My laptop is still acting kind of weird. It’s no longer doing that thing where it won’t scroll, but it’s giving me a seriously hard time with certain things, and the main one is that Tumblr is acting up so that I can’t post certain photos, even though I can’t tell how they differ from photos that I can post. It’s all getting very annoying. The “Drafts” folder has 16 things in it that I can’t share with you. I’m starting to get kind of angsty about it. But I’m not going to let this keep me down!
My laptop started doing this peculiar thing yesterday, the likes of which I’ve never seen.
To put it in layman’s terms, which are the only terms I contain, no matter how much text is in a given window, I can only scroll down to see about…120% of my screen.
So if I have a big wall of text, like the kind of shit I paste into these blog posts, I can only post a fraction of it before my computer starts using its better judgment and taking control of the situation for me. It is as if technology has stepped in to say, “Hey Rev., last week you wrote two lengthy posts about the time a doctor encouraged you to fart, and about another time when you had a mid-coital tantrum over a fictitious stripper named after a tropical fruit. Perhaps you’d better sit this next post out until you’ve had time to think it over.”
Well I don’t need no god damned Jiminy Cricket artificial conscience, I’m doing just fine on my own! Or at least I will be, once I manage to thwart this latest hurdle.
In the meantime, until such time as I am able to figure out what the fuck is going on, I will have to write my posts on the fly. No spellcheck, baby, sexy! No proofreading. Flying by the seat of my pants. You see, normally, I write all this shit out and then paste it into Tumblr, because Tumblr has a hilarious habit of shutting itself down after I’ve composed something magnificent in it. But I can’t do that now. So I’ll have to make it up as I go. And that means only one thing: Poetry.
So until I resolve my issues (“TECH SUPPORT! LIFE EXTENSION! SEND TILDA SWINTON AND TOM CRUISE!”) I will be taking requests for one poem per day. Send your request to me at simianidiot at gmail dot com, or one of the other myriad ways you already know of reaching me, and every day I’ll pick some jackass and write an ode to them.
Today that jackass is Dogs on Drugs! Let’s do this shit.
Hoofprints: A Poem for Dogs on Drugs
One night, I dreamed I was walking along the Atlantic City boardwalk with Dogs on Drugs
Many scenes from my life flashed by!
Such as the time I was seven years old, and Michelle across the street told me she hadn’t stolen my My Little Pony seahorse, but the next day she had the same one, and when I asked her if it was mine she said it was just a coincidence, but I saw the little scratch on the tail that I knew marked that bitch as guilty, so I stole it back.
Or the time my friend in high school
Accused me of flirting with her boyfriend
And I didn’t know how to tell her politely that her gross boyfriend was so unappealing to me that she was welcome to him until the end of time as far as I was concerned, so I told her bluntly, just like that, and she cried.
Or that time in college when my friend demanded that I “get her high”, so I rolled her an oregano joint and let her smoke it, and sat back and watched as she got completely stoned, from smoking cooking spices, and jumped up and down on my bed so aggressively that she broke my alarm clock, because she was “wasted”,
Or the time I accidentally dumped an entire quart of boiling hot clam chowder on my boss’s lap, and she sent me out to buy new pants for her, and while she was sitting there in her office with no pants on, our regional supervisor came into the office and asked if I knew where he could find her, and I said, “Yeah, she’s in her office, just go on in…”
During all these times there were two sets of footprints.
But when I was volunteering at the nursing home, or helping a friend with her sick parents, or helping another friend escape from her emotionally abusive boyfriend, or that time I saved a baby bird that had fallen out of a tree,
Or the many nights I sat up with sick children, or the times I was a shoulder to cry on for a friend in need, or the times I visited with the mentally ill, and listened to their grievances with as much patience as my flawed soul could muster,
Or the times I took on more than I could handle, to ease the burdens of someone I loved,
At that time, there was only one set of footprints. And this troubled me.
So I said to Dogs on Drugs, “You promised me that if I walked with you, that in times of trouble I would never walk alone, and yet when I was selfless and giving, there was only one set of footprints in the sand. Where were you then?”
And Dogs on Drugs said to me, “It was then that you were a fucking bummer to me.”
Steve is the big winner of the Third Person to Ask for a Minimum of Five Lines Poem contest!
So let’s give it up for Steve. Here we go.
Ode to Steve
You’d better believe in Steve
Because life is a trivia show
And when the category is “History of the Simpsons”
Steve is the one in the know
Your bets are all hinged on Steve
He’s your life and the air that you breathe
He’s the bees and the birds and spins tales in ten words
What some jerks take a thousand to weave
Cleave and receive dearest Steve
For if he should happen to leave
You’d grieve and bereave what you could not conceive
With your heart torn apart on your sleeve
What I’m saying today, In a sense
Is that my awe of Steve is immense
You may call me naive
But you can go shit in the ocean, basically, because Steve is as cool as shit.
