The Whole Kit ‘n’ Caboodle

Foliage

What the hell is all this foliage doing on my part of the lawn? You didn’t understand our agreement, Fred. I specifically stated in our last town-hall meeting, and I quote: “Fred’s shrubs are a major pain in the ass and I’m going to chop them down with my blunt, rusty hatchet”. I mean what I said, Fred. You’ll find, if you haven’t already, that I am a man of my word. Now I’ll ask you one more time, just as nice as before, to banish your plants from my premises. It’s a request so simple that a chimp could comply.

Go do it yourself, college boy.

Grapefruit–Laughing

Enrage. N rage.
Roast the hidden extrovert.

Suspended below the tight rope walker,
a four-pound grapefruit–laughing.

Not for its countrymen, not for its love.
Not for its bulbousness.

For its deceptiveness and strange bitterness.

You’re A Funny Kid, Kid

Ï€: You’re a funny kid, kid.

ø: You’re a funny kid, kid.

Ï€: Stop copying me.

ø: Stop copying me.

Ï€: I’ll stop copying you if you tell me your favorite song.

ø: Yellow Submarine.

Ï€: Yellow Submarine.

ø: Stop copying me.

Ï€: Stop copying me.

Turmeric Is My Favorite Spice

§: Turmeric is my favorite spice.

ª: That’s lovely. Can I have my coffee now?

My Hamster Ball Will Not Interfere

©: However you may approach this situation, I assure you my hamster ball will not interfere.

ß: Yeah, I’ve heard that before. Never with a hamster ball, but the scenario has definitely presented itself in one form or another over the years.

©: Like what? Emotional distress?

ß: Occasionally. It has also manifested itself as hypochondria, rabies, testicular cancer, octopus ink, test-tube babies (twice), and a whole slew of times I was told that granola bars were none of my business.

©: Wow, that’s harsh. Granola bars should be everybody’s business.

ß: Yeah, I quit that job after two weeks.

Tell Me You’ve Got Something Better Than That

Tell me you’ve got something better than that.
You don’t?

Well, what do I have to do to furnish this apartment?
You’re turning my Sunday into a joke.
Don’t you understand the necessity of professional moving companies?

No, don’t give me that. These guys are bush league.
A mover in his prime has six years in the minors under his belt
before he so much as touches a corrugated box.

No, forget it. Do you see how Blue Cap Guy over here lifts with his back?
Bush league.

Rhyme Time, Yo (From the Unposted, Previously Unfinished Annals)

So here’s the gist, here’s the deal.
We have a lot of people making their spiel

about a guy who really didn’t do much in his life
aside from the living part, the kids and wife,

for what reason? He didn’t want to be ridden with guilt
and approach conversations on six-foot stilts.

He wanted peace, he wanted quiet, the kind of space to think,
in a world of vast opinion where individual liberties shrink

into untold recesses of ill-defined emotional junk.
So he grabs for his childhood, that meaningless chunk

setting him up for an average haze;
and now this last line rhymes with days.