Mean Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Sweaty, smelly, and seeped

In high expectations, while actually

Ending in an unpleasant stickiness

And the need to shower.

 

Would a rose by any other name be

Just as sweet?

Yes, but it would still be a prick.

 

What light through yonder window breaks?

It is the east, and you are the sun.

Hard to look at for an

Extended period of time,

And will eventually kill me

If I spend too much time in your presence.

 

So are you to my thoughts as food to life –

A distraction from the problems

I should actually be dealing with.

Or as sweet-seasoned showers are to the ground –

You ruin picnics.

 

O, that I were a glove upon your hand

That I might touch that cheek!

Then I could be used to slap you

As the preamble of a duel.

 

Let all the number of the stars give light

To thy fair way!

Because, like the stars,

You are gassy and distant.

Exeunt my life, Bethany.

 

By Blake

Okay, Hear Me Out: Basketball But, Like, With Birds

Okay, I know what you’re thinking, and no – the game would not involve substituting the basketball with birds. That would be animal abuse, and the aviary population deserves better than that. Also, I don’t think slam dunking a parakeet would be nearly as satisfying as it sounds. But I digress.

No, this would be basketball with the BIRDS as the ATHLETES. Just imagine – birds swooping around the court, executing perfect mid-air passes, and shooting from heights the NBA couldn’t even conceive of! Even the name possibilities are endless! Le-Fawn James. Sha-Quale O’Neil. Larry Bird. But I know, you’re not here to listen to these incredibly witty names. Let’s talk logistics.

So the basics of the game would be the same. There would normally be five players allowed on the court at a time. Of course, we would have to take into account the size of the birds when determining the size of the teams. Five pigeons versus three crows would probably be an even matchup, depending on their respective wingspans. A pair of eagles would be a fairly formidable duo by themselves, and honestly, I think a single ostrich would be able to dominate the court no problem.

I’m not saying there wouldn’t be any problems, but if you just hear me out, the sky’s the limit! Actually, not even the sky is the limit, because BIRDS. So I know bird talons aren’t the most dribble-friendly appendages, but honestly, are hands that much better? That’s what I thought. I’m also sure we will have some trouble with the smaller fowl crafting nests in the hoops, as fowl are ought to do, but you know, that may just be a risk we have to take. We cannot stop the course of nature, but we can make nature do some fucking dope alley-oops. Speaking of oops, mid-game poops would also be problematic, but if we give them little bird-diapers with their team logo, that solves that problem AND the need for jerseys – two birds with one stone, if you will.

Anyway, I know what you’re thinking – what sort of marketing would be the most effective way of informing the public of our aviary athletes? First, blimps, for obvious reasons. Second – what? No, Doc, I don’t think I use imaginative delusions to avoid thinking about my actual problems. And hey, this isn’t a delusion! I didn’t spend an entire therapy session talking about a delusion – I was explaining a detailed plan to have BIRDS play BASKETBALL. I don’t think you’ve been listening.

 

By Blake

You’re Like a Metaphor

You’re like a metaphor.

A means by which to

Evoke feelings beyond description,

Like the beauty of the sun

Or how much of a bitch you are,

And wholly, entirely

Comparable.

You’re like a simile,

Using like or as.

You’re like an ass:

Pretty shitty.

You’re like a stanza.

Sometimes

The

Way you

Are

Doesn’t make

Any

Sense.

You’re like alliteration.

Obtusely obnoxious,

Exceedingly ever-present,

And always annoyingly abjective.

(Albeit, attributed with an amazing ass)

You’re like an onomatopoeia.

Though your personality is woof

And your attitude is ugh,

I’d still like to bang you.

You’re like a rhyme.

With an initial chime,

But honestly not worth the time,

Because eventually it won’t be sublime.

Paradigm.

You’re like poetry.

Deceitfully beautiful and eloquent

When in reality,

The substance is

Crude.

 

By Blake

An Open Letter to My Best Friend Debra

Dear Debra,

Hey Debra, it’s me, Barb! I’ve been seeing these “open letter” things all over the place lately, so I decided to write you one! Isn’t that a hoot? I don’t know why people write these instead of normal letters, but hey, we’ve got to keep up with the kids, don’t we?

Speaking of which, I heard from my son Jeremy that your little Harry has gotten into cooking! Last week, I overheard Jeremy going on and on about how Harry had just gotten a “grinder.” I’m no expert chef myself (You’ve had my chicken parm, Haha!), but I’m sure that’ll make seasoning so much easier! From what I’ve heard from Jeremy’s phone calls (I know, I’m bad!), he’s using a lot of “twink.” I don’t know that one, but from the way Jeremy talks about it, it sounds zesty! If Harry keeps it up, those skills in the kitchen are going to get him a nice Christian wife one day.

