliminate everyone else in my line.