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About Literature / Professional Senior Member GrandpaMale/United States Groups :iconsuturehq: SutureHQ
Stitching 'em up since 2003
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Deviant for 15 Years
Core Member 'til Hell freezes over
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Random from DD's I Featured

Literature
If a Lion Could Speak
The world churns this body,
has been my whitish ipecac,
like a big tongue in the gut,
has made me hurtle words.
I am a refinery, a plant that shits beauty.
I’m tired and frightened, that is depression,
I’ve said it before.  Nothing is everything is love,
and no great love for the man'inventing.
Touch me off, go back to the aether,
monkey fist, half-hitch, noose.
Love is a sandpaper, it smooths corners,
it bevels edges, it makes dust of us,
finally we go back to the wind.
Every ribcage is a ladder with rungs
of bone.  I’m glad I’m thin
so I can count how high I have to go.
                       *
On the hunt, the devil grass hurts
my eyes.  I’d rather sleep,
I’d rather yawn my children into petted being.
The thousand frights between
my lips have made such games
of ivory shaking in the voice of earth.
Down at the r
:iconcreightonwrites:creightonwrites
:iconcreightonwrites:creightonwrites 127 87
Literature
Punkin
spring,
and you
plant your seed.
Rains taper, and
you watch carefully
during those first eight weeks.
As my flower blossomed, your
seed nurtured in my fertile womb,
you fled.  Ran through the thick iron gates
that protected my garden, left them ajar
and
summer
nudged its way
in, left me parched
and exposed in its
unforgiving light.  Though
by August the days became
cooler, and left me exhausted.
Just a skeletal frame now; bearing
boldly the fruit of your plunder, my soul.
Come
autumn
you became
fully ripened
and ready for birth.
When you were cut from
the vine which had joined us
I no longer had reason
to live.  I, a barren shell of
what once gave you life.  You exploited
proudly, a paragon of the season.
By
winter
you were dead.
You had shriveled
into a shell.  They
boxed up the memories
and took you outside to rot
tossed carelessly upon a pile,
the last remains of mother and child
disintegrate together.  Awaiting
:iconkillfreethings:killfreethings
:iconkillfreethings:killfreethings 67 61
Literature
When I Have Felt
When evening soaks the sky and puts on damp
The sun, that molten bead of paint, darkened now
And watered down --
                               When stars are piled thick
And stirred on high-borne vapours, paling then
The upper verge --
                             When starlings flock in screws,
All sprinting, mirrored over cold-sourced brooks,
With each their cry --
                                When under twilit water,
Through shaft-lit verdure fish propel, gleening
In silvered schools --
      
:iconthislightthat:thislightthat
:iconthislightthat:thislightthat 42 40
Mature content
Lyrical motions by candlelight :iconsaracen-moor:saracen-moor 53 35
Literature
05.04.29
If I told you
    I don't
                          you—anymore — Maybe
              I never did
I wonder if you would survey
me with those
                             saddest
                             sweetest
                              yet have I been unpromising:
          
