Tag Archives: Past Post

Thinking Outta the Box

Get a Swiss Sex Box

Leave it to the lusty Swiss to create carnal quickies on the run. Drive-in sex boxes have been installed in Zurich. Apparently, their public was perturbed about prostitutes. They were sick of seeing them strut their stuff on the streets. Their innovative idea was to build boxes to facilitate coital connections. The drive-in slots will be on a “first-come basis.” Not only will it give copulating couples privacy, it’ll keep the sluts outta the suburbs.

Although prostitution is legal in Switzerland, they’re trying to control the criminal aspects of amorous antics. I think that it’s an modern concept, however, couples need nourishment too. It’s food for fornicating, ’cause erotic encounters burn calories. Maybe McDonald’s could create a unique beverage. I’d love to come up with an appropriate name. I think something along the lines of: “Jack Off in the Box,” “Drive-In Diddling,” or “Dr. Pecker.” The Swiss say “sex sells.” So add a “Big Bang Burger,” with a carton of condomints, and everyone will be satisfied.

Kennebunk’s Carnal Capers

Gossiping Girlfriends

Kennebunk seems kinda calm

a coastal, quiet town

until Alexis Wright moved in

and turned it upside down.

She opened up a studio

a place for folks to dance

but after hours, with consent

she pulled off people’s pants.

She filmed her clients having sex

her reputation grew

Alexis was a super slut

soon everybody knew.

Refrain:

Who’s on the list?

dumb dudes she dissed.

Who called her honey?

a whore for money.

She made a bundle, turning tricks

with after-hours moves

the Zumba was a front for her

purporting to teach grooves.

So many men are worried now

what if their wives find out?

their public profiles,will be ruined

they’ll lose both cash and clout.

Was it worth it for some fleeting fun?

the consequences suck

those videos revealed it all

she played ya, you’re a shmuck.

Refrain:

Who’s on the list?

dumb dudes she dissed.

Who called her  honey?

a whore for money.

Bernie’s Behind Bars

Bernie's Behind Bars

Big, Bernie Badoff

he once had it all

he waddled down Wall Street

but he had a great fall.

He made wealthy ones richer

with smudge, smoke and mirrors

he preyed on his victims

for months, and then years.

And now he’s in jail

where low losers, belong

wearing old, cruddy khakis

where did he go wrong?

His luxurious life

plump with privilege and perks

has finally folded

there’s justice for jerks.

He’s the envy of none

he’s a farce, and a fool

his life’s behind bars, now

he’s relinquished his rule.

And now he’s in jail

where low losers, belong

wearing old, cruddy khakis

where did he go wrong?

REFRAIN:

And all of his lawyers

and all of his shills

watched as he tumbled

savoring thrills.

When his “house of cards” fell

it created a crash

bringing others down, too

with their Caddies and cash.


But the joke is on him, now

he’s lost all of his power

he’s watched all the time

when he shits, shaves and showers.

His home is his cell

which he shares with a druggie

his friends are all felons

like an Indian thuggee.

If there is a Heaven

then there is a Hell

and Bernie will be there

he’ll fit in, real well.


His son killed himself

’cause he just couldn’t cope

with the burden of guilt

and he lost all his hope.

But Bernie still lives

and he might write a book

selling millions of copies

’bout his life as a crook.

..

REFRAIN:

And all of his lawyers

and all of his shills

watched as he tumbled

and silently, thrilled.

Dude, don’t be rude

Put Me Down

I just went to the restroom at a local coffee cafe, and I was forced to put the toilet lid down. Again. I’ve had it. I’m so sick of doing men’s dirty work for them that I’m ready to revolt. What is it with you guys?! How much effort could it take to put the damn lid down? You had the strength to lift it up.

Maybe it’s simply a matter of gender miscommunication. So I’ll give you guys the benefit of the doubt. I’ll assume that your inconsideration is due to external influences, like: your toilet training was interrupted, you have more important matters on your mind, or you’re too busy writing your phone number on the wall. But whatever the case may be, the end results are both annoying and irritating. To millions of women not just me.

