Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Douchebag Poetry

You know the guy (or the girl). They're the kind of people who respond to a friendly, "How's it goin'?" with a rambling monologue of woe that seems as if it will only end moments after you begin collecting social security. Generally, this only happens once. After that, you avoid all eye contact. You reverse field if you see them at the far end of the hall. One time, I pretended I was temporarily deaf. "Eym sowwee," I said, gesturing with my hands. "Uh em-ate-ee went off in my eyuhs."

Last place I worked the guy's name was Tyrone. He was 40-ish, still toiling on the bottom rung of the newsroom ladder and his idea of high comedy was putting ice down the shirts of co-workers. I never could quite figure out if he was "special" (he managed his job okay, I guess) or "socially special."

There's one at my current job, too. And I found myself out on the smoking balcony with her today. Just the two of us. I pondered the odds of me escaping a two story jump unscathed, but decided against it. Then she started talking and I began to take off my belt and look for a place to hang myself. I eventually settled for lighting myself on fire. Bitch can't get to me in the ICU.

**************************************

Okay, so I have total writer's block. I gots nuthin'. Bobby had a fun idea the other day, so we're gonna go with it. However, since I can't write, I'm gonna slough off on this week's installment and go with a Haiku. 'Cause that I can manage.

Regardless, welcome to a recurring Wednesday feature here at the Obituarium:

Douchebag Poetry

Dear chunky scumbag
You're two plates of lasagna
from having man boobs

The object, of course, is to insult the Douchebag Poet who thinks its cool to break up my marriage and family (and to be at the top of google searches for "Douchebag Poet" and "Douchebag Poetry"). I am welcoming all submissions, which will be posted (and credited) every Wednesday. All forms of poetry are welcome, free verse, sonnets, epic.

And if you can't manage a poem, at least send me a subject to write about, 'cause my mind is a fucking black hole.

17 Comments:

At 10:50 AM, Blogger Maigrey said...

So, we all know what our first childhood memory is (which you could write about too), but what i'm curious is: what do you hope AJ's first childhood memory is? Or what would you chose it to be if you could?

(I gots no haiku)

 
At 10:58 AM, Blogger BadBlood said...

Layoff JoeSpeak's wife
Because if you value health
BadBlood's gunz are huge

 
At 11:40 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Tell us how you ended up in SoCal.

 
At 11:49 AM, Blogger iamhoff said...

Hey Douchebag Poet
You suck and we hate your guts
Karma will get you

Bonus points for getting his name in the haiku, right? If nothing else, it should help the google search!

 
At 12:23 PM, Blogger katitude said...

There once was a doucebag poet,
Who didn’t know when to exit.
You screw with another’s wife,
You’ll get the business end of a knife,
And the next thing I’ll write is your obit.

Yeah, I'm still a tad bitter. Keep your chin up!

 
At 1:48 PM, Blogger Huge Junk said...

You work at Avis
And live in an apartment
You are a Douchebag

Doughy with man boobs
or Gynecomastia
You are a Douchebag

Break up a marriage
Because poontang comes rarely
You are a Douchebag

Eats ramen noodles
Creates bullshit poetry
You are a Douchebag

Get cancer and die
I said get cancer and die
You are a Douchebag

Thanks.

 
At 2:56 PM, Blogger DrChako said...

This is so lame, but I went to a Haiku creator, and came up with this gem:

The weak man gazes.
Repulsive evil stirs,
Leans to escape death.

I don't know what it means, but it's somehow appropriate.

-DrC

The site is http://members.aol.com/frenjp/haiku/create.htm

 
At 4:25 PM, Blogger Egarim said...

Douche is bad writer
Bags are full of garbage
You are a douchebag

 
At 4:26 PM, Blogger Egarim said...

Douche is bad poet
Bags are full of garbage
You are a douchebag

 
At 5:10 PM, Blogger BG said...

Just workshopping...

In spite of the fact
You're an enormous pussy
Douchebag works better

You can suck my balls
Seriously, you douchebag
Open invitation

Hit that til it hurts
What I really mean there is
I hope you get crabs

She'll fuck your best friend
If he's good with a crayon
Your poems aren't enough

When she gets knocked up
And your verse Hallmark won't buy
Poems don't buy milk, dick

A really small wang
You'll never satisfy her
She'll leave you by June

 
At 9:57 PM, Blogger Chilly said...

Haikus dedicated to the Douchebag Poet

douchebag is too nice
what goes around comes around
karma is a bitch
*****************
I see the future
Impotence is guaranteed
Flacid needle dick
*****************
moobs moobs moobs moobs moobs
You're getting great big huge moobs
I only hope you lactate
__________________

Write about junior high. Its a formative yet overlooked period of life.

 
At 12:06 AM, Blogger Heafy said...

Things tend to even out
Call it karma, or you could
Call it syphilis


I know this is probably a very small consolation, and proabably wrong to say, but your writing has never been better. I can't say I am enjoying it, but I wouldn't miss a post.

 
At 2:51 AM, Blogger elizabeth said...

Just found your blog through a friend, and at the risk of seeming like a voyeur in what is currently a horribly personal situation you have going on, I still had to leave a comment. Because it's almost 6am and I couldn't stop reading it, so I'm still awake. So if you're still wondering if what you write resonates for people (even complete strangers), guides them down a path, well the answer is an emphatical yes. I'm so impressed with your willingness to tear yourself open and let the world in. well done.

 
At 7:14 AM, Blogger Joaquin "The Rooster" Ochoa said...

I write poems, but I ain't no poet

I don't know Karate, but I know crazy

Die fake ass, beret wearing, wanna-be-a-player home wrecker

 
At 8:34 AM, Blogger Drizztdj said...

Write about how you found your love for soccer/poker/any other hobby like planning ways to demoralize this douchebag poet.

I can't haiku, I don't have a single artist bone in my body. In fact the only non-grade A I got in Junior High school was a mandatory Art class.

 
At 1:23 PM, Blogger HighOnPoker said...

Winter comes to close,
but you are still a bitch prag.
May you rot in hell.

 
At 1:14 AM, Blogger Rod said...

Douchebag unattended
Left to your own devices
You've let evil in

 

Post a Comment

<< Home