I wish I could say I was drunk when this happened

FAIL
Steam cleaning the rug
with an iron-
genius.
Unless
the rug is from Target.
Then it just gets crusty
and embarrassing-
like face scabs-
and now we have to wear socks
all the time. 

My Russian Loves, and the Implications of Baggy Clothing

Hey. Hey. So it is not my fault that much of my sloshed poetry highlights sexy time and man parts. It is not my fault because A of all: it is vodka's fault, and B of all: it is Alexei Nemov's fault. Just wanted to make this clear before we continue.

For all I know, it looks like a tiny french fry

Dude.

Baggy shorts

do nothing for you.

Pride in the packaging

of the package!

(If you continue

to swim in those shorts,

I will assume

you have a micropenis

and spread rumors

and start a blog about it.)

You take up

so many channels,

ESPNing all over my evening-

so stop being so useless

and start bulging.
Please.

I generally hate sports. There are several reasons for this. The biggest reason is probably because I find that most people who are into sports are incredibly irritating people. They sit there like idiots yelling at their television, and the outcome of whatever they are watching actually affects their mental well-being. Unless you have money on the game (which makes you stupid for another reason), I just don't understand the investment of energy, emotion, and time that goes into being a sports fan. It's frankly disgusting.

Aside from the fans, the actual sporting events themselves are also very very stupid. A guy makes this ball go through that goal/net/hole, and everyone watching makes loud noises and slaps their hands together like happy monkeys. This about sums it up: 18,000 People Cheer Thing Going Through Thing.

The one potential redeeming quality about sports is that a lot of the athletes are fit and muscly and therefore fun to look at. But of course all this potential redemption is wasted because athletes cover their hotness up with unflattering, ill-fitting, goofy clothing, thus cancelling out our last hope of finding worth in most sporting events. I'm sorry, but NOBODY will ever look attractive in basketball shorts.

Especially when those basketball shorts give you camel toe, Mr. Stockton. (O_o)

The only sports that I will bother watching are men's gymnastics and men's diving. And this is why:

And that, my friends, is successful packaging.

U.G.L.Y. You Ain't Got No Alibi

Tragic Loss

I am so

SO

attracted

to this picture

of you

that was taken

probably fifty years ago.

We could have been

lovers…

Why do you

have to be

so

old

and icky?

Then...

Now...

Praise be to Wal-Mart

Shopper's dilemma

Fuck you Wal-Mart.

All smiles?

Hardly-

I don’t want 150 thread count sheets

Or plastic tulips

Or generic Oreos

And

I don’t want to shop

Next to Butt Crack McGee

Or Mrs. Braless McKankles

Or Screamy Child.

I will never shop at you again-

As soon as you stop

Selling a gallon of milk

For a buck fifty

I grew up in a pretty small city. More of a village, really. A village in the middle of nowhere. Of course, I was happily oblivious of this when I was a child. As far as I was concerned, my village was a thriving metropolis. We had a 4-block-long downtown that boasted a 12-story skyscraper, a mini-mall for all your shopping needs, and even 2 McDonald's. I thought we had it all- that is, until Wal-Mart decided to come to town. I was a junior in high school when the superstore went up, and it was a BIG deal. Just how big, you wonder? Well. It was such a big deal, that our high school pep band was invited to come play the national anthem and the Wal-Mart theme song at the Grand Opening. As the drum major of said band, I got to lead the music. The cheerleaders also came out and bounced around doing a Wal-Mart cheer when the doors opened. And of course there was an invocation in which we thanked God and Wal-Mart for all the new jobs the store brought to the community, and in which we all offered up our silent prayers of hope for uber low prices on pet food and dish soap.

