There are a few telltale ways to discern the following joke was written ten years ago. First, more modern considerations such as heteronormativity or gender stereotypes were yet to formulate an appearance upon any broader social lexicon. And that’s entirely independent of the fact that it’s even less funny than usual… That said, when a particular social medium reminded me of having written it literally one decade ago last week, I couldn’t resist.
What does the pink reef only allow the blue reef on birthdays and Christmas?
Coral sex. Should I also be perturbed by the “Christmas” reference? Birthdays and Holidays? Nah, I jest, there’s no war on Christmas- and Thanksgiving head isn’t really a thing.
And that’s that. It’s been an annoyingly real few days here in the pleasure dome. Dead grandfather, friend in crisis plus being held accountable professionally for some of the dumber things I say. What’s the point? Today’s post is to be a touch more light-hearted.
Up first, fun animal fact! Did you know Zebras are actually black with WHITE stripes? That shit is whack yo.
Keeping with our pseudo-false cheery theme, today’s poem is a commentary on “flow”, childhood relationships and the fervent desire to throttle another human. Probably some other stuff too. 🙂
“Driving Miss Crazy”, July 23, 2018.
Once in a while most can slide a deep groove
Ethereal but we’ll never disprove
Existence of pristine, clandestine track
No rocks, leisurely turns, nary a crack
Soaring light speed, astral breeze on your face
There isn’t a more serene time nor place
Coalescing lines of reality meet
Rarely occurs such an auspicious feat
Engage with great infinity beyond
Until damned blue shell forces you respawned.
Is it clear that we’re talking about Mario cart? Hey… we’re talking about Mario cart. I’ve been sitting on that one for a while. Written at a moment when the momentary snapshot was somewhat more favorable. Fret ye not though, for infinite cosmic-Polaroids have developed since and will continue to do so, at least in assumptive, perpetuity. And perhaps, even then, at the moment of my or existence’s theoretical demise, maybe, we are simply upgraded to a digital model.
Take it easy, friends. Please, both with yourselves, and each other.
Happy Trails and Waggy Tails!
A broken mind held together by cellophane and some tack.