June 26, 2017 § 28 Comments
Your dog died,
And I’m sorry,
because you loved your dog
He had a horrible high barking yelp
And one time he nipped my ankle so hard he drew blood
And left a cluster of tiny scars, like a Braille tattoo
Of the name of my worst enemy.
So I gave you a heart online
Because it’s easy to do
It’s not conflicted
It doesn’t explore the cognitive dissonance
Of me loving you and feeling your pain
And yet hating that asshole of a nippy dog
Who is dead.
Hearts are great
And so are smiley faces
Except when they start replacing things that are hard
And I’m afraid one day I’ll get sick
Or my mom will die
Or a friend
And I won’t get a single card
I’ll just get a thousand hearts
That go dark when I turn off my phone.
And so, as usual, this is about me
And it’s for me that I go to your house
And knock on your door
And tell your red eyes I’m sorry
About the loss of your douche of a mutt
Who is probably right now nipping the other little dogs
Off the rainbow bridge.
And you say, I know you hated Creedence Clearwater Revival
Which is the name of your stupid dog
And I agree, and we have a fight, and drink a beer
And that’s friendship
Sometimes it’s hard.
Hard as a set of tiny fangs
Going into the flesh of an ankle.
But I’ll keep trying to do what’s hard
Even when the temptation is to do what is easy
Because Love is hard
And buttons are easy.
And I’d rather be liked than get liked.
I’d rather have your heart
Than have you press a button
And give me one.
February 14, 2017 § 20 Comments
I’m going to find me a little girl, one with at least two bandaids on her shins and a book in her hand
And her hair uncombed in the back
One who has already adopted a spider and the lonely neighbor who still gets the paper
And I’m going to sponsor that little girl
In her eventual run for president.
I’m gonna find that girl in a place where the waves meet the beach
And I’m going to say: Reject that device that will let you see a pretend ocean
And a pretend beach
Build your own sand castle, little girl.
And when the waves take it.
Build it again.
I’m going to sneak into her class and whisper things to her things like:
Hey, sometimes the best people feel the worst
It’s the way things are
but keep on feeling.
Until the teacher says, Can you please leave? You are disturbing the caged parrot.
And I’ll leave but from the corner of my eye
I’ll see the little girl open the window
And free the parrot and the teacher.
And when the little girl runs for playground Senate
And she is pelted with water balloons by her detractors,
I’m going to tell her,
Sometimes to make a difference, you have to get your hair wet
And then I’m going to get a sack of water balloons
And hunt down every one of those kids
And spend time in prison
Because no one pelts my little girl with water balloons.
And when it comes time for the little girl to like a boy
Not that one
Not that one
Maybe that one.
And if she says:
Actually, I prefer girls
Not that one
Not that one
Maybe that one.
And when that little girl turns 35
And still has bandaids on her shin
And a book in her hand
I’ll say now it’s time to run
And if she says
Actually I’d just like to raise children
Or own a goat farm
Or paint on walls
Well, the truth is,
Being yourself is a form of running
December 15, 2016 § 21 Comments
Patient: Everyone hates me. They tell me they wish I was never born. They tell me they wish I would die in a fire. Explode into tiny little motes of existential failure. They say my mother was a jackal.
Psychiatrist: I wish I could tell you that was just paranoia. But everyone does hate you. I hate you too. I too wish you would die in a fire. I too think your mother was a jackal.
Patient: You seem unprofessional.
Psychiatrist: What can I tell you, 2016? You just basically sucked in every way. I mean, go find one person who says 2016 was his year.
Patient: I just saw someone the other day screaming 2016 was his year.
Psychiatrist: Was he running in traffic?
Patient: Yes, come to think of it, he was.
Psychiatrist: Then that was sarcasm.
Patient: But I can’t help being born 2016 anymore than a snake can help being born a snake, or a paid-off congressman can help being born a paid-off congressman, or a sack of heroin cut with deadly rat poison can help being born a sack of heroin cut with deadly rat poison.
