The place is starting to stink, honestly.
Aside from my poem, which, let's face it, is sex on four wheels, there really hasn't been much in the way of...hmm...how do I say this...oh yeah. Quality.
The contest ends tonight, and I'd hate to have to win practically by default.
As it stands:
We have a joke epitaph from the Smelly Pirate Hooker. We have a poem that uses the word "spillen" from the idiot stepchild (and, god help us, our judge) Gordon. Think on this a little longer: Our judge used the word "spillen". Just saying.
We have a shrill and judgmental haiku from the Binarykitten. It was written, it seems, with perhaps 1/8th of her ass.
We also have a haiku from Quinn. I believe, from internal evidence, it was written while he was drunk, and fucking a whore.
While we're here, can we all agree that, in the hands of the unskilled, haiku is a terrible thing and must never be used? Shall we lobby for strict haiku control? I say yes, ladies and gentlemen.
There was also my brilliant, epic poem. I'd say more, but I fear I'd sound vainglorious.
Yet to show their faces in this contest:
Miss America, who, I suspect, is just too busy crawling up the ass of English lit to spare us five lines of her best.
Rilla, who is insane, stricken with disease, and too lazy to write.
The Honourable Member from Buttfuck, SK, who is too wrapped up in her new political career to consider tampering with her status as an ordinary person to sully her hands with verse.
Melistress, who has, apparently, died.
Mr. Matt Sheppard, who is Too Much The Big Shot Now, what with his Zombie comic. You know the one, the one that isn't Deadworld, The Walking Dead, Marvel Zombies, Army of Darkness, or successful.
Kenn Scott, who is hard at work dragging a blade across the teeth of Canadian television.
Wade LeChoda, hard at work with his latest LARP. Obviously, wayyyy too cool for us.
His confederate, Deb, who is too busy trying to crush unions, and loving it.
And all the rest of you idiot cowards reading.
At LEAST Quinn and Mr. Spillen gave it a shot. What's your excuse?
And now to strangle budgies.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
16 comments:
At least the stuff Mr. Matt Shepherd wrote got published, whereas the only thing of substance that you create gets wiped off your stomach with a grey gym sock.
Which reminds me: where the hell is Lord Grymm Von Snoozebot 2000 with his epic explorations of his filth-encrusted navel?
G-
First, I don't own a single grey gym sock.
Second, stop stealing jokes from Bill Hicks. I expect more from you than I do from Dennis Leary.
Third, publication is no sign of quality as you well know, or should.
Thank you, though for bringing up Grymm. His last poem had actually bored me past my ability to think of him without drooling and staring into space.
First, I don't own a single grey gym sock.
Yes, you do. You just think they're white.
Second, stop stealing jokes from Bill Hicks.
If I had been stealing a joke from Bill Hicks, I would have made the actual joke. That was a reference.
Third, publication is no sign of quality as you well know, or should.
Hey, you're the one who brought up success. Which is a topic I would think you'd want to stay away from.
Unemployed hooker.
His last poem had actually bored me past my ability to think of him without drooling and staring into space.
What? Did someone say something? I was asleep.
G-
Maybe the topic just didn't inspire any actual inspiration.
I like my socks the way I like my coffee, black. No white socks. No grey socks. I have Lawful Evil socks only.
You did so steal the joke. Joke stealer.
Also, success is not measured by publication, employment, or financial reward. You wouldn't understand that, though. You have the soul of an undertaker and the poetry of...well...a Canadian poet.
Cori: Wah wah wah, I need INSPIRATION to write a poem WAH WAH.
In my day, when we had to write a poem, we would be lucky if we had so much as an irregularly shaped stone for inspiration.
Art isn't about inspiration. It's about showing up, and writing your ass off.
Inspiration is for fairies.
You think Hemingway needed inspiration? Pfui.
You think Bukowski needed inspiration? Just bourbon.
You think Norman Mailer needed inspiration? Just misogyny, and, again, Bourbon.
You think Elizabeth Barrett Browning needed inspiraton? No! She just needed tuberculosis.
Your problem is that you don't have enough bourbon, misogyny, or tuberculosis.
Don't whine to me about inspiration.
It's sad when someone can't even find work as a hooker. Like Ryan, the unemployed hooker.
G-
Repetition didn't make it funnier or more biting.
Or has the syphilis progressed to the point you don't know you're repeating yourself?
Maybe you should try charging $20 for a blowjob instead of telling people you'll suck them off if they read your book.
G-
I have never offered oral sex in exchange for reading my book. You, on the other hand got published SOMEHOW.
All I'm saying.
I have never offered oral sex in exchange for reading my book.
Well, maybe you should start. There has to be something in it for them.
You've just highlighted the difference between us elegantly. If oral sex and my book were offered in tandem, the oral sex is what would require a mouth rinse.
In your case, the book itself would induce vomiting, and then require a mouth rinse. The person would then be too ill for any kind of sexual contact.
My problem is also that I'm neither a writer nor a poet, nor do I have any desire to be either. I just like haiku because it's symmetrical and it's possible I'm a teensy bit OCD.
But more bourbon would help, I do agree.
Bourbon my ass! Its all about the NyQuil. Take a hit,write like fucking mad,and wake up to an unemployed hooker choking on your manhood as you try to figure out why you have the sudden fucking urge to bring a bad death to John Smith. But maybe thats just me...
As for the Smelly Pirate Hooker's idea that publication is a sign of quality, do you not recall the existance of Anne Rule? I think you know where this is going and I'm going to be man enough to leave it there.
-Gordon
P.S. If I can used it in a sentence and you know what it means... its a word, accept it bitch.
I didn't say publication was a sign of quality. I was comparing the relative success levels of the zombie-obsessed Quebecois and the unemployed hooker.
G-
For the last fucking time, I am not an unemployed hooker!
I am a RETIRED hooker.
I'm an unemployed sybarite.
Thank you.
Post a Comment