#7 in My Series of “Incredibly Bad Poetry by Celebrities or Fictional Characters”
Vodka Does a Body Good
by Vladimir Putin Comrades! Gather 'round And I shall regale ye with hilarious tales Of my adventures, all True Listen to me speak, with open mind and open gullet For I am not only fantastically masculine I am wise, and I have much white lightning In my pants
I rode my steed, dear Joseph O'er the unforgiving, lady-like terrain of Tuva With effortless though practiced grace -- observe! Am I not manly, do I not appeal to your aesthetics? I frighten myself with my own machismo And sexual fires
My skills include handling a rod, as well Note how my forearms are large as briskets! My tender expression, as I gaze to my left Reflects the yearning in my breast For the days of yore When I was very, very, very handsome In fashionable, terrifying suits As I made The People quiver with fear And, I suspect, lust
I caught many fish, some big, some small I brought home the sturgeon Fried it up in a pan While at the same time Handling government affairs Competently According to state-guided media
The Americans should be so lucky
President Bush, you are a giant potato That is half baked Who rides like a woman And catches no fish
You take da chicken, okay? Den you put stuff up its ass Right? Maybe a little pepper on top of dat bitch Perhaps a bit of salt The thing is You gotta have some pears Nuzzling da poultry-meat Sorta like a fruity hug And what you have here, den Is an elegant variation on da roasted bird
Well, goodness! I think it’s super lovely that a perjuring, war-mongering, traitorous fella like Karl Rove actually has enough heart left in his tiny icebox of a chest to put his family first. Really, I do.
I am confident that this fine, upstanding American is not abandoning his beloved president for any reason other than wanting to throw a football around with his son on a warm Sunday afternoon, or whisk his long-suffering wife away for a romantic weekend in the Poconos. I admire a man who would tuck his rodent-like tail between his furry hind legs and scurry from such a high position in order to shield his family from further embarrassment and public scrutiny. That’s nice. That’s peachy-keen and warm and fuzzy and…That’s exactly what I'd hoped would happen. I'm loving the resignations, waiting on Gonzales to join the party, but I won't hold my hand on my ass...
Unlike Rove, many of those who've resigned in the past few years did so, I'm sure, for the sake of their own conscience, or were pushed out because they attempted to counsel, with good conscience, a decidedly incompetent Commander in Chief (***cough*** Colin Powell ***cough***), and it'll be those folks who will one day speak the truth. In public. Under oath. You know, without fear of bodily harm to themselves or their loved ones.
As the clock counts down to a preciously welcome new election year (Jesus, Neocons, why even bother campaigning, huh?), we’ll see more of the rats jumping ship, and once the Democrats take the helm, the indictments will fly, heads will roll, asses will be grass (insert your favorite cliché here), and maybe justice will finally be served, maybe this awesome country of ours will return to its even more awesome people. Maybe Valerie Plame will win her appeal and receive some sort of compensation for all of the pain she and her family suffered?
Yes, the end times are nigh, but not exactly the way some religious rightwingnuts may wish. No skies opening up, and no spontaneous disappearances; nope, no Armageddon to be had -- only blissful retribution, sweet, sweet times in which big corporations won’t own our elected officials and their appointees, and people won’t be dying by the thousands for the sake of an idiot’s pipedream, and sanity prevails over corrupt madmen who honestly believe it’s best if you and I have no eyes, no mouth.
Goodbye, Mr. Rove. We hardly knew ya…But that’s exactly how you wanted it, yeah?
ADDENDUM: Holy crap, am I not the queen of bad blog post titles? Respect!
I learned a very important lesson this past weekend:
One should never feed the neighbor's dog hotdogs and spareribs if said neighbor appears agitated by one's childish, compulsive, dog-feeding behavior.
But I couldn't help myself, see. I have this thing, a thing with no name that is buried deeply within my cerebral cortex that compels me to feed processed foods to adorable, furry faces.
My cat, thank goodness, is smart enough to turn her nose up at the slices of salami and curls of Cheetos I throw her way (although she enjoys bouncing that sweet nose of hers against the offending materials, getting a whiff or two and licking her chops for ten hours afterward), but dogs, now they appreciate crap. Love the crap. Live for the crap.
I am only too happy to fulfill their crappy wishes.
Unfortunately, I have zero capability when it comes to reading others' body language and/or tone of voice. I figure, hey, I'm loving that the dog is loving the crap, so everyone else is loving it too, right?
***Patti LaBelle screech***
Well, apparently NOT. Took me a while to figure out the error of my dog-feeding ways, but it finally hit me yesterday that the vibe I was picking up from my neighbor wasn't altogether lovey-dovey, and perhaps I should just come out and ask my neighbor if it was bothering her that I stuffed pounds of bologna into her beagle's maw on a regular basis.
I said, "Bambi-Jo, please be truthful with me -- do you not want me feeding Shloob (not the dog's real name)? I mean, because if it does in fact bother you, I will never again sneak Shloob forty bratwurst, complete with mustard and onions. Just say the word, my friend, just say, Ms. Lori, stop feeding my dog, you stupid fuck."
There was a short, uncomfortable silence, then Bambi-Jo said -- with a straight face, mind you -- "Ms. Lori, stop feeding my dog, you stupid fuck."
Now take a look at one of the creepiest, most awesomely awesome faces ever:
That, my friends, is a mandrill. Isn't he dreamy?
I met him at the Buffalo zoo this past Sunday, and I love him.
He has a whoopie cushion for a butt, which I happen to think is marvelous:
Hard to make out in that picture, but his whoopie cushion butt is also psychedelic, very aurora borealis, all purple-y and pink and greeny-blue, depending on how the light hits it.
As I said to my kids, upon observing said whoopie cushion butt, "It appears as if he has a balled-up prom dress, circa 1989, attached to his ass."
I believe I spent approximately forty-five minutes just staring at Mandrill, saying asinine things WAY too loudly to Mandrill, much to my husband's chagrin (Manny-poo all mean and scary-looking! You're not mean, are you Manny-poopers? Dear me, but you're a handsome devil! Yes you are! Such a handsome, handsome Manny-poop!).
Lar had to bribe me with pizza in order to get me to leave my Mandrill.
Unfortunately for Lar, the next exhibit featured a darling rhino -- spent a good half hour gawking at Mr. Ronald J. DeRhino:
That's me, Brandon, Sarah, Veronica and Ariel
(I'm the one with the junk in da trunk and wicked-cool platform sandals -- click to enlarge junk).
Lar bribed me with ice cream, then we hit my favorite exhibit of all time:
What gorgeousosity! How regal and fierce and ohmygodso...Oh, I dunno...LionTASTIC!
You would be correct in assuming Lar had to bribe me away yet again, but this time he was forced to pull out the big guns due to my trance-like state and alarming cooing and baby-talking (ooooh, sweet lion! Wookit da sweet manly man! Manly man gots him some pretty bitches, yes he does!) -- BEER.
Catch was, we had to go home to have the beer.
Much as I love animals, I love my beer even more, so away we went.
Wow, what a lame post this is, huh?
I apologize, but it's ninety-five degrees up here in my windowless, un-airconditioned attic office, and I honestly cannot think straight. I simply can't write in an intelligent manner when my skull is melting.
I realize that the above lament is oft repeated here on OWM, especially when the end of July, beginning of August rolls around, but when I say that it feels as if a giant white candle is sticking out of the top of my head, I mean it.
My head would be the perfect accoutrement for, say, Vincent Price's end table, or Edgar Allan Poe's writing desk.