If you can't put a drink on your table without hurting it, you don't need coasters. You need to learn how to buy tables.
I don't sleep so well. Some people are out like a light. Me, I'm a motion sensitive light. Hey, something move? I'm on it.
I agree with the fundamentalists: gay couples are unnatural. If God had meant for both halves of a couple to fart, He'd have given us all bigger windows.
I don't think the Bible is really the word of God. Some of the things in there don't sound like something an all-knowing person would say. "Be fruitful and multiply"? What, like we wouldn't do that without encouragement? Like if He hadn't commanded us to do it, there'd just be three Irishmen in the world today?
If He really existed, he'd have come back years ago and said, "You know what I told you earlier, about fruitful multiplying? Well, STOP."
The term "otter" seems to fit straight men more than gays. After all, they're the ones who eat clams while laying on their backs.
Women are changing, and not for the better. Years ago somebody said the perfect breast could fit in a martini glass. Nowadays you couldn't stuff one of them in a Big Gulp.
My sister is almost forty, and she still calls me to talk about our childhoods. I refuse. It starts off innocently enough: "Remember Space Food Sticks?" "Remember Yosemite?" "Remember putting on plays in the backyard?" But ten minutes later she's screaming. "You ate the last of the ham! You ate my share of the ham!"
I was walking down the street yesterday and an ambulance started heading towards me. A few seconds later, another ambulance came from the other direction. I thought, jeez, if they cared at all about helping people, when they first saw each other they'd have turned around.
Relationships are always annoying. Once you get over the big stuff, the small stuff gets bigger. My longest relationship was eight years, and we never stopped arguing. In the first year he whined about monogamy. In the second he whined about household chores. By the fifth he yelled because I bought the wrong kind of coathangers and jingled my change too much. Finally I came to my senses. I pictured us after fifty years, when the inevitable came. He'd be laying there on his deathbed, and he'd prop himself up on an elbow for his final words. "Roman," he'd say, "it's been great, but this ISN'T MY FUCKING PILLOW. WHERE'S MY FUCKING PILLOW?"
Working With Wood - Filed under: Poem, Undogegorized
9 hours ago