Psychiatrist: The sack of heroin cut with deadly rat poison at least came with the beautiful dream of heroin. You are just the rat poison.
Patient: I’m not feeling any better. In fact I’m feeling worse.
Psychiatrist: Let me prescribe you an overdose of antidepressants.
Patient: I’ll see myself out.
Psychiatrist: You killed Prince.
(on the way out, 2016 sees the next patient, 2017)
2016: You look so sleek and new, 2017. Like Justin Bieber when he was playing for street money and doing YouTube videos. What are you doing here? Everyone loves you.
2017: I’m scared. There is so much riding on me. I’m the shiny gold coin at the bottom of the dumpster fire of you. And gold is probably a good idea, since you wrecked the economy. Any advice for me?
2016: Stay off the internet.
July 1, 2016 § 6 Comments
And that’s kind of a bummer, since I liked that day a lot. But the good news is, they are leasing it back to us so that we can enjoy Saturday too. Thank you rich people!
8AM-11AM You enjoy sleeping in, don’t you? This block of time is yours for a mere $250/month, except on the months where there are five Saturdays, which will be $285.
11AM – 3 PM: This is great time for going to the beach, having family barbecues, or merely shaking a pale, angry fist at the sky while your cat, who was a filthy rich pharaoh in a previous life, silently mocks you. For a cat, every day is Saturday. $410/month.
3 PM – Midnight. This is really the best value. At a mere $555 you can get the nine hour package. And with a Diminishing Middle Class Groupon, you can get $75 off your first Saturday, try it out and see if you like it.
I know a lot of you are complaining right now that Saturday used to be a basic human right. But hey, so did water, fellow pawns! What can you do? At least sunlight is free.
UPDATE: SUNLIGHT IS NO LONGER FREE. Please allow an 8 hour window for the technician to come and install your sunlight. Which is next to impossible in the dark. Take it up with your local sunlight monopoly.
May 12, 2016 § 8 Comments
Ok, I know everyone and their dog is writing a book. I know that this increases the competition and the battle over the only resource that Nestle isn’t sucking out of the ground: Readers. I know all that, but I was comforted by the fact that dogs lack the passion and commitment to write a book.
But now someone’s stupid dog has written a book. Not only written one, but gotten one published, by a major publishing house after a heated auction. (The stupid dog tried to hump all the publishers in the heated auction until it was explained to him it wasn’t that kind of heat.)
A fellow writer frenemy, who loves my pain and quietly celebrates my failures, as I do my writer friends, calls me to tip me off.
FRIEND: The book is called BALLZ GONE and is just a series of paw prints.
ME: Please tell me this is a joke.
FRIEND: (imagining the sharpness of the razor blade I am currently selecting): I’m not kidding. It’s already 73 on Amazon. What was your ranking on your last book again?
ME: (lies) I have no idea.
FRIEND: Well, of course it’s a male dog. You know female dogs wouldn’t have the same shot.
ME: Listen, maybe the book is all the talk today, but tomorrow it will just a memory. (much like this conversation, I think to myself, breaking out the tequila and benzos.)
But the next day, BALLZ GONE is number 8 on the New York Times Best Seller list, not with a bullet but with a Frisbee. That’s the kind of humor that is in my book, which says a lot.
The stupid dog appears on Good morning America. George Stephanopoulos says “Man Parts” instead of “balls” on the air because he is a polite twelve-year-old from a defunct school of manners. The dog pants. Everyone claps.
I see Ballz Gone everywhere, in the local independent, in the airport, in the supermarket book section where only the hottest authors reside.
The next author’s conference I go to, of course the idiot dog is sitting next to my signing table while his increasingly rich master, a man with a goofy grin and hairless arms, presses the dumbass’s paw into an ink pad and then presses his “signature” into the books of an eager line that stretches around the corner. I have seven people in my line. One of them is seeing-impaired, and is tipped off that she is in the wrong line when the idiot, lucky-ass dog spies a squirrel through the window, and lets out a high, primitive yelp.
