Worst Poem Ever

Not for the first time, I got to Wednesday night without a finished bit for my Thursday morning blog post.

I bought a Power Ball ticket.

No dice.

I thought about faking my death, but my unlicensed legal adviser told me that if I did and sold even one extra copy of Trouble in Taos

 or Volition Man

that I could be sued for fraud unless I was willing to actually…die.

“But how would anyone know if I sold one extra copy?”

My ULA (unlicensed legal adviser) gave me one of those looks lawyers (licensed or not) give you. “In your case,” she said, “that would be one copy… period.”

“Nope – not worth it,” I said.

“Too bad,” said my unlicensed legal adviser.

ULA’s can be mean.

Not surprisingly, other writers offered to come to my rescue offering stuff they would never get accepted by a legitimate publisher – figuring the only way it’ll ever see the light of day is on this blog. For the xx^th time, Stanley McFarland offered me his poem, Garumplefink.

“Haven’t I already posted this?” I asked.

“No, but you've turned it down several times.”

“Why do you think I've turned it down?” I asked Stan. (He hates it when I call him Stan instead of Stanley. Actually, I think he secretly hopes people will think he’s Stan Lee and give him credit for his favorite superhero Thor, whom he resembles…

 in no way what-so-ever.)

Stanley looked puzzled for a moment, and then said – “Because it’s too funny?”

“Right,”

After giving Stanley the mistaken impression I was considering posting his ‘too funny’ poem, Garumplefink, I started looking through a folder of unpublished poems he left with me, and found… The Worst Poem EVER!

I don’t think Stanley thinks it’s funny, but I do. I’ll skip the boring parts along with the title and get to the good stuff.

Every person is a sculpture

We begin roughly formed, and raw

We are shaped by sharp edges and blows

And pain

There’s a knee-slapper – at least it will have to serve as one because, as I said, it’s late Wednesday night and other than Stanley’s Garumplefink – I’ve got nothing.

At least I can assure you that I won’t even consider subjecting you to Garumplefink…

Until the next Wednesday night I’ve got nothing…

And Power Ball craps out…

And my ULA nixes everything else I think up.

And now - the news

O - I'll just have...

I have bagels for breakfast.

It’s not because I prefer bagels. Life is far too complicated for that. It’s that I know how to pronounce the word bagel and there’s a lot of comfort in that.

In a perfect world, I’d have that fluffy funny shaped breakfast pastry. I just don’t know how to ask for it.

Don’t get me wrong. I know the name for it. I just don’t feel right saying it.

Yes, I’d like a cup of coffee, some tomato juice and a quachsoahnt (spelled phonetically).

Any normal waitress would look at the guy who said that and unless he was Jacques Chirac, Jacques Cousteau, or Maurice Chevalier she would actively ignore him until he packed off his phony French accent to Mickey D's.

Stand back folks, he’s pretending to be French. It’s just a matter of time until he gets rude, lewd, nude or any combination of the above.

The other options are no better.

May I have a crescent roll please?

That name doesn't sound right unless spoken in the adolescent descant of the Pillsbury dough boy.

I could try the Americanizing compromise – cressahnt (again spelled phonetically). It’s an efficient way to sound both stuck-up and uneducated at the same time.

I’ll just have a bagel please.

How much of what we eat has to do with names? I’ve never tried mince pie because when I was six my brother (who loved mince pie,) told me it was made of shredded mice. I imagined the little mice that helped Cinderella, ground up by her wicked stepmother and stuffed into pastry dough. I know it’s not really made up of mice, animated or otherwise, and even if it were, the stepmother didn't do household duties, but as assuring as that sounds, the picture remains in my head.

Shoofly pie is very popular in eastern Pennsylvania. Winters are long there – maybe everything starts to sound appetizing after a while. I’d rather stay out of smelling range of that wonderful name image.

I eat asparagus, but that’s only because my Mom was smart enough to tell me it was something only grown-ups like, so I ate it to prove I was grown up. The trick didn't work when she tried it with lima beans, however.

Then there’s goulash. I’ll grant that it’s Hungarian, and goo might sound delicious in eastern Europe, but to create a viscous food that begins with goo is an almost certain way to keep little kids from eating it.

Name/image connection isn't foolproof. Abernathy, my neighbor’s kid, came over and saw a carton of mint chocolate chip in my freezer. As he was too young to read the carton, I tried telling him it was green ice snot with black boogers.

He still ate half the carton. Some kids just love boogers.

Unlike Abernathy, I am committed to my diet of easily pronounceable, non-image producing foods. In moments of fancy, I break free of my bondage – eating croissants, pate de foia grass, spotted dick,

well, you get the idea.

Or failing that, I imagine my whole wheat bagel to be a donut – or is it a doughnut?

Food spelling is a subject for another day.

Now some people will eat anything - as long as it's made of COOKIES!