:iconSynalle:Synalle
:iconsynalle:Synalle 68 125
Literature
Black Bird
I've told you I'm staying in tonight,
you, as usual, haven't listened.
Negligent out of pain, perhaps –
a thorn lifted off some nightmare
flower. You ask me to remove it,
have tried a shower. I'm thinking
if the water can't free it, how will I?
Besides, I've seen a bird, which,
as it starts to trill, suggests were I
such a thing, I'd rather be dumb.
Still, my not singing like a bird,
does it mean you can't call me one?
Again, you're not listening. And
it's flown off now into that gloom
where everything feels heavier,
but I don't suppose is. It presses
like the sloping walls of a Gallic
town, spied from an odd angle.
:iconventurus:venturus
:iconventurus:venturus 50 81
Literature
I fell the night He rose
it was Easter Sunday, the year 2004
when in a series of gulps
I lost my innocence
and ol' man Nelson told me stories in my grandmother's house
his old guitar singing the lovechild of a blues, jazz, country, folk orgy
but I'm thinkin' in blue skies instead of gray now
and I know he was justa wannabe Injun pothead
being melancholy on his ay-
          coo-
   stick
Yea I followed granny's example
'cause my head was ahurtin'
and they were like the horde of blue skittles
hid from the masses since the beginning
and I tasted the rainbow
but my memory's jogged for miles now
and I know the orange bottles made them as gray as
the hair on the robots in retirement
wearin' diapers 'cause dey jus' don' kno wen dey gon' go
so here's to chemical tesseracts
mixing the first note with the last
while ol' Willie just braidin' his grays
and I'm wond'rin if I wanted a headache
in that chilly Easter living room
but my eyesight's been well adju
:iconaBoycallednever:aBoycallednever
:iconaboycallednever:aBoycallednever 37 59
Literature
Chocolate Covered Rodents
My momma always said,
"Life's like a box of chocolates,
you never know what you're gonna get."
and I always used to say,
"Momma, what was life like
before they put chocolate in boxes?"
About that time there was this little girl.
In a strawberry cream square
she found the skull of a rat.
It must have snuck through the clockwork
of that factory,
the one up on the edge of town
where the squatters get high now.
Her neighbours said that she cried
all night for weeks on end.
They say that's what drove her mother out.
And her teachers were so concerned
they held a meeting to discuss
the little girl's paintings
of chocolate-covered rodents.
And her dad! He was so mad
That he came out with a statement,
all emotional and frail looking.
"What's the world coming to,"
and he's quoted to this day,
"when we can't trust chocolate
to be chocolate any more?"
It reminds me of my own little girl.
"Chocolate's like a box of lifes
you never know what you're going to get."
and I say to myself,
What was choco
:icontreefingerer:treefingerer
:icontreefingerer:treefingerer 161 109
Literature
Eight Kisses
Eight Kisses
One
You can call
it emptiness, breath, epithet, or oblivion
or love, or the thing we can't
touch, while in motion.  
      The rush
of your mouth in me like icemelt water,
innocent, surging
like a creek,
touching,
   stopped.
                                                          Second Kiss
                                                         