You think I am exaggerating? The proof is in the pudding (aka Wal-Mart's corporate press page: http://walmartstores.com/pressroom/news/5381.aspx)

I didn't get to go into the store at the Grand Opening. I had to go back to school. But the following weekend, I got my first taste of Wal-Mart. I had never been inside one before, so you can image how overwhelmed I was by the sheer acreage of the place. I was glad I had brought a buddy with me for moral support. At first we were excited about all the hot deals down every aisle. A giant bouncy ball for $5!!?? $10 for a pair of overalls!!!!!???? The endless variety of merchandise was also astounding. A whole aisle of car fresheners!!!!??? 

It wasn't long before the whole experience became just too overwhelming. In our dazed stupor, we forgot that we were supposed to be taking advantage of the low low prices, and instead we just started putting things where they didn't belong. This soon turned into a game - one that did not have any definitive objective but was nonetheless incredibly entertaining. We took a bottle of shampoo and put in the basket of bouncy balls. We tied a jump rope around a pack of adult diapers. An industrial tub of Vaseline went inside a camping cooler.

Unfortunately, a humorless employee caught on to our antics and asked us to either buy something or leave the store. We handed her the boxes of tampons that we were carrying and left.

I have since learned that Wal-Mart is a terrible company and that anything you buy at their store will likely disintegrate within 4 months of purchase. It is not okay to shop there. Unless you look like you've been exiled from a trailer park. Or unless you're going to need a lot of Vaseline next time you go camping.

Meet me in the love room

Today's drunk poetry is best read while listening to Yello's "Oh Yeah" from the Ferris Bueller soundtrack.

Dianasaurus Ross

In the good old days

there were no people.

Just long necks

and three horns

And love?

Never measured

in shitty wax chocolates.

No sir.

you could say it all

with tree stars,

finding your way to the GV,

where love blooms

under the sweet shade

of Diana Ross’s

massive fro

(she’s really old).

Oh, yeah…

So I have this friend. He's a very sexual person (not a bad thing, usually), and apparently he always has been. When he was about 6-years-old, he had a favorite stuffed animal - Littlefoot from TLBT. It was a very attractive stuffed animal. Very plush and snuggly. So lovable, in fact, that after a while, Littlefoot developed severe scoliosis from my friend's intensive cuddling. But that was okay because it was from love.

One day my friend's mother was cleaning up his bedroom. My friend was going to get around to it, but his mother was being unreasonably impatient about it, so she had taken matters into her own hands - much to her regret...

While she was cleaning, she came across a little note on the floor next to my friend's bed. It read exactly as follows:

"Littlefoot,

meet me in the love room.

SEX"

Now, rather than appreciating her son's advanced spelling skills, she got very flustered, full of parental concern. She burst into the living room where my friend was happily watching Eureka's Castle.

"What is this?" she asked, waving the note in the air.

My friend tried to play it cool. "It's just from a game I was playing."

"'Littlefoot, meet me in the love room. SEX.'???" she read the note out loud. "What kind of game were you playing, and where did you get the idea to play it!?"

My friend began to panic. "That's not what it says!" he cried, blushing. He pointed out that the "X" in "SEX" was clearly just a lower-case "t" that had gone a little wonky.

"It says 'SEt' - like a TV SEt! We were just going to watch TV!"

"In the love room?"

"...It says 'SEt'! Not the other word!"

"Yes, but why in the love room?"

"I don't know, that's just what it says!"

"But why did you write it!?"

"...Look, it's just a 't'!"

After a few more minutes of this back and forth, my friend still refused to back down from his explanation. His mother eventually gave up, and she probably spent the next ten years in fear that her son had a sexual interest in dinosaurs.

Fortunately, my friend's exploits in the love room with Littlefoot came to an end. It was just a phase. He has since moved beyond dinosaurs and has now settled on a sexual interest in other men. Especially if they are men wearing dinosaur costumes.

Stop, stop, stop, stop, oh God, please stop.