If we can put a man on the Moon, why can’t that man put the lid down? (Fortunately, astronauts don’t have to worry about that issue.) It’s not that difficult. All you have to do is shake and zip, while your other hand is lowering the lid. It’s basic physics: what goes up, must come down.

I propose that someone invents a device that won’t open the door, until the toilet lid is in its proper place – down. Mere words won’t work to change your boyish behavior, but this sure will. Think of it as a Pavlovian, poddy re-training technique. Once men realize that they’re temporarily trapped, due to their own laziness, they’ll change. Instantly. Because if they don’t obey the restroom rules, they’ll spend hours leaning on latrines. ( An auto-release will eventually free them.) Without any food, sex, or the Super Bowl, because the only bowl that they’ll be seeing is a toilet bowl.

There’s a fatal flaw to my idea: men won’t allow this to happen. Since it’s still primarily a man’s world, men are running even the shit show. The Johns are in charge of the johns. At least, for the foreseeable future. So I’ll have to grit my teeth as I lower the lid. And write another nasty note to tape to the wall: “Your mother doesn’t live here and neither do I.”

Shlock Around the Rock

Jewish Pilgrims

If the Pilgrims had been Jewish

our country could be better

there would’ve been more levity

and no one damning “debtor!”

Their first Thanksgiving feast

complete with chicken soup

laden down with matzo balls

all floating, in a group.

Comedy clubs and restaurants

might entertain and feed

we would’ve made more money

maybe motivated by greed.

Their waistcoats, shifts and aprons

so drab and dowdy, too

restyled to be sleeker

by master tailor Jews.

Singing silly, Yiddish songs

instead of boring hymns

while building someone’s home

and ducking falling limbs.

The musicians and the jewlers

the painters and the teachers

their Semitic sense of artistry

ignored by Protestant preachers.

Of course, we can’t go back in time

and recreate the past

but if our founders had been Jews

their legacy would last.

Save Your Breath: Life After Death

Unlike many people, death holds no fears for me. I can think of many things that are more frightening than death, like: brutal bikini waxes, spending a day at Walmart the day before Christmas,  and running out of Charmin when I’ve eaten too many cherries. I’ve never viewed death as “The End,” but rather as an extended vacation from being alive. I think of death like a Club Med trip, but without the expensive tipping,  lousy lays, and scorching sunburns.

I believe in reincarnation, but I don’t remember my previous lifetimes in detail. That’s just as well. I don’t want to discover that I was a French hooker who gave freebies to corrupt politicians, or a dictator who murdered millions of people. The odds are, however, that I was merely one of the mundane masses. I was probably some Ordinary Jo (my middle name), who toiled at a mediocre job simply to survive. That makes sense to me. How many people could possibly have been famous in another life? Do the human math. Although I’ve met folks who claim that they used to be Cleopatra, Gandhi or the Virgin Mary. Unfortunately, their present lives are usually a far cry from their illustrious pasts.

If only we could control who we’d become, in our next incarnation. I’d be the first in line for long legs, corkscrew curls, an Albert Einstein IQ, and a talent for predicting winning race horses. But alas, we’re at the mercy of karma, chance and fate. I didn’t request the Midwest this time around. I disliked the bitterly cold winters and the toil of shoveling snowy sidewalks. My preference would’ve been some exotic location, like a tropical paradise with nubile youth, nimbly placing peeled grapes between my lips.

Maybe if I accrue enough karmic “Brownie Points” in this life, I may have more leeway in my next. But I’ll never know until I die and return, if this theory is valid. So in the meantime, I try to live the best that I can. It’s a toss of the “karmic coin” as to one’s outcome anyway. I’ll do whatever I can to avoid the future dire consequences of my negative actions now. I’ve vowed to pay my bills on time, rarely eat fast food, and never hide organic cookies from my husband. Unless, they’re from Whole Foods.

‘Twas the Blight Before Christmas

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Twas the blight before Christmas, and all through the malls

shoppers were schlepping, and crowding the halls

with minimal money, their credit cards maxed

people all praying, that they wouldn’t be taxed.

Frantically circling, big box lots in a hurry

for fear stores could run out, then they’d have to worry

or their bosses’ berate, due to lack of gift wrap

it’s expected you cover, the cheap Chinese crap.