:iconcreightonwrites:creightonwrites
:iconcreightonwrites:creightonwrites 943 427
Literature
No Train For Yesterday
I spend two & a half smiles on strangers,
drink a bottle of casual words
& head down a silent street, accompanied
by muted endeavors of faceless clowns.
It's a tired, malnourished day, strained
over frail dusty bones of hours
& as I run my hand along a minute,
it feels like leather, worn from wear.
You still arise in idle thoughts:
the way you stopped to watch me at
an ambiguous train station up north.
You were the streetlight that blinked on
& off in futile attempt to murder wind
while snow raced horizontal lines
& hurried past large metal doors.
You seemed to revel in movement,
smoothed air with your skin
as I headed on.  Gave shelter
to a misplaced thought & lost another
in muddy puddles behind my temples,
aching now, condensed for spare.
The smell of old liquor & masculinity
still lingers in my nostrils' memory.
You asked for clarity in all I said
out of spite & I couldn't find the words.
Shreds of sentence fragments tasted bitter
& I washed them down with another
glass o
:iconkrissie:krissie
:iconkrissie:krissie 72 81
Literature
pavor nocturnus
a hallway built from centuries of flesh,
the untranscendent stuff that we might eat or
fear, generational food for many more
than the most brilliantly acclaimed despots.
a hall for walking down without legs.
               but what do i remember from before; a hospital room
in the white it ought to have been but without instruments
or the synthetic clack of machines pumping fluid life,
two dead men who were not(in the simplest terms),
who stood up to excrete their last in an explosive off-yellowish deluge
that ran after my feet.
i left, waiting, with others, seemingly young but knowing more than me
with a history of men they carried on their tongues,
a germanic heritage sacrosanct.
there was no water that was not human,
this was only an abdomen with only one road and i should have known that
but in the last minutes clinging to the ruddy unmade bodies of
my comrades, my mouth manages breath in this place bereft of air,
and i want to know where i am going--
               this is where;
:iconcarissima82:carissima82
:iconcarissima82:carissima82 34 70
Literature
As A Row Of Tents
Genetics ganged-up,
forced my hair into retreat,
unable to cope with the things
I have to face.
So my haircut is,
shall we say, aerodynamic.
To lessen the effect
of my skull poking through.
Coupled with the harsh angles
of my face it gives me
a thuggish air. Policemen
eye me suspiciously,
OAP's cross the street
and real thugs
exhume their aggression
from shallow graves.
Donning designer specs
and perfectly ironed shirts
softens the impact
on the eye,
but unfortunately
it lends me an entirely
different air altogether.
:iconflamemc:flamemc
:iconflamemc:flamemc 22 80
Literature
Opportunity-8.February
.
2.8.
the texture of my missed sunrise
wrapped in amber arms and a smirk
fluxing in the newborn light:
I'd've flung myself in arms that begged to hold me
           if I'd known they were there
I'm staring into your distance, someone
singing in my buttoned ears
—chops for my cubical existence
wandering mind
there's cement beneath us in springtime, still cold
to the touch of jean-clad cheeks,
this tank top rag doll
folded into your lanky figure,
patient for day
I'm trapped,     sometimes,
in fleeting shadows—moments that shouldn't feel
like midwinter sun taunting,
glaring winds
tangling the air, hair
falling in your solstice eyes,
but they do
.
:iconecho-si:echo-si
:iconecho-si:echo-si 60 58
Literature
se fue
Altered as the vista comes near before departing.
Light cascading, conscious of the night runs through
windowshades and shutters made of wood.
Se fue to red sky tired eyes on sunrise wake
half-way
'cross the orb.  
Skylines formed from moonlight, crushed glass and a
peaks-mind, pushing through horizons of grass.
     Ego brought to knees-light, minds-eye lulled to passerby,
brightened by the palette and the dye.
Here is the flattened man, who walks past flaming sword in
pennance for women-scorned left forlorn in mockery of loyalty
     and lust.
Face turned to west-land, never reaching now-gone babylon.
     Escóndame en el rincón mientras yo me pudro.
Pushing pulling lying past the gates
     Walking across the thirsty desert, sitting 'neath the bush,
listening like child mourned for foolish idiocy.
Like son whose father beats him for effeminancy, he hides it
'till he bears th
:icondarkandlight:darkandlight
:icondarkandlight:darkandlight 33 65
Literature
Adventure
This is what midnight feels like.
Boiling water, a kiss in yellow tapestry
on the ground, against a wall, adjacent
to golden curtains with cracks of window
crevice; space for thieves to assess a steal.
Voyeurs to imagine an other's meal.
Nude walls, dead paper, pens uncapped;
dust hiding in shadows.
Callous it is here, malice sleeping,
Drying dreams on vacation,
My mellow mind's light, nonconcern
as to earn's to lose; to fail's to adjourn.
:icondelliversagain:delliversagain
:icondelliversagain:delliversagain 31 256
Literature
trapped like rats
every electric keyboard whine can be sublime
when mice eat cheese all night from silver dishes that
      tickle their whiskers
and the rats will cringe from where they wait in the wings
with their hairy tails in traps,
           "oh the tales we could tell, cos you see,
      we used to get the cheese
back when the wurlitzer hum made the basement floor and
walls samba like a six-point-five somewhere along the
san andreas, bigger at the epicentre, yes,
      don't you see now…"
           yes, see now –
when your life story consists of bottomless lattes
           (oh heaven)
and the hours you waste thinking on the years
you wasted getting the education you'll never use and for which
you didn't save the receipt so there's no return,
      no refund or exchange;
all those little lives are gone like the will of mice
in traps when the top half of the cage
clangs down on the bottom and all that cheese just
rots in their stomachs like acid and they'd
      rather be the rat –
"at least for
:iconTuaVerbaNihiliFacio:TuaVerbaNihiliFacio
:icontuaverbanihilifacio:TuaVerbaNihiliFacio 65 66
A collection of some of the DD's I featured during my 2 1/2 years as Tier Admin/Gallery Director. It's depressing to see how many DD's have been deleted, either because the author quit the site or was banned during the Great Purge of 2005. I've counted 38 such poems that are lost to us. What a shame.