Not too long ago, I was telling Sifu about how I think of my maternal grandmother whenever I eat port wine cheddar.
She used to enjoy baseball games with Budweiser (bleck), Ritz crackers, and port wine cheese from a red plastic tub. If she wanted to class it up a bit, she’d get those nut logs where the little nut crumbs are all soggy and chewy. It’s an odd thing to make me think of her, since overall she was a pretty swanky lady but she had her preferences and for whatever reason, this is what imprinted on me. Port wine nut logs, Ritz, shitty beer, and grandmotherly love.
Around Christmas eve a few years later, we went to a family party at my aunt’s house, and there on the table was a slab of port wine nut roll. Sifu made a comment about grandma, and all eyes were on him. ”How did you know about that?” someone asked. ”BIOU told me. It’s one of her fond memories of grandma.” And to my surprise, it was one of many peoples’ fond memories of her, and the cheese present that evening was a quiet, cheesy tribute to her, and a totem for her absence.
Imagine that. You can never tell what it is about you that’s going to leave a mark on the people you love.
In a recent post, we delved a bit into the scandalous side of a seemingly innocent teevee character, and frankly it was more fun than it should have been to bastardize something so innocent and pure so you can bet we’ll be seeing more of that in the near future.
I have plenty to work with, too, because we’re not too rigid about screen time in our house. Little13 takes very little interest in watching it with any intensity, preferring to run about dismantling furniture and rocking out with her blocks out, but the teevee is usually on in the background, broadcasting its bullshit. When she hears a song coming out of it, she’ll run to the living room, dance her ass off, and then run back to whatever she was doing before.
When I was a kid, though, we had cousins who weren’t allowed to watch teevee at home, and they were weird. Whenever they came to visit us during summer vacation, first of all they had never heard of anything. So when my brother and I started singing the Toast-R-Cakes jingle:
they would stare at us with their dopey blank faces because people who grow up in wholesome, educational households that don’t allow teevee also tend not to be allowed to eat Toast-R-Cakes, and SECONDLY:
YOU JUST TRY prying those little addicts away from OUR teevee. We’d want to go out and play and they’d be parked in front of our big television, eyes as big as Toast-R-Cakes, sucking down a whole childhood’s worth of cultural detritus so that when they finally went back to school they wouldn’t be like a pack of idiot space aliens who thought Lion-O was a fucking brand of toy train.
Just kidding, they were homeschooled. They’re cool as shit now but back then, Christ, what a bunch of wierdies.
So we don’t really pay too much attention to the teevee at home now, either to promote its use or to forbid it, relegating it to Chief Wiggum’s Forbidden Closet of Mystery status, which incidentally is a reference that those goofball no teevee kids will never understand until they’re old enough to run away from their psycho, head in the sand idealist parents and buy a teevee they can live in front of.
All this is a brief way of introducing you to the fact that I am familiar with a show called Jake and the Neverland Pirates, which is about a bunch of kid pirates who hang out with a couple of adult guys who are missing teeth, and spend time alone on a boat with them. Totally ordinary stuff. And when they wish to say an expletive, as pirates do, they say: ”Oh coconuts!”
Many years ago, when Sifu and I were dating, which is what you call people who live together and have sexual intercourse but are not legally bound to share their stuff with each other, I experimented with a new brand of shampoo.
This particular product was imbued with tropical fragrances designed to give me the air of a nubile Hawaiian maiden and I had been using it for a few days without feeling particularly nubile until one evening when Sifu approached me seductively to report that it was time to get busy. So we did.
It was in the midst of these intimate moments that Sifu whispered an odd thing into my face. He seemed to go to a far-off place and mumbled, “Oh, coconut…”
I do not know that there was literally a needle scratch, but I do recall getting decidedly out of the mood at that precise moment when asking him, “Who the fuck is coconut?”
Sifu: ”Your hair, dummy. It smells like coconuts.”
Sifu: ”What did you think?”
BIOU: ”Some stripper.”
Sifu: ”Coconut? Coconut the stripper?”
BIOU: ”Exotic dancer, whatever.”
I don’t recall if I was able to get back into the rhythm or if I just finished out of a sense of obligation to time already invested, but for a long time, whenever Sifu wanted to break my balls, he’d lean into my ear and moan, “Oh, coconut.”
So that is what I think about whenever Little13 is dancing to the pirate show. I think about the time, long before she was even a gleam in my ovaries, when I instantly suspected her daddy of paying a stranger named after a fruit to shake her titties at him.
It’s not the kind of thing I’ll ever be able to explain to her, but fortunately, she’ll be able to read this blog after I’m dead. It’ll be the thing I’m remembered for - the port wine nut log on her Christmas eve table, ever present in the back of her mind somewhere.
May you all have the happiest, sexiest, coconuttiest Labor Day ever, and I’ll see you Tuesday for whatever.
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