My kids are doing quite well themselves. Jamie has really been establishing herself at high school as a smarty! Whenever her friends come over, they’re always calling her a thought. My baby, having so many smart thoughts that her friends call her a thought! She must have gotten her father’s brain; it still takes me twenty minutes to work a corkscrew! (LOL!) Jamie’s really been making the effort too – she’s stayed after school every day for tutoring with Chad, and when I’ve done her laundry, almost every pair of her jeans has had white stains. She’s really working hard at those chalkboards.

Any-who, it’s six o’clock, and you know what that means – Wine time! At my last checkup, my doctor told me that red wine actually prevents heart issues. So I guess I’m going to live forever, ROFL! You know how I like to drink – wine glass in one hand, my secret stash of Dove chocolate in the other – so I’m going to finish up the letter here. I hope to hear from you soon! Give Richard my best, and the best of luck with his vasectomy!

Much Love

Barbra Hall

By Blake

The Eye of the Storm

According to the Weather Channel, this inbound hurricane is no joke. Stores and public institutions are already closing early and boarding up their windows in anticipation of the biggest storm of the year. Thousands of people will lose their homes, even their lives, and even more will be forced to change their weekend plans because backyard cocktail parties are not conducive to forty mile-per-hour winds, and those tiny drink umbrellas are an embarrassment to the rain protection community. Honestly, something has to be done. But meteorologists around the world are merely forecasting the storm, and our savior Al Roker has been missing since the tornado incident. While it would be better for the experts to handle this crisis, I see no choice but to take matters into my own hands.

I’m gonna fuck that hurricane.

I know what you’re thinking. “Blake, how the hell do you plan on seducing a storm system made up of strong winds and heavy precipitation?” Very carefully, that’s how. To entice a woman requires a gentle touch, but to entice a intangible conglomeration of condensation requires an even gentler one. I’m going to look that hurricane right in the eye and whisper softly, “Hey. You don’t need to be doing this. You and me, let’s go back to my weather-resistant bunker and watch some Cake Boss. I know a sweet cyclone like you can appreciate some pretty pastries.” If all goes well, the world will be spared another tragedy caused by Mother Nature. And I will have had sex with a hurricane.

If you’re asking what good doing the no-pants dance with a tropical typhoon will do, you’re asking the wrong question. The real question you should be asking yourself is, “What kind of monster am I for not whole-heartedly supporting any effort to quell human suffering on this Earth?” The answer is the bad kind. But it’s okay – we forgive you.

Look, it’s not my first choice either, but we don’t have any other options. Do you see George Clooney stepping up to protect his fellow man? No. No you don’t. He’s too busy being famous, probably hooking up with a minor thunderstorm as we speak. Even the alternative solutions aren’t an option. Mankind has never built a fishbowl large enough to trap a hurricane, and even if we had, it should probably go to a very large goldfish. The scientists currently running the Large Hadron Collider refuse to help because the machine “is not safe for untrained use” and “has nothing to do with hurricanes, stop contacting us.”

In reality, I am probably humanity’s best choice for this endeavor. I already like my women like I like my hurricanes – unpredictable, and responsible for billions of dollars in property damage annually. I already have a propensity for things that go counterclockwise – that’s why I’m not allowed on the tea cup ride at Disney World anymore. And if the storm violently tears my body apart mid-coitus, I want you to know I’m willing to make that sacrifice. Like Neil Armstrong once said, “One small step for man, one giant leap for a man about to stick his dick in a hurricane.”

If the storm horribly ravages my body and throws me into space, this very well may be my last testament. For my final words, I want the populace to know that I don’t regret my decision for a moment. I died doing what I love – putting my genitals in logistically impossible situations. Veni, vidi, Cōnvéneram cum cataegem.

By Blake

Some Haikus For Your Day

I drank some spirits

And challenged my kid to jump

Rope: call that hop scotch

Salty taste hidden

By shadows of color, Play-

Doh’s Allegory

“Always bet on black.”

Physicists discussing which

Holes are deadliest

Turn the other cheek

Means very different things to

Strippers and surgeons

When Dora saw her

Foxy ex-boo on Tinder,

“Swiper, Left Swiping!”

A rower, some mist,

And a skeptic walk into

a bar. Oar dew they?

If Hamlet was a

Television censor – “To

beep or not to beep.”

How do I love thee?

Let me count the ways: One, ass.

Two, tits. End of list.

When writing haikus,

There’s only one thing to fear:

Running out of syl-

By Blake

Folksy Advice From Your Uncle Tony

People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. People who live in Google Glass houses shouldn’t be managing their own finances.

To err is human. To urr is phonetic.

Never let adversity stop you. You can always lip-sync if you’re tone deaf, and you can always N-Sync if you’re Joey Fatone deaf.

A watched pot never boils. However, if you’re on pot, it might start watching you back.

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, and a picture is worth a thousand words. So a picture of a bird in the hand is worth two thousand words about shrub fowl.

Even a broken clock is right two times a day. Unless it’s digital, then it’s just worthless. Like you.

A rolling stone gathers no moss. That is why Mick Jagger chooses not to shower regularly.

A penny saved is a penny earned. A arsonist hired by a breakfast restaurant chain is a Denny’s burned.

You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. Never invite horses to your beach parties, they never do shots with you.

An eye for an eye and the whole world goes blind. Unless the people in question already have both of their eyes. Then that’s only two eyes lost out of a total of four. That’s still half of the eyes. Math is important.

By Blake

What the Heck, Volcanoes?

Seriously, what’s your deal, volcanoes? I have heard about your eruptions time and time again, shutting down air traffic and polluting the sky, and honestly, I’m tired of it. You’re being unreasonable, volcanoes, and you know it.

You’ve got no reason to blow your top like that. You’re almost always in scenic locations! Do you think I would be expelling magma at high rates and destroying the homes of nearby populations if I had a view of unrivaled view of Honolulu’s landscapes? No. No I wouldn’t. I would be reveling in the beautiful coasts, lush mountains, and drinking at least one pineapple-themed drink, not endangering the lives of tourists with unexpected lava flows. That’s not a good thing to do, volcanoes.

What do you want your legacy to be, volcanoes? Do you want to go down in history as a worse version of mountains? We already have hills for that, don’t sink to their level.

And don’t you dare blame tectonic plates. I live on one of those, and they have never caused me any trouble. An occasionally earthquake, perhaps, but I like to think of those as jiggles of appreciation. Like the tectonic plates are saying, “Hey, all you up there, I know you’re living on me, and I just want to say I love you. Wiggle wiggle.”

You know what, I don’t want to give you all a bad rap, volcanoes. Have you seen the Disney short Lava? If not, I highly recommend it, given that you can find your way to a movie theatre that accommodates immobile geological rock formations. See, the volcano in that is a nice volcano. He doesn’t emit ash, he doesn’t have a magma chamber. He just slowly sinks into the ocean over time – his due-diligence as a reasonable planetary-mass object. And he is rewarded for it! He rises from the bottom of the ocean, taller than ever, and permanently fused to a lady volcano. Isn’t that what you want, volcanoes?

And you know, I get it. We all have bad days, volcanoes. I would be lying if I said I had never broken a lamp or kicked a wall after a rough day. But has anyone ever had to evacuate a large portion of Iceland because of my actions? Not to my knowledge.

Bottom line, I think you can do better, volcanoes. Shape up. Be more like geysers. No one sacrifices virgins into geysers.

By Blake

An Open Letter to Letter Openers

Dear Letter Openers,

Who the fuck do you think you are?

Seriously, how dare you have the audacity to place yourself among the foundational desk adornments and pretend like you belong? Pens. Clacky balls. Those documents you should have faxed to Linda last week, but you’ve just been too busy. All of these are instrumental to facilitating productivity at the desk environment, while you waste space, you pointy piece of utter garbage (okay, maybe not Clacky balls, but I’ve got an open letter coming to them real soon, just you wait).

No one needs a letter opener. Sure, the postal service was cool once upon a time, with people sending letters all willy-nilly like paper grows on trees. But we’ve got MySpace now, and AIM. Even back when you could receive a letter without automatically assuming it’s a ransom note for your only child, envelopes are PAPER. They always have been. Unless you’re an infant, you can tear that shit open with your bare hands, and if you are an infant, you don’t have W2s to mail. If you’re an infant who does have W2s to mail, you can hire someone to do that shit for you, you’ve got blocks to grab and random objects to put in your mouth. Honestly, letter openers, you’re like a broken dildo – a waste of space when fingers can do the job just as well.

What are you doing with your life? You’re a knife; you are capable of so much. You could chop caviar and slice sashimi in world-renowned five-star restaurant. You could cut out a diseased lung with the finesse of a god and save a man from the cold grasp of death. You could stab a guy. But no, you open postage. For fuck’s sake, how do you look at yourself in the mirror without feeling pure disgust? Look at your brother, Scissors. He’s made a name for himself on the desk. He cuts with precision and safety, even thriving at every level of elementary school education system. Is Mrs. Bridges ever going to tell kids to not run with you? No. Because you’re a failure. Even your bitch-ass cousin Can Opener is a success. He was made with that fucked-up head, and look at him now. No one eats canned tuna without his say-so. And what do you do? Sit in the second desk drawer of a guy probably named Millard, gathering dust.

In conclusion, fuck you. Fuck you and everything you stand for, letter openers. You couldn’t have even come up with a more creative name? You don’t see anyone using Letter Writers to put words on Letter Holders. Dumbass letter opener. I hope you get rusty all up in your naughty bits.

Sincerely,

Desk Lamps

P.S. Tell your friends, envelopes and stamps, that I’ve had enough with the licking bullshit. You don’t see me licking tape every time I need it to stick. I’m watching you, muthafucka.

By Blake