Random Favourites

Literature
Black Bird
I've told you I'm staying in tonight,
you, as usual, haven't listened.
Negligent out of pain, perhaps –
a thorn lifted off some nightmare
flower. You ask me to remove it,
have tried a shower. I'm thinking
if the water can't free it, how will I?
Besides, I've seen a bird, which,
as it starts to trill, suggests were I
such a thing, I'd rather be dumb.
Still, my not singing like a bird,
does it mean you can't call me one?
Again, you're not listening. And
it's flown off now into that gloom
where everything feels heavier,
but I don't suppose is. It presses
like the sloping walls of a Gallic
town, spied from an odd angle.
:iconventurus:venturus
:iconventurus:venturus 50 81
Literature
I fell the night He rose
it was Easter Sunday, the year 2004
when in a series of gulps
I lost my innocence
and ol' man Nelson told me stories in my grandmother's house
his old guitar singing the lovechild of a blues, jazz, country, folk orgy
but I'm thinkin' in blue skies instead of gray now
and I know he was justa wannabe Injun pothead
being melancholy on his ay-
          coo-
   stick
Yea I followed granny's example
'cause my head was ahurtin'
and they were like the horde of blue skittles
hid from the masses since the beginning
and I tasted the rainbow
but my memory's jogged for miles now
and I know the orange bottles made them as gray as
the hair on the robots in retirement
wearin' diapers 'cause dey jus' don' kno wen dey gon' go
so here's to chemical tesseracts
mixing the first note with the last
while ol' Willie just braidin' his grays
and I'm wond'rin if I wanted a headache
in that chilly Easter living room
but my eyesight's been well adju
:iconaBoycallednever:aBoycallednever
:iconaboycallednever:aBoycallednever 37 59
Literature
Chocolate Covered Rodents
My momma always said,
"Life's like a box of chocolates,
you never know what you're gonna get."
and I always used to say,
"Momma, what was life like
before they put chocolate in boxes?"
About that time there was this little girl.
In a strawberry cream square
she found the skull of a rat.
It must have snuck through the clockwork
of that factory,
the one up on the edge of town
where the squatters get high now.
Her neighbours said that she cried
all night for weeks on end.
They say that's what drove her mother out.
And her teachers were so concerned
they held a meeting to discuss
the little girl's paintings
of chocolate-covered rodents.
And her dad! He was so mad
That he came out with a statement,
all emotional and frail looking.
"What's the world coming to,"
and he's quoted to this day,
"when we can't trust chocolate
to be chocolate any more?"
It reminds me of my own little girl.
"Chocolate's like a box of lifes
you never know what you're going to get."
and I say to myself,
What was choco
:icontreefingerer:treefingerer
:icontreefingerer:treefingerer 161 109
Literature
Eight Kisses
Eight Kisses
One
You can call
it emptiness, breath, epithet, or oblivion
or love, or the thing we can't
touch, while in motion.  
      The rush
of your mouth in me like icemelt water,
innocent, surging
like a creek,
touching,
   stopped.
                                                          Second Kiss
                                                         
