Wednesday, January 24, 2007

#6 in My Series of “Incredibly Bad Poetry by Celebrities or Fictional Characters”

I Am a Fat Little Clam

By Coco’s Hoo-Haw

I am a fat little clam
A fat little clam is what I am

I have no name, and I have no mind
I am fond of pants whose fibers do bind

Though rotund, unruly, stretchy and sloppy
My man don’t never, ever get floppy

When he get wit’ me, he all happy
And will continue to be till he a grandpappy

I am a chubby abomination, this is true
And yes, it is difficult finding a loo

That can accommodate my gigantic proportions
But my girl is an expert at unusual contortions

So all you haters can just call me ma’am, or
Madam Clam, perhaps even, Madam Can of Spam

Or Overstuffed Taco, Chalupa and Cheese
With extra chicken, if you please

Don’t matter to me what folks may say
‘Cause I’m Coco’s hoo-haw, and I’m here to stay

Thursday, January 18, 2007

Adjacent to Blowjob, I Believe

Yes, Margaret, there really is a Fucking, Austria.

"Bitte -- nicht so schnell!" is German for "Please -- not so fast!"

I must say that I agree.

And here we have a delightful little Fucking article. God love the British:

(click to enlarge hilarity)

I don't know about you, but I'm up for some Hogan's Heroes right about now.

Monday, January 15, 2007


My sweet friend went to the big hamster wheel in the sky yesterday.

Some of you will recall my completely unnatural connection to Ruby -- she was a spooky little darling who touched my soul. Why, I haven’t a clue. She just did.

Perhaps, in another life, she was my Great Aunt Yolanda, or something. Or I hers. Or she was my stern yet lovable schoolteacher, Mrs. Hornsby. Or I hers.

Well, at least now I don’t have to feel that decidedly unpleasant kick-in-the-chest I used to experience whenever I ventured into my daughter’s room and saw poor Ruby’s old bald ass desperately waddling in circles (apparently, she’d gotten too feeble to ride her wheel, so she settled for a light jog around her cage).

She was special.
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The Hamster Whisperer, Part Three

In your realm, in yourself, light thoughts
Sent aloft on wisps of woody snow
And cathode-blue glow
Chase a path made of dropped apple and
Almond slivers, spectral lovers and dew
But the things you imagine, contained in glass
Skip along the walls, sniff in corners
Tangle up in the spinning wheel, yet
They give you meaning, they
Taste of sky, of sun and dirty rain
Smell of wind rushing through alien trees
Feel like divinity, like the reason for everything
Canned laughter dances along, electric comfort
For your aging soul
As you make your way through this life, alone
Save for the power of dream

Saturday, January 13, 2007

Oh, Dear. This is Just Wrong...

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Wednesday, January 10, 2007

Last Wishes That Had Better Be Honored or I Will Haunt Your Ass

To my beloved family and friends,

1) I want the biggest tombstone in the cemetery

2) I want my epitaph to read: Does this grave make me look fat?

3) I want my cat’s body exhumed (assuming she goes before I do), and placed upon my cold, stiff chest. Also, put a jaunty little knit cap on her head, just because.

4) I’d really appreciate it if all of you would visit me at least once a week, throw your bodies atop my grave, and weep loudly -- extra points for those who do this during peak visiting hours.

5) Leave gifts, especially bottles of Absolut, giant-size Hershey’s with almonds bars (or Russell Stover chocolates -- I'm not picky), and cigarettes. Thanks in advance!

6) I would like all of my writer friends to please compose myriad odes to me, and publish them in high-profile publications. My musician friends should write haunting yet sweet songs titled “Ms. Lori,” and pay off D.J.s to ensure heavy rotation. My filmmaker buds must then create award-worthy videos, preferably starring Charlize Theron as me. It would be great if there was a lot of dry ice and moody lighting. And, perhaps, a nearly naked young hunk or two. And a clown with a big, blue tear painted on his cheek.

7) I would like my husband to compile all of my published and unpublished work into one huge omnibus-thing, and see to it that it is published under the title “Ms. Lori: A Genius Who Was Never Appreciated During Her Time on Earth, Because People Suck, But That's Okay, Because Now You Will Worship Her Until the End of Time.”

Eh, scratch that. Lar, you’d better leave that to someone more qualified. Like someone who knows what “omnibus" means, maybe?

8) Think of me every single minute of every single day -- alternate between shrieking with despair and laughing like a maniac.

9) Eat two slices of buttered toast each morning until your dying day.

10) Donate to my kids’ college fund. I have four children, and they’re all quite brilliant, so I’m thinking you’d better toss top coin toward this fund. I’ll know who’s been bad or good, so give till it hurts, people. You wouldn’t want to wake up in the middle of the night to the horrible sound of Dead Ms. Lori going “Booooo-ooooo-aaaaa-ooooo-YAH!” now, would you?

Of course you wouldn’t.

Peace and love,

Ms. Lori

Thursday, January 04, 2007


As some of you may have noticed, I deleted yet another recent post. Yes, I am an ass of epic proportions.

I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but I fucking hate every single douchy word I write lately. Not as I’m writing, but afterward. Oh, sure, while I’m writing, I titter and preen over the brilliance, the hysterical little doodads and heart-warming pappyclaps I‘ve created, but once they’re published and I reread them, I want to die of shame.

Anyway, I sincerely apologize for being a douchy, post-deleting hag. Thanks to everyone who left comments. You all rock my ‘tocks, but I think you know that already.

My grandma died early this morning, will be buried on Monday, so I probably won’t see you guys until Tuesday.

And I promise that I won’t delete my next post. Pinky swear.