Sometimes I spend my time trolling around websites that encourage people to share their poetry with the world. One of the best ones is The Poetry Showcase. Sounds pretty fancy, right? The first thing that comes to mind is the Showcase Showdown from The Price is Right, which is (or used to be) a very fancy television show. But do not be deceived by the fanciness of the title! The Poetry Showcase is open to absolutely everyone and their grandma - every wannabe writer who has no hope in hell of ever writing something that anybody but their grandmother would like. So naturally, what TPS has ended up with is a website filled completely with piles and piles and more piles of poop poetry. I mean it's really really shitty. It's actually a fantastic place to visit if you ever need to feel better about your own ability as a writer, or if you just feel like making fun of other people.

And yet, a warning: trolling around on websites like TPS can be cataclysmically depressing. Sure, you're having a good time laughing at the failings of some no name "poet" (ohmygosh, that is the most horrid attempt at dactylic hexameter of all time bwahahaha!!!), but then you come across some poem that prudencefecklessmcsmith37 has written about her ailing tabby, Ms. Tickles, and you just start feeling sad...not because Ms. Tickles is up to four shots per week now, but because you'll realize that this is what humanity has come to. A world where prudencefecklessmcsmith37 calls herself a poet, along with 50 others who leave comments of praise for her so-called poetry along with well-wishes for Ms. Tickles. Oh, but she'll never be successful with her writing you think to yourself, trying to feel better about the world. But it's already happening. Shitty writers everywhere are not only publishing their shit- they're making butt-loads of money off of it. And you? You and your carefully written poetry or your novel that has so much potential? You have writer's block and you are too busy working to have time to write.

Anyways, consider yourself warned. If you're too lazy or scared to troll over to The Poetry Showcase, it's your lucky day because I have brought one of their poems here! This was a lovely little turd of a poem I found the other day - the subject matter makes it particularly relevant for our theme of drunkenness here at The Sloshed Poet. I've only taken excerpts from this poem, since it was so freakin' long. My comments are in red.

Just in case.

Tipsy by Chuck Rickman

La la la la, I'm so tipsy.
It's always so amazing to me
How much more perfect life can be
When you're a little tipsy. (agreed, but I already hate you because of your rhyming)

Why can't the president get tipsy?
Maybe then he'd be true,
Cause lying is just too hard to do
When you're good and tipsy. (this is the point where I just started feeling sad)

WhY CaNT writrz bee tispy?
Id't bee soooo much more fnu
Reeding stfuf that doznt maek too much sense tooooo reed all teh tiem liek this
CuZ YoUUUU Fogret to ryme when tispy! (Oh! Oh! I see what you did there! You misspelled things like a tipsy person would! And everyone knows how hard it is to keep your left pinky away from that damned shift key after a couple of cold ones! Clever to the max, Mr. Rickman!)

And why can't bus drivers and text drivers be tipsy?
Oh cause that'd be stupid. (It's one thing to be silly in your poetry, but now you're just being a racist homophobe. My two favorite bus drivers when I was little - Anita the lesbian and Javier the Mexican - were both tipsy at least every other day, and it wasn't stupid. I don't know what "text drivers" are.)

And why can't scientists get tipsy?
Hmmm.. What happens when you mix these.... BOOM!
I guess tipsy scientists could lead to much doom,
So they'd have to stay VERY lightly tipsy. (Moral implications not appreciated: Science will lead to the apocalypse)

And why can't we all be tipsy?
Cause every woman and man's-a
Better off that way, so just head to the next stanza,
Then we'll all get tipsy! (Stop, stop, stop, stop, oh God, please stop.)

I don't deny it's bad to be too tipsy,
But really I'm too tipsy to care.
Just be careful you don't go out there (...where? Since you didn't say, I'm assuming you mean to California because I might get raped by a gay Mexican. Really? Another tasteless joke? This is just crude now, Chuck.)
If you're a little too tipsy.

WHEEEEEEEEEEE!
Yeah I know that didn't end with tipsy,
Why are you getting so lip-sy?
I'm done here, so I can go WHEEEEEEEEEEE! (...are you peeing?)