:iconcreightonwrites:creightonwrites
:iconcreightonwrites:creightonwrites 943 427
Literature
No Train For Yesterday
I spend two & a half smiles on strangers,
drink a bottle of casual words
& head down a silent street, accompanied
by muted endeavors of faceless clowns.
It's a tired, malnourished day, strained
over frail dusty bones of hours
& as I run my hand along a minute,
it feels like leather, worn from wear.
You still arise in idle thoughts:
the way you stopped to watch me at
an ambiguous train station up north.
You were the streetlight that blinked on
& off in futile attempt to murder wind
while snow raced horizontal lines
& hurried past large metal doors.
You seemed to revel in movement,
smoothed air with your skin
as I headed on.  Gave shelter
to a misplaced thought & lost another
in muddy puddles behind my temples,
aching now, condensed for spare.
The smell of old liquor & masculinity
still lingers in my nostrils' memory.
You asked for clarity in all I said
out of spite & I couldn't find the words.
Shreds of sentence fragments tasted bitter
& I washed them down with another
glass o
:iconkrissie:krissie
:iconkrissie:krissie 72 81
Literature
pavor nocturnus
a hallway built from centuries of flesh,
the untranscendent stuff that we might eat or
fear, generational food for many more
than the most brilliantly acclaimed despots.
a hall for walking down without legs.
               but what do i remember from before; a hospital room
in the white it ought to have been but without instruments
or the synthetic clack of machines pumping fluid life,
two dead men who were not(in the simplest terms),
who stood up to excrete their last in an explosive off-yellowish deluge
that ran after my feet.
i left, waiting, with others, seemingly young but knowing more than me
with a history of men they carried on their tongues,
a germanic heritage sacrosanct.
there was no water that was not human,
this was only an abdomen with only one road and i should have known that
but in the last minutes clinging to the ruddy unmade bodies of
my comrades, my mouth manages breath in this place bereft of air,
and i want to know where i am going--
               this is where;
:iconcarissima82:carissima82
:iconcarissima82:carissima82 34 70
Literature
Opportunity-8.February
.
2.8.
the texture of my missed sunrise
wrapped in amber arms and a smirk
fluxing in the newborn light:
I'd've flung myself in arms that begged to hold me
           if I'd known they were there
I'm staring into your distance, someone
singing in my buttoned ears
—chops for my cubical existence
wandering mind
there's cement beneath us in springtime, still cold
to the touch of jean-clad cheeks,
this tank top rag doll
folded into your lanky figure,
patient for day
I'm trapped,     sometimes,
in fleeting shadows—moments that shouldn't feel
like midwinter sun taunting,
glaring winds
tangling the air, hair
falling in your solstice eyes,
but they do
.
:iconecho-si:echo-si
:iconecho-si:echo-si 60 58
Literature
se fue
Altered as the vista comes near before departing.
Light cascading, conscious of the night runs through
windowshades and shutters made of wood.
Se fue to red sky tired eyes on sunrise wake
half-way
'cross the orb.  
Skylines formed from moonlight, crushed glass and a
peaks-mind, pushing through horizons of grass.
     Ego brought to knees-light, minds-eye lulled to passerby,
brightened by the palette and the dye.
Here is the flattened man, who walks past flaming sword in
pennance for women-scorned left forlorn in mockery of loyalty
     and lust.
Face turned to west-land, never reaching now-gone babylon.
     Escóndame en el rincón mientras yo me pudro.
Pushing pulling lying past the gates
     Walking across the thirsty desert, sitting 'neath the bush,
listening like child mourned for foolish idiocy.
Like son whose father beats him for effeminancy, he hides it
'till he bears th
:icondarkandlight:darkandlight
:icondarkandlight:darkandlight 33 65
Literature
Adventure
This is what midnight feels like.
Boiling water, a kiss in yellow tapestry
on the ground, against a wall, adjacent
to golden curtains with cracks of window
crevice; space for thieves to assess a steal.
Voyeurs to imagine an other's meal.
Nude walls, dead paper, pens uncapped;
dust hiding in shadows.
Callous it is here, malice sleeping,
Drying dreams on vacation,
My mellow mind's light, nonconcern
as to earn's to lose; to fail's to adjourn.
:icondelliversagain:delliversagain
:icondelliversagain:delliversagain 31 256
Literature
trapped like rats
every electric keyboard whine can be sublime
when mice eat cheese all night from silver dishes that
      tickle their whiskers
and the rats will cringe from where they wait in the wings
with their hairy tails in traps,
           "oh the tales we could tell, cos you see,
      we used to get the cheese
back when the wurlitzer hum made the basement floor and
walls samba like a six-point-five somewhere along the
san andreas, bigger at the epicentre, yes,
      don't you see now…"
           yes, see now –
when your life story consists of bottomless lattes
           (oh heaven)
and the hours you waste thinking on the years
you wasted getting the education you'll never use and for which
you didn't save the receipt so there's no return,
      no refund or exchange;
all those little lives are gone like the will of mice
in traps when the top half of the cage
clangs down on the bottom and all that cheese just
rots in their stomachs like acid and they'd
      rather be the rat –
"at least for
:iconTuaVerbaNihiliFacio:TuaVerbaNihiliFacio
:icontuaverbanihilifacio:TuaVerbaNihiliFacio 65 66
Literature
A is for Algebra
D disliked starting each day.  She'd rather
squander her time writing of dusty dreams
late at night by candlelight.  This bothered
F who loathed the part where father must wake
unwilling daughter firmly from slumber.
Her eyes remain sleep-stained until M rakes
a warm washrag across her face.  Brother
e, now a teenager who refuses
to capitalize his name, walks sister
to the bus-stop where B drives them to school
with a frown on his face.  J, K, and L
form her usual clique.  They chat until rules
force them to part ways when they'd rather stay
and gossip about H--though, i don't know
what they see in him.  G drones on today
about grammar (they still teach that?) until
even the bell is exasperated
and offers to sound in pity and fill
the halls with familiar hullabaloo.
On the way to her next class, D spots O,
her friend whose affinity for junk food
has left her with contours that even eggs
must envy.  They walk to Mr. A
:iconjeconner:jeconner
:iconjeconner:jeconner 50 44
Literature
Awake Under the Blankets
Closer to darkness than anticipated,
the shadows breach the wall and slip
across the carpet.
With childish certainty the danger slides
and toils and bristles with thorns and eyes,
and eyes peer out from under sheets.
Magic never stood the test of time,
but clutching teddy close
prevents a mind spilling into tears.
Evil stalks on spindle legs
grown knobby and buckled through age,
the weight of slushy ooze a challenge.
Ears pick out the smacking of lips,
a meal made of child on the menu,
the slither of entrails never tucked in.
Move and be found, the little boy lost
inside the mind of an adult left to think,
quake with unease, but barely breath in truth.
While eager tentacles fumble with claws
made scratchy through crushing babies bones,
a pulse throbs under the blankets.
Catch the glow beneath sleeping cloth,
the torch bulb switched to combat fear,
and see the throwing off of covers.
The monster reels, flailing parts unknown,
descending the stair that waits in silence
at the back of the
:iconjahg:jahg
:iconjahg:jahg 41 143
Literature
nova smile
6am:         Rising to crackled reception,
                I breathe,
                stomach rising
                and falling,
                this, the mimicked serenade to sunrise,
                performed the whole world over.
8am:         In the kitchen,
                stale bread
                and a coffee cup
                invite me to breakfast.
                Reading headlines,
                I count morning on both hands,
                four espresso ribbons,
                draped over the pages,
                filling where ink cannot.
12pm:       I lie on the small square of grass
                looking up into the apex of cerulean.
                Up on the gutter,
                sits a bird, still,
                below thick down,
                ticks suck out birdsong.
                This world,
                one of quiet tragedy.
3pm:         In the supermarket
                I watch people stocking up,
 