Kmart cashiers, and bell-ringing elves

were busting their asses, folks restocking shelves

the Scrooges amongst us, hid inside their homes

whispering “humbug,” and kvetching on phones.

A coffee cafe, with bagels to nosh

was welcoming us, when snow started to slosh

and after our lattes, with energies high

resumed retail assault, without wanting to cry.

What will we buy bubbe, don’t know about dad

and morose manicurist, who seems to be sad?

let’s not forget Fred, he’s the dude who takes trash

maybe a fruit cake, or a few bucks in cash.

The kids all need stuff, for their favorite teachers

let’s not neglect too, the neighborhood preachers

and while we’re at it, a doorman or two

if you live in Manhattan, and might be a Jew.

It’s so hard to decide, if a present is right

that sometimes it’s better, to offend or to slight

we could simply play dumb, and pretend we forgot

’cause we’re moving to Maine, and our memories’ shot.

Let’s say “screw it all,” and drink plus indulge

we’ll start diets next month, when we deal with our bulge

so it’s been decided, to skip the whole craze

we’ll try again sometime, for the future holidays.

The Insta-Fame Game

Jumping-Off-Cliff

(Warning to Ted Williams)

You woke up this morning

no one knew your name

you were lost, lonely loser

and you shivered in shame.

But millions by midnight

the very next day

will see you on YouTube

you’re far from the fray.

You’re flooded and favored

with swift, sudden fame

but now they will use you

a pawn in their game.

You appear on TV

to make up with your mom

the world is watching

will you get a sitcom?

Everyone wants you

Kraft, Oprah, and Phil

it sure is exciting

please don’t pop a pill.

The pressures are mounting

the media lurks

they act like new friends

but they’re really, just jerks.

Your fast, 15 minutes

in the light, starts to fade

unless you keep up

and your money is made.

Can you dance to their drum?

can you speak all their shtick?

unless you say “yes”

they will call you a prick.

At the top of the heap

you have privilege and power

you sleep in a bed

and you shave, and you shower.

You’ve come a long way

from the life of a bum

but you’re under the scope

with a small sip of rum.

Big bosses and sponsors

are invested in you

be careful, be cautious

one slip, and you’re through.

Drive in the fast lane

get used to the speed

monkeys are motivated

by grandeur and greed.

Fortune is fickle

from grace you could fall

so “eat, drink, and be merry”

’cause you could lose it all.

To stay sober and sane

when you’re “under the gun”

requires great strength

it’s 100 to 1.

With toys and temptations

you could go astray

I hope you succeed, Ted

if not, then oy vey.

I Hate Harleys

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It’s twilight time, the air is still

I’m listening to the birds

the flowers flaunt their fragrance

their scent, surpassing words.

So suddenly, I hear the sound

of Harleys, down the road

my prayerful, peace of mind is gone

I feel in manic mode.

REFRAIN:

I hate Harleys, with a passion

I hate Harleys, noon and night

I hate Harleys, and their humans

they’re a social, bitter blight.

Everywhere you go, they’re there

they replicate, like rats

their nasty noise, pounds and pollutes

scaring kids and cats.

Bearded, belching bikers –

who are crude, and have no class

bare, brainless, bimbos on their backs

for nothing more than ass.

REFRAIN:

I hate Harleys, with a passion

I hate Harleys, noon and night

I hate Harleys, and their humans

they’re a social, bitter blight.

The 7 Billionth Baby Ballyhoo

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The 7 billionth baby

will be born in a few weeks

what kind of future will they have –

piss poor or son of sheiks?

Will they wind up as a CEO –

or cleaning cans in Cairo?

will they be a lawful citizen –

or a screwed-up, crazy pyro?

Will they make a contribution –

to society at large?

or will they sit and stuff all day –

become a bulky barge?

Will they be a loving woman –

will they be a loving man?

or will they “go postal” someday –

and just not give a damn?

Will they become a saint?

Will they become a sinner?

Will they become a loser?

Will they become a winner?

Who knows what fate awaits this babe –

will they perish or prevail?

they might be bathed in sunlight –

or besieged with brutal hail.