Comments posted on TPS for Chuck's poem:

 

Mercy kill + Fishsticks = Win Win

The Easy Game

Dumplings

Lutherans

Apples to Apples

Kitties

Jeggings

Lamb Chop’s Play Along

Science

Spooning

Any man named Leslie

Scams

Used jock straps

Ursula the sea witch

Any Pokemon other than Magikarp.

It’s easy to think

Of things that are better

Than Nicolas Cage

Yeah, I know Magikarp eventually evolves into the Gyarados, but honestly, who has the patience? Or a better question- what kind of Pokemon trainer would be so inhumane as to let Magikarp suffer long enough for it to evolve? The easy solution (really, it's what's best for everyone): put Magikarp out of its misery. You can't honestly think it's having a good time flopping around on the ground, incapable of inflicting any damage on its opponent? Just kill it. It will probably thank you. And then double bonus- fishsticks for dinner!

Besides Magikarp, there are a few things that are worse than Nicolas Cage, but I've been hard pressed to think of more than a dozen or so. Here's what I've come up with so far:

I'm sorry if this list will give you nightmares. Really, I am. Btw, these pictures aren't paired next to each other for any particular reason (except Bump-its and Pocatello, Idaho). It's just the way I formatted them. Then again, I bet Ann Coulter is just the kind of psycho who drives a Hummer. And Stephanie Meyer probably is a slow walker- I still want to punch her in the back of the head even if she isn't. I also bet Maggie Gallagher is the kind of sick mother who would enter her toddler into a beauty contest. And M Night Shayamalan? He's totally the twisted kind of weirdo who would be into that creepy 3-boobed chick. As for Rebecca Black and the Double Down? They're both cheesy, they both give you heartburn, and they're both...fried?

Momma Tyra and Horse Love

Lousy Parenting

If Tyra Banks

Sent you a care package

It would contain exactly one

Onesie.

And Vaseline.

I am a faithful ANTM watcher. I am fascinated by the the creature that is Miss Tyra Banks, who, btw, is living in the Harvard dorms right now while she goes to business school- I am very very tempted to go hang around campus and see if she will be my friend. 

I am a less faithful watcher of her talk show, though it is equally fascinating. And by "fascinating," I don't mean that it's inspiring, educational, profound, or moving in any way. I mean that it's disturbing yet intriguing- like watching horses going at it. It's weird and kind of disgusting, but you just can't look away.

Anyway- here's part of the inspiration behind my drunk poem:

To her credit, I think she may be completely drunk in this video, so I can relate. But even when she is not possibly drunk, she is still a deranged lunatic:

In case you are still not convinced:

Like I said, fascinating.

Cartoon Hotties (Bow-chicka-wow-wow!)

Hentai

Sometimes I wish

I was Yu-Gi-Oh

(Google image search)

Because I would be attractive

And magical

Hey,

Lots of people are attracted to cartoons.

It's a well-documented fact that people have lower hotness standards when they are smashed. I'm pretty sure there's even a Mythbusters episode about it. What a lot of people fail to realize is that the drunk goggles also work with the hotness level of cartoons.

But let's warm up with an example of real-life people first. First, people who I would have sexy time with completely sober:

Ohmygosh, I'm drooling all over myself!!! Okay, I would do these next people if you got me tipsy. Note that gender ceases to be deal-breaker.

It's like, I love you Jason Mraz, buuuuuut...you're two mai tais short of Matt Damon. Now let's look at people who I would only do if I were completely sloshed.

I don't care how many tween girls and lonely middle-aged women think Rob Pattinson is hot- he's just icky. He's pasty, boring, stupid, terrible at acting, and you just know he's a miserable kisser. I mean look at his lips! Does he even have lips? But I guess I would still do him if I was drunk. Same with my truck-driving senator, Mr. Scott Brown, and with the mostly irritating but occasionally endearing Jack Black.

Still, no matter how drunk you get, there are limits to how low you will sink with your fuckery. I draw my line with these unfuckables:

No surprises, really. It would take a lot more than alcohol for me to put out for these charmers. I'm talking millions and millions of dollars, probably followed by years and years of therapy. Except for Mr. Cage. There's no way in hell that would ever happen. Ever.

