The Dreamy Dream Poem

Last night I had a dream.

It was a dreamy dream.

Rain was falling ever so lightly.

The effervescent silver moonlight danced in the air, or some crap like that.

And then… I saw something.

At first I didn't know what it was.

But it turns out it was just this big ugly skank driving a minivan.

And she kept swerving over into my lane, almost hitting me, because she was talking on her stupid cell phone that she probably bought from some GED loser working at one of those kiosks that you see in the malls.

And then I said, “MOVE, YOU COW!”

Then after she sped up and slowed down for about the ninth time, I slammed on the accelerator and smashed into her minivan, right at the spot where she had a stupid bumper sticker that said “My child is a very special little queef at Blah Blah Blah Elementary School.”

And she wiped out the guard rail and sailed through the effervescent silver moonlight, landing upside down in a gully.

At first, I was going to just keep driving because I didn't want my #6 Combo from Wendy's that was sitting on the passenger seat to get cold.

But then I had a change of heart, so I turned back and made my way down to the wreck at the bottom of the ditch.

I thought maybe I should get her some band-aids, or take her to a vet or something.

The ugly skank was groaning, and I noticed she was stretching out her hand, trying to reach something.

It was her cell phone.

That was the last straw.

So I broke an 8-foot branch off a nearby tree and proceeded to transfer her to heaven via a skull fracture.

Then I wrote this poem, drove over to her house, and read it to her little queefy kid.

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For My Wife on Her 81st Birthday

Oh my love, your eyes are like two shiny emeralds

Surrounded by about 12 large sacks of old, crusty skin.

Your breasts are like two huge weather balloons

That have just been shot by a Russian mig.

Your hair is like... really gross.

Porqua. Porqua. Porqua.

I don't know what that means.

I think it's Mexican for water.

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My Dead Friend Larry

You were so alive, so full of hope, and in an instant, you were gone.

But that's what you get for running in front of a moving combine, you stupid bastard.

I tried to warn you.

I said, “Look out, Larry! Look out for the combine!”

But it was too late, you were gone.

I've never seen a combine whack off somebody's head like that before.

That was pretty cool.

Your father wept, your mother cried.

“No,” they said. “We don't believe it. He can't be dead.”

So I told them, “Hey, I was there, folks. His head came clean off. His body was one big, bloody hunk of goo when that combine was done with him. He's definitely dead.”

Oh Larry, why did you have to leave us?

Why did you have to go?

It was too soon.

You still owed me a whole bag of Jolly Ranchers.

Now what do I do?

Go up to your mom and say, “Hey, your dead kid owed me a bag of Jolly Ranchers. Cough em up, lady”?

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An Ode to White Trash

*I am ashamed to say that I have resorted to rhyming in this poem. I promise to never ever put this much effort into a poem again.

If you build it they will come.

They will come and come and come.

Obese families will waddle in and out.

Like colonies of Jabba the Huts with gout.

Welcome to Wal-Mart!

Welcome to Wal-Mart!

Daddy needs a blue shirt for his next trip to Hooters.

And a new shotgun to protect his trailer from looters.

Momma needs beef jerky and a new wedding dress.

She needs electrolysis too. Pliers will do I guess.

Welcome to Wal-Mart!

Welcome to Wal-Mart!

Spawn Number 11 needs a kick up side the head.

Or a swift crack on the jaw with a pipe made of lead.

Silence those obnoxious spawn! Beat them into submission!

Beat ‘em in the aisle with the stuff for huntin’ and fishin’!

Welcome to Wal-Mart!

Welcome to Wal-Mart!

Oh look, trampolines are on sale! They’re only half price!

We’ll put one next to our piles of refuse! That’ll look nice!

Screw the electric bill! Get that thing out of here!

We need a trampoline! We’ll use it to hold beer!

Welcome to Wal-Mart!

Welcome to Wal-Mart!

Silence that spawn! Sounds like a dying turkey!

Pull the Camaro around! Pass the beef jerky!

Eat that jerky! Pound the Nabisco!

Skeeter’s still hungry! Where’d we put the Crisco?

Welcome to Wal-Mart!

Welcome to Wal-Mart!

Where’d we put the Crisco? It’s on the trampoline.

Next to the methamphetamines and Jimmy Joe Jean.

Don’t eat all the Crisco! You’re making me stressed!

Save some of that! It’s for the wedding guests!

Welcome to Wal-Mart!

Welcome to Wal-Mart!

Later, after the drinkin’ and after the smokin’.

Long after the last collarbone has been broken.

The inbreds are nestled all snug in their filth.

While visions of Nascar dance in their gills.

Welcome to Wal-Mart!

Welcome to Wal-Mart!

“Good night, Junior Bob.”

“Good night, Fester Nob.”

“Good night, Cooter Hank.”

“Good night, Lula Skank.”

“Good night, Ray Mullet.”

“Good night, Cleft Palate.”

The sun will rise soon, a new day will start.

A new day to kill possums and eat a pop-tart.

A new day to worship Dale Ernhardt.

And hear the words most dear to our heart.

Welcome to Wal-Mart!

Welcome to Wal-Mart!

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For My Parents on Their 50th Wedding Anniversary

Sometimes late at night I look up at the stars.

And I wonder what it would have been like, if I had been born to someone else.

Someone who sold me into a Filipino slavery sex ring.

My life would probably have been very different.

I'll bet I would have herpes in a bad way.

But God saw fit to make me your son.

Somehow I beat out the other 250 million sperm racing to fertilize Mom's egg.

Funny, I've won virtually nothing else since then.

Even in the fifth grade, when I ran the 50-yard dash, I only came in ninth.

And there were only 10 kids in the race.

And the kid who came in 10th was a burn victim with no arms.

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Imagine This

Imagine there's no heaven.

It's easy if you try.

No hell below us.

Above us only sky.

Well, I'll tell you one thing.

If that happened I'd be really pissed off because I can't tell you how many hours I wasted going to mass and letting them put ashes on my forehead.

Plus there's all the hours I spent making up sins in the confessional and eating crappy pancakes made by the Knights of Columbus.

I can't get those hours back.

And another thing... if there wasn't a heaven or a hell, I'd probably start telling people what I really think of them.

I'd say, “You know what, Kevin? You're a dickhead. I don't think I want to work for you anymore. In fact, I think I'm gonna kill your family.”

I wouldn't really kill his family, but I'd probably let him think that because it would be really funny.

And every few days I'd drive by his house, and I'd honk, and when his kids came outside, I'd make a slitting gesture with my finger across my throat.

Imagine that, Kevin.

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