:iconBarnaby:Barnaby
:iconbarnaby:Barnaby 290 133
Literature
asea, tonight
I'm at your door; can hear the brass and bass,
the snare drum, through the glass. It's jazz, tonight.
You let me in and suddenly I'm in
a room of profound poets, who sing their verse
through shining horns, sweet saxophone riffs.
The solos drift so richly, dance among smoke rings—
tonight, when everyone's somebody's cool cat.
There's a girl whose trumpet weeps when she woos its keys,
those wailing notes like Miles would have played.
And the long-haired bassist pains his face as he plucks
away at the tired shape the body makes,
he sways. And when the guitar's clean strings do sing,
it's melody carries a twang so sweet—it's jazz,
tonight. Tonight!— We can be alive, tonight.
And I'm in the corner, no horn in hand, not even
a cigarette for now. I'm just a shadow this evening,
no harmony for me. Just silent taps
of thumbs on thighs; of a breath before sirens sing.
Tonight, blue tunes knew the way through a smoky
sea—found me… Last I heard they were still awaiting
return
:icondesaparecidita:desaparecidita
:icondesaparecidita:desaparecidita 125 77
Mature content
Blood Red Blood Blue Bluegrass :iconchesterfield:chesterfield 32 28

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I was watching a basketball game on television and during a commercial break, there he was!  Starkist Charlie.  I said, "Oh jeez, not this knob again."  My son, home from college on break, said, "Whaaaat.....??"

Charlie was before my son's time, and that led me to wax rhapsodic about how some of the most successful ad campaigns of the 1970's played upon the worst aspects of human nature.  Worse, most were aimed at children.  When I had finished foaming at the mouth about it all, my son advised me to write it down.  Rgr that.



Low Self-Esteem:


Starkist Charlie, the bespectacled, beret-wearing tuna whose greatest desire, and seemingly only goal in life, was to be murdered, hacked up, canned, consumed, and shat out by humans.  Why?  Merely to prove he was as good as the other tuna who got murdered, hacked, canned, eaten, and shat.  But he didn't measure up to Starkist standards.  I'm sure they suspected mercury poisoning, albino brain chiggers, or some other nefarious reason for his mental illness.  There is probably a multitude of liability issues that would stem from selling psychotic tuna for consumption.  And imagine if this dipshit was your son.  "Son, what do you want to be when you grow up?"  "I want to be murdered, canned and shat, papa!"  That's when you point to your wife and say, "He gets that from YOUR side of the family!"