Enough real people. Bring on the cartoon hotties!!! This works the same way as it does with real people, for the most part. I guess the major difference is that I actually have a shot with Chris Pine (a very miniscule shot), while I will only ever have a shot at sexy time with Prince Eric in my dreams. Because he's not real. And I'm not sure if he even has a penis. Part of me thinks that cartoons (especially the Disney ones) would look like Ken dolls if they pulled their pants down. Anyway, that's not important. The point is that if he were real (or I guess if I were a cartoon), we would get it on somehow. Because he's smokin' hot, as are his two Disney compadres:

Yep, Disney knows how to draw 'em hot. And now for our get-me-tipsy-first cast of characters:

I freakin' love Yu Gi Oh. With a happy little nudge from a drink or two, I would be all over these fellows. Heart of the cards, guide me indeed (right into their pants!). I would just have to be careful not to get poked by the pharaoh's hair- I mean, I'm assuming the carpet matches the drapes. And now onto cartoons that are only hot when I'm absolutely sloshed.

Before you judge me, let's take a careful look at these cartoons. I know that they look like animals, but really they act more like people. Simba is voiced by the adorable Matthew Broderick, and just look at that dashing silky hair. You can't tell me that he also wouldn't be a very good spooner. Then there's Raphael- do you see those muscles!? And the Beast- well I'm sure he's a beast in bed.

And now our last bunch of cartoons. No amount of alcohol could ever tempt me.

Frollo and Squidward for obvious reasons. And then there's the nameless prince that the Beast transforms into after Belle confesses her love. It's not that he's terribly ugly - he was just, so...disappointing. We grew to love the Beast, and then he turned into that. A pea-brained prissy with a weird nose, Angelina Jolie lips, and hair that's verging on a mullet. I hate him.

Sucky sober poetry

I still occasionally write sober poetry, and again I will emphasize the suckiness of this poetry compared to my drunk poetry. In case you do not believe me, I am going to prove it to you.

First this preface: Most of the sober poetry I write is part of this exchange I have going on with my mother. Every week, one of us picks out 3 words, and we both have to use those words in a poem. On Sundays, we email each other whatever we've come up with (awwww, I know, it's very sweet).

A couple weeks ago, I picked the words "combustion," "Russian," and "womanly" for our poems. Don't ask me why I chose them - they just came to me. Here's the piece of crap sober poem that I wrote. I didn't even title it because it's so shitty.

Combustion, combustion,
light it up like a matchstick
and smoke over the broad view-
the womanly landscape,
thick trunks of white Russian pine
still drunk on the
last licks of winter.
Let it fester and smolder
in the blurry forgettable background,
poking and prodding and stoking-
oblivious to the woman's swiveling hips
until she kicks you in the groin
with her back-draft.

Um, just a sec - I'll be right back. I just have to go puke a little bit...

Okay, I'm back. You agree with me, right? Call the janitor, because that poem was absolutely vomitrocious. Now for the drunk version. I still used the 3 poetry assignment words, but in way that is the opposite of sucky (aka AWESOME):

Sexy Time?

Combustion!

It’s all in the making-

My triumphant mechanics

And your

Respective

Womanly

Parts.

We fit like

Shapes in a baby’s puzzle.

We’ll have babies!

With Russian noses

And your…

Skin.

You have good skin.

What?

That doesn’t go there?

So this is what it feels like

To go spelunking…

Okay, so,

I may have lied about the combustion.

My Potty Mouth and Your Potty-Smelling... ... Shit

I am not a potty mouth. When I do use bad words, it's a conscious effort. Instead of popping out naturally, I have to actively decide to insert my expletive of choice. While I'm deciding, there's inevitably a gaping constipated pause in my sentence right before the naughty word, so when it finally comes out I end up sounding like an idiot.