I’m not bitter. No, really. How well my books are selling compared to a dog’s is no function of my value or my worth as a human being. You know, Xanax tastes a bit like chalk and Tang.
Three weeks later. Reese Witherspoon picks up the film option. John Malkovich will play the moody, emasculated protagonist. Angelina Jolie will go against type to play his mother, a lean and saintly Tibetan Mastiff who will murmur things like: You must one day face the vet, my son.
Another seven weeks pass. There are now 3 million copies of Ballz Gone in print.
Where was I? Oh yes, I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine. I write my first memoir, THIS WORLD IS UNFAIR, PUBLISHING IS RIGGED, AND I’M GLAD YOU LOST YOUR BALLZ. My mother buys it.
Slowly, finally, after three years, Ballz Gone creeps back down the bestseller list, falls off and plays dead.
And I can live again.
Until I hear about the sequel, HIGH PRIMITIVE YELP, which is just the stupid dog yelping on a loop when he sees a squirrel.
October 16, 2015 § 10 Comments
Once I was on a party boat in Acapulco
And halfway through it I found out that by some amazing coincidence
Everyone on it had given me a one star review on Amazon
Including the bar boys
And at first they were polite, saying things like, It just wasn’t for me
Or it started good and dragged in the middle
And then they drank a bunch of cheap tequila shots
And started saying meaner things
Like your novel sucks
And you suck too
And if I could have given it zero stars
I would have.
Furthermore, I’d like to murder everyone on your acknowledgment page
With a club made from the wood of the tree that died for this thing you call a book.
They formed a conga line and shouted you suck! you suck!
To the beat of Taylor Swift
And the bar boys shouted Usted suckoste! Usted suckoste! Dirty whore!
Which is guess is a kind of spanglish.
Anyway I also saw
A couple of dolphins.
September 7, 2015 § 42 Comments
I’m on a plane right now
Houston to LA
and I’m thinking
Jesus would take the middle seat.
He’d give me the window so I could see the clouds.
Maybe clouds bore him.
Maybe he sees his own face in a cloud
Or on a wall
Or a muffin
And he thinks it’s a miracle.
Jesus doesn’t put his seat back.
Because there might be a Roman soldier behind him with bad knees
And Jesus forgives everything.
Jesus listens carefully to the flight attendant’s instructions
Jesus asks for water, but when he touches it, it turns to wine.
The stewardess says, that will be five bucks and Jesus pays for it without complaining.
I don’t know what to say to Jesus
But I need to say something because, Jesus.
I say he looks considerably darker
than his likenesses on Etsy watercolors
And he says, there’s been a bit of pigment revisionism going on in recent centuries
Which sounds cool when Jesus says it
And I say, you know they darkened OJ Simpson on the cover of Time Magazine during his trial,
And Jesus nods
Because maybe he’s followed the trial
Or maybe he’s just being polite.
I start rambling on about how impressive it was to me that he forgave douchey mankind
And ask him what happened to the lamb on his lap in the paintings
And if he took that lamb to heaven
Where it is currently still young and still cute.
A bead of sweat rolls down my face because I’m sounding like an idiot.
I almost ask him if Mel Gibson is like the embarrassing friend you have to invite to parties,
But I stop myself and say instead, “Kanye West thinks he’s you.”
He has a nice smile and he smells like a feather would smell
If lambs had feathers
Flying like Jesus is like flying with the biggest celebrity in the universe
like, three Oprahs
I want to ask him if he’s mad that I never could quite commit
and if dogs and fish see him at the end
and if he always flies American.
I always pictured him on Jet Blue.
And I don’t want the plane to land
Because I never quite believed.
And now I do.
I believe I believe I believe.