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:
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.