Example 1: "I don't give a .... shit about what they think about me...!"

Example 2: "Ohmygosh did you see that!? She cut right in front of me, that ... ... bitch."

Example 3: "What the ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... fuck are you doing?"

You see? My potty mouth words are massive failures, instead of being the bad- ... ... ass trash talk that they are meant to be.

It's been such a serious source of shame, that for a while I considered therapy. But then I discovered that I can fix my problem by drinking. It lets me swear with confidence, poise, and dignity. Alcohol is a laxative for my previously clogged-up sentences. And a secondary beneficiary to my smooth swearing? My poetry of course:

The potpourri scent just makes it smell like potpourri-scented poop

This is one of the dumbest things
you can say:
"Let's clean it with Febreze!"
It's still dirty
you fucking moron.
The room still smells like armpit and ass.

Carrot + Kiwi = Cantaloupe. And Ryan Reynolds is hot.

I was feeling experimental last night with my cocktail making. Our friend Lisa flew in from Chicago to spend her spring break with us, and I was aiming to impress. I decided to use kiwis, which to me (and I think you'll agree with me on this) are just an inherently more fancy fruit than something like an orange or a strawberry. 

I bought some juice at Trader Joe's that looked very promising for my kiwi drink recipe- "Tropical Carrot Juice Blend." Not only was it a very pretty orange color, but it was also from TJ's, and almost anything you buy at TJ's is fantastic. I was very excited. I mottled some kiwi, made some lovely kiwi garnishes, and mixed the Tropical Carrot Juice Blend with some vodka. What did I get?
Cantaloupe (!!!???).
Oh, it tasted fine, but I couldn't help being a little disappointed. I wanted kiwi awesomeness and got cantaloupe taste. What the hell? Cantaloupe wasn't even an ingredient in the juice blend. Oh well, I still love you Trader Joe's.

Anyways, the alcohol still did its job. After drink #4, the poetry just started flowing:

Cantaloupe

I photoshopped

your face

onto Ryan Reynold’s body.

I anticipated something

magical.

But then your body was too orange

for your face,

and I never
looked at you the same way again.

Is it my lack of photoshopping skills

or your lack of orangey skin
that's the problem?

The secret to good poetry is to not be like Nicolas Cage.

People do stupid things when they are drunk. Like singing karaoke. Or getting a unicorn tattoo. Or peeing in the sink. I write poetry. And for some inexplicable reason (it may have something to do with magic), my drunk poetry is phenomenally better than my sober poetry.

Yes, I also write poetry when I am sober. It's where I got started. Unfortunately, the majority of this poetry usually falls somewhere between trash and poop. I guess I can't be too hard on myself. Most poetry out there- probably like 99% - is complete crap. Most of that 99% comes from English majors, I'm pretty sure. Anyways, given the suckiness of my past poetry, you'd think I would have given up and moved on to a more sensible hobby. The problem is that I've tasted that elusive 1%. On rare occasions, I've been able to extract that one sparkling diamond poem out of the trash and poop. It's like Dave Matthews or Nicolas Cage - they were able to miraculously produce that one good noteworthy performance, and now, no matter how shitty they are at what they do, they just keep pumping out more and more shit because they know that glorious feeling of pure shit-free success, and they want more.

But I don't want to be like Dave Matthews, and I definitely don't want to be like Nicolas Cage. In my perfect world, I would be the Lady Gaga or the Meryl Streep of poetry, pulling diamonds out of the poop left and right. I want to find that happy 1% more than just once in a blue moon.

Fortunately, fate has smiled on me. At last, at last, a key to good poetry! All my writing needed was a swift kick in the pants from a bottle of vodka. And lucky for me, I love drinking! It's really a fantastic set up for me.

The future looks much brighter now for my poetry. And while I'm still no Gaga or Streep, I'm probably on par with Robert Downey Jr. and I'm moving on up! The best part of it is - if I still write the occasional shitty poem, it doesn't matter because - hey, I was drunk.