Sadism/Schadenfreude:


Sonny the Cuckoo Bird was a mentally unstable avian whose psychotic episodes were triggered by the proximity of Cocoa Puffs cereal.  Despite trying a variety of activities and strategies to prevent himself from going apeshit, such as bowling, dancing, watching television, and even padlocking himself into a booth, a couple of shitty kids would show up with a bowl of Cocoa Puffs and trigger him into completely flipping his lid.  Just to watch him do it.  These are the kinds of kids you can imagine pulling the wings off flies and setting cats on fire.  But hey, young serial killers in training have to eat too, right?  Might as well sell them some crap for breakfast.



Selfishness:


The Trix Rabbit.  All this guy wants is one lousy bowl of some wretched cereal and the kids won't give him any.  Actually, even though the kids are being blatantly selfish, it's hard to blame them on this one.  The rabbit is such an obnoxious putz.  Imagine every time you sat down to eat a bowl of cereal, some idiot showed up and tried to scam you out of your food.  Seriously, the rabbit has nothing better to do?  Evidently he's got enough money to buy costumes and props, so why the hell doesn't he trundle his fluffy white ass down to the market and buy his own damned box of Trix?  He's a grifter.  A swindler.  And he gets his jollies from bilking people.  He ought to be in prison for his repeated attempts at theft and extortion.  Let him eat prison food for 3 to 5.  Maybe that'll put some sense into his head.



Willful Destruction of Property:

The kids are in the back yard or the park playing and getting all sweaty.  One decides he/she is thirsty and needs another sugar bump.  The other says, "Great idea!"  They shout, "Hey Kool-Aid!" and this giant, pitcher-shaped clown busts through a wall or fence, singing an obnoxious song in a voice like Wolfman Jack.  Who pays for the damage?  The homeowner?  Taxpayers?  Certainly not the Kool-Aid creature, who loads the kids up with a neuron-popping sugar dose and shambles off on his red, stove-pipe legs.  Seriously, this idiot looks like he should be leading cheers in a bush-league ball park.  And even then, in my mind's eye, I can see all 1500 fans howling in rage and pelting him with beer bottles as he bursts through the bullpen wall.  I wouldn't drink anything proffered by this twat.  He's probably got a crawlspace somewhere stuffed to capacity with children's corpses.  Remember what Jim Jones was swizzling with cyanide?  That's right.  You know where he got it?  That's right.



Assault and Battery:


Hawaiian Punch used a couple of dickweeds to sell their beverage.  One, a malevolent misanthrope named Punchy and the other, a borderline Downs Syndrome-type named Opie.  Punchy would ask Opie if he wanted a nice Hawaiian punch.  When Opie would inevitably say yes, Punchy would curl up a fist and blast him right in the fucking face.  On second thought, maybe Opie doesn't have Downs, but brain damage from the accumulation of bolo-punches to the teeth.  Gosh.  Watching someone Pearl Harbor his buddy with a vicious haymaker sure makes me thirsty!


Edit:  Gee, I just noticed that after Punchy whacks Opie in the chops, he freakin' tramples him.  Lookit!
  • Listening to: Andrew Bird

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ndifference
Grandpa
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United States
Current Residence: Memphis
Favourite cartoon character: David Lee Roth
Personal Quote: Your head will collapse if there's nothing in it.
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:iconbeingnaked:
beingnaked Featured By Owner Apr 16, 2017
I honestly think weve been lost on the annals of time
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:iconndifference:
ndifference Featured By Owner May 4, 2017  Professional Writer
Where we belong
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:iconkronix:
kronix Featured By Owner Mar 30, 2016
I genuinely don't know who that's supposed to be in your avatar. Guess I should've said something 15 years ago?
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:iconndifference:
ndifference Featured By Owner Apr 1, 2016  Professional Writer
I am Inspector Clouseau and I am on official police business.
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:iconnonculture:
nonculture Featured By Owner May 28, 2016
you two should get a rheeeeuuum....zimmer. Yes, yes, a zimmer.
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