My dear statistic,
I’m so glad we could meet
Like this.
What’s your cohort?
I’m Boomer myself
My demogaphic’s online,
If you’re interested.
Millennial? Too cool.
No Giorgio for you,
Or Abercrombie, then?
Red wine, not white.
Vegan I see.
Such a delightful
Subclade.
I’ve got your number.
Every society has its rules. These seem to be the ones for 21st century America.
When evaluating schools of thought,
Go with the one that is
Proudest of its contempt for the others.
Take every disagreement, no matter how minor,
As a personal attack on you and your progeny.
When debating, only use other techniques
When you’ve run out of ad hominem.
When you’re feeling inadequate,
Drag everyone else down until you feel better.
Never investigate a questionable assertion
If it is consistent with what you already believe.
In arguments,
Contradict yourself freely.
Impugn the character of your interlocutor
When it’s pointed out.
A person who has spent a lifetime
Studying a particular subject
Is always wrong.
A young, attractive, charismatic person
Is always right,
Especially when disagreeing with a respected scholar.
The less evidence for a proposition,
The more likely it is.
All statements have an equal chance of being correct,
Unless there is evidence in favor of one.
In that case, it is false.
Define passion as
Willingness to be viciously rude and insulting.
Never make a friend
If you can make a buck.
If you don’t understand it,
It is contemptible.
If you see a bandwagon,
Jump on it.
Get angry when others
Don’t jump on the same bandwagon.
Don’t drive unless you’re texting.
You are too smart for rules.
Our motto: Supra Omnia Mihi
Regret nothing? You must be joking.
Regret all of it, wallow in it,
Hate yourself. Feel it searing your heart
Like the barrel of a spent machine gun.
How could you have been such an absolute brick?
How could any organism have survived
Millions of years of primate evolution
Only to humiliate the very worms from which it rose?
An oily spasm of muck would have done better.
A cabal of ooze would recoil from your touch;
Your slime would contaminate the corridors of Hell.
You could not rise to the dignity of a snake fart.
Ichor trails your every step.
A stench rises…
Why are you laughing?
I first posted this 4 years ago. Here’s a reprisal in honor of Bob’s Nobel. After “Song to Woody” by B. Dylan
Hey, Bobby Dylan I wrote you a song
It ain’t very short, on account of it’s long
‘Bout the songs that you wrote when you were a sprout
And the trouble it was to figure them out
So here’s to Dave and to Eric and the rest of your buds
And to the bottles and pints of delectable suds
That you downed with your pals all through those years
I’m surprised you’re still with us after all of them beers
Well I wonder what “Maggie’s farm’s” singing of
Or what “statues made of matchsticks” have to do with true love
I’ve often suspected that most of the time
That there’s nothing you won’t do for the sake of a rhyme
But, hey, Bobby Dylan I know that you know
This stuff I’m a-saying is pretty dang low
Considering how many folks you’ve inspired
Though exactly for what I’ve often inquired
There ain’t no good reason for another damn verse
But I said this was long for better or worse
Here’s my big chance for a Bob Dylan rhyme
So the graveyards and box cutters, all for a dime
Richard Lionheart’s heart has been exhumed, and, although to dust it has returned, what remains is mingled with creosote, frankincense, and numerous other fragrant herbs. The point seems to have been to preserve it and make it more attractive to God, who, as everyone knows, is easily fooled. Inspired by my friend Elaine Stirling, I thought I’d write a short poem in 12th century style, a low bar to clear, judging by this fragment:
Right, then:
King Richard had no heart so pure
It could be sent to all anon
As unadorned as baby’s bum
For God to fondle as He choose
It lies in France unaccidental
But in such company as befits
A king whose heart was torn
Twixt kindly deeds and murder
All tars and herbs the nose to please
Surrounded Richard’s organ
To no avail it seems
‘Tis naught but reddish dust these days
Maybe Prometheus could pull it off
To swindle Zeus with fatted bones
But God these days is wiser
Having seen enough of Europes’s kings
exiles child 