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: