-- an anonymous sexy poet
We're all gonna die,
We're all gonna die.
The satellites are gonna fall from the sky.
There'll be no light to assist your sight,
There's gonna be a world-wide nuclear fight.
Nothing's gonna be alright, it'll really bite,
We're all gonna die.
We're all gonna die,
We're all gonna die.
You won't have your choice between wheat, white, and rye.
No more flowers or grass,
No more Anal. Geometry class.
The Japs are gonna kick our ass.
We're all gonna die.
We're all gonna die,
We're all gonna die.
You, me, and that Russian double agent spy.
We'll have no time to shed a tear,
Zach'll be hungover from too much beer,
Poor Erin, it'll ruin her freshman year.
We're all gonna die.
Dedicated to the 8th pd. Anal Geo. class
Kelly Mac likes to suck lip
With a short Dickless Wonder named Christopher, Chip.
She likes to have her chips with dip,
And I like it when the cows come down by the highway.
Oh yeah, she's a stupid bitch.
Scott Manny is a hairy beast.
Once upon a time, he had a feast.
He ate nothing but lots and lots of yeast,
And the next day he had an eye infection.
Oh yeah, he's a stupid bitch.
Mark Crosby is really fat.
He is really, really, really, really fat.
When I look at him, I think, "My God!! He's really fat!"
Oh yeah, he's really fat.
Jayna Luke is my friend.
Jayna Luke likes to bend
Over for Mr. Ashe.
More of the Jayna Luke poems to come.....
ORIGINAL QUESTION: Agree or Disagree - The degree of one's heroism is determined by the ferocity of the opponent one has vanquished.
Let's face it, if you beat up the town drunk, you aren't exactly a hero. However, if you slay the mighty dragon attacking the kingdom or a great ruler, you will most likely become a hero. I believe that the degree of one's heroism is determined by the ferocity of the opponent one has vanquished as well as the way in which the fight occurred. Take Beowulf for example. In the story, Beowulf fought Grendel, a great and mighty monster, with his bare hands. He used no swords, no shield; his armor was merely the mail shirt on his back. Pretty impressive**!
I think that Beowulf's degree of heroism would be slightly higher than that of the average heroic Joe on the street. I mean, our nation is filled with superheros. Take Batman for example. Batman, though mentally disturbed, still attends KHS with all of the other retards from the Greater Armstrong County region. I find this to be quite heroic. For someone as intellectually challenged as Batman, attending high school is a tremendous act of heroism in itself. Once factoring in the alcoholic "over-indulgence" and drug usage in the school, Batman becomes not only a hero, but a.... (da, da, da) SUPERHERO!
Wonderwoman also falls into this category. In my opinion, someone who could live in the slums of New York, only to grow up into an "Anorexic Annie" poster girl definitely did something right. Wonderwoman, though closed in a 2'x1' closet and fed nothing but frog eyes as a child, has turned that early misfortune into a career of flying around in a swimsuit. Way to go Wonderwoman! You're my hero -- make that SUPER hero!!
Superman was once a crack dealer, but he has since turned his life around so that small children all over America jump out of third story windows hoping to fly just like their hero - make that SUPER hero, Superman. Superman, emergency room doctors all over the world are ever grateful to your positive influence on the youth of our great nation. "Let's hear it for all of the broken-legged superhero wannabes!"
Another hero in need of recognition would have to be Spiderman. Horace C. Smith (Spiderman before the whole transformation) grew up in a cardboard box from a Maytag refrigerator. The box, under a bridge, beside a radioactive sludge river, was this underprivileged kid's home for most of his life until one day he was bitten by a toxic spider. After the swelling went down and three fingers and one ear fell off, Horace became Spiderman, and after working in the freak show in a carnival for six months and being regularly beaten and raped by the ringmaster, Spiderman emerged as a super-jumping superhero.
Beowulf, though, did not have web-shooting wrists, magic flying abilities, nor did he prance around in a swimsuit with bulging breasts (thankfully). Therefore, though Beowulf may be considered a hero for slaying his sea monster, he can never achieve such high status and immortality as Batman on a t-shirt, Wonderwoman underwear, and Superman lunch boxes - complete with complementing thermos.
**Author's Note: This is a load of crap!
In my opinion, one of the reasons that Beowulf is one of the epic poems is because of the violence leading to heroism in it. I believe that, generally, a play, poem, or story does not necessarily have to contain acts of violence to deliver a hero. Take, for example, the actions of clergy members, doctors, and teachers, most of whom have never had a violent bone in their weak little bodies. Fools! Ha! Sure, they're heroic in their own pathetic little ways, but I'm sure that all of these neurotic whale-saving ecologist fools would get their jaws cracked in a good ol' fashioned bar fight with Ernie, the fat drunk who does nothing but consume Jack Daniels and ham and cheese on white bread all day. As for doctors and nurses, sure, they're smart, but take away the scalpel and forceps, and what do ya got? A nerdy little wimp in a white coat -- Wuss!
Beowulf, on the other hand, spent most of his life as a monster-killing mercenary. Now that's what I call excitement! While all of the "non-violent heros" were off nursing the sick or hugging a tree, Beowulf was sitting back, having martinis with the ladies - poolside, of course. I'd be willing to bet that between dragon slayings, Beowulf WAS THE party. Can you imagine living it up with Beowulf, partying like it's 799 A.D.?! Now that's what I call a hero! With the cash he was bringing in from his hired killings, Beowulf's bashes were probably slightly more exciting than the $7,000 a plate "help save the children's playground" dinners. Playboy mansion flings back in the day probably wouldn't compare to Beowulf's blasts! And I'd be willing to bet that Beowulf could put down 6 vodka shots in the time it takes the average man to down one; that is my definition of a hero.
And as for the rest of America....? Well, few people (dare I say movie stars?) are as worshipped as VanDamme, Jackie Chan, and Clint Eastwood. And even though children now shoot each other reinacting their favorite scenes from Terminator and Scream, I'm pretty sure that Arnold (pronounced Ahhhnohld) and Neve are making a bit more than your average Joe Math teacher on the street. What heros! What role models! We worship booze guzzling, big gun shooting, cigar smoking, potty mouthed movie stars - or perhaps I should say actors (as to give the false impression that they aren't worshipped by the youth of America when we know darn well that they are). What a country! But back to Beowulf, where else but in Old English literature could we find such a great story filled with violence, drugs, sex, and alcohol (minus the drugs, sex, and alcohol). I would just like to say that Beowulf is my hero. Isn't he yours? Who would you rather sit around a bar drinking shots with that Big Bad Booze Bustin' Beowulf? And few things are as sexy as a monster killing man straight from the fight, still covered in dragon blood and smelling as fresh as a slimy sea monster's cave filled with decaying defeated soldier's carcasses.
Hope you enjoyed this other Kelly Gaughan classic.
This wonderful letter was composed by Mr. Craig Palilla...
Dear Mr. Congress
I'm writing you
To say about your worth in life
And what I mean to say
Is Dear Mr. Congress
Your a worthless bag of wrought
Before you smell like sourcraut
We have no more to pay
And this is another Craig Creation...
I wish I could be happy
I wish that I could know
I can't help but feel bad
And at the same time I feel good
And another...
This is my house, I say to myself. Typewriter by my side, trying to speed up my fingers so I can see myself. Or should I say ourselves. I mean to say I have been here before.
When I was just a wee lad, I sat in the dungeon of my 3 room cottage in the woods. In swaddling clothing I made my first steps to the cellar way stairs. Their worn carpeting had been faded away to the grey chipped paint of the excuse for an elevator.
I sat down and a cobweb browsed past my nose. My sinuses had just grown worse. Games of lights and money had been sprung down in first floor gambling casinos all around. Words of lies and nonsense.
"Is this thing on?"
I screamed when I heard the slight buzz of the tape deck upon me.
I realized I had no longer been spinning thourgh time. I realized I had just een a middle class white guy in the average teenage life. Lies of happiness and gulp of diseat. (Notice the spelling)
I ran on through the exertion of ejaculated mutated sperm that ran from the pen. "This sperm has gone mad!" I yelled from high hilltops. The pen marked blue upon the paper.
Damn this strap is tight. Tight around my wrist. I want to take it off but it is a comforting warmth to keep it on.
I am starting to sweat. I thought it would be cool today so I wore pants. Shit, I think this is the mose provocative experience...
I am just a wee lad. And my friends are staring down on me.
"Everybody drink."
A voice to the readers, "drink if you are reading this ext."
How many of you are getting up for a beer.
"This is GREAT WEED!" I scream to my friends to make them think I am still high. I just need an excuse to take time to start a novel and this brilliant endless adjective exertion through life.
Prologue to the story of Life.
AMY CAMPBELL'S FLUTE PLAYING MAKES ME THINK OF.... (By Amy O.)
DO...the stuff I buy beer with
RE...the guy I buy beer from
MI...the guy I buy beer for
FA...a long long way to the store
SO...(I forget this part)
LA...La La La La La La
TI...no thanks, I'm having beer
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I feel like I am a short-haired pixie jumping from leaf to leaf, causing the freshly fallen dew to drop to the ground. A little pixie boy is chasing me, thinking this is fun. Bugs buzzing all around us, butterflies fluttering overhead. A green grasshopper hops around, watching her little grasshoppers and looking for food to feed their hungry stomachs. I stop to rest on a pink daisy, and the boy pixie sits down too. We talk and look into each other's eyes, the moment so right.... WHEN ALL OF A SUDDEN...
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Ok, so I'm not a pixie anymore. I'm just a regular girl, sitting in some small room with slime-green colored walls, listening to the flute playing talents of a certain Amy Campbell, who happens to whisper "Fuck" in between notes. That's my most favorite part, however, and it makes me want to giggle. But I don't because I don't want to mess her up. :) So in my head I giggle, and write, and then giggle and write more, wishing I had a clipboard to lean on and some ear plugs for the very high notes. Woah, now I think I am Pochahontas, playing with a raccoon friend, jumping off a very high cliff to get to her friend below in the canoe. Sailing through the air, floating downward toward the water, getting closer and closer (Amy whispers "Fuck, why can't I do this?") and the flute music carries Pochahontas down, diving gracefully into the water. Woah, now the garbage box is COOLER than before, when it was just a garbage box. Oh no, another "FUCK." The song sounds good to my untrained ear, as I sit and lean against the slime walls. I wonder what will happen tomorrow. OH NO! NOT THIS SONG AGAIN! Actually, it's quite lovely, even with the high notes. What just happened? The girl notices the word "KITTANNING" typed twice!! Then she remembers Pork & Beans and the 3 hour long story about him. A humorous story, ask her to tell it to you. But "KITTANNING??" What kind of name for a place is that? Hmmm, maybe I will go there one day, to meet P&B and the weird friends. And maybe I can be a trippy bastard that day. Hmmm. Must ponder that one later. OOPS! It's 9:40 pm... time to go to SHEETZ with the RA. I hope I can come back to this room someday. 'Till then.......
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