Saturday the 14th

Ever'thing, Hop hip, New

Suffering succotash, I’m a cereal abuser.
I’m the ex-post-facto Grape Nuts user.
Found my soul in the depths of a cereal bowl,
Dissected a Cinnabon, found ten cinnamon rolls.

Tollhouse cookie and a wookie with head lice,
Got ten trolls in my posse, better think twice,
Or maybe even thrice, three times a lady,
Divided by nine, new math don’t faze me.

Lazy third eye and a lazy boy recliner
These rhymes don’t get much more sublimer
than this, Yes, sorry to say folks;
can’t make an omelette without cracking some yolks.

The more jokes I’m cracking, the less crack I’m getting,
Facing a sexual Armageddon.
Betting on donkeys to win the Derby
Don Quixote’s got nothing on me, absurdly

Wordy, I worship at the altar of letters.
So cast off your fetters, learn from your betters.
I’ll get you lettered like varsity freshmen
Teaching rap like ripping flesh, man.

But I’m not Freddy Krueger, I’m Freddy Flow,
It’s Saturday the 14th I’m fixin’ to mow
The lawn with scissors, I’m that precise.
I took the a-roni outta rice.

I come from the stratosphere, far from earth.
Best take a breath, turning blue like a smurf.

H.R. called up H.R. PufnStuf

Ever'thing, Hop hip, New

Basket case, straight out of the casket,
Potato or song, don’t matter, I’ll mash it.
Fashion funk from a junk shop reject,
Sherlock Holmes could never detect
What I’m about to do, or whom.
Eligible ladies, y’all might feel a baby boom.

Super-sub-sonic, I’m the tonic for every ill,
No cane, no crutch, no meds, no pills.
Wilted lettuce, let us pray.
Praying mantis, show us the way.
The truth, the light, I bring back the dead.
Flowed some freddy upside of some blockheads.

Popped some blackheads with ESP
Mopped up some warzones with Martin Sheen.
Gone upriver, it’s a one-way trip.
Banana peel envy, give ‘em the slip.

Some got gypped and some got a freebie,
Instantaneous verbal delivery.
I’m Betamax in a 4-G world
Visualize world peace or peas getting whirled.

Hairs got curled, got em caught by the short hairs,
I been known to play possum with grizzly bears.
Took the stairs wearing elevator shoes,
Treadmill to nowhere, I sing the hamster blues.

Self-abuse, but I’m not addicted,
Something good up on me might get lick-ted.
“Take dictation” (that’s what she said),
I roll far over PG-13 heads.
Keep shit clean, I mean shoot, I mean stuff,
Put on a wetsuit when diving for muff.

H.R. called up H.R. PufnStuf,
Now our new CEO’s got a mouth that’s big enough.

Your Holy Crapness

Ever'thing, Hop hip, New

Glandular eruptions and a rope-a-dope stance,
I cooled down a whole lot of hot pants.
Hot pans and pots, better get you a trivet,
Trivial Pursuit, I’m hirsute, chicks dig it.

Got enough back hair to stuff a pillow,
But it’s soft like a Persian, I never rock Brillo.
Milo de Venus grew arms just to grab me.
Mona Lisa cried when she couldn’t have me.

Van Gogh cut his ear off just to get with some Freddy Flow,
Picasso was a colossal asshole but yo,
I know what it’s like to have a blue period
need a box of tampons, my sins are myriad.

Went on an Iliad with Homer Simpson,
The Sirens had donuts, I’m feeling weak son.
Lashed to the mast, we sailed home to Greece,
But it’s broke like the west side, ah honkey, please
Give it a rest, you’re chasing your tail,
these broken-ass rhymes are bound to fail.

“You’ve got mail!” You’re as backwards as AOL.
Your Lynrd got Skynrd, ooh ooh that smell.
Skunks got nothing on your pungent rhythm,
Every faux pas, you done did ‘em.
Kid ‘em if you can, but take this seriously,
You can’t fool me, no matter how deliriously
you throw words together, no method to your madness:

I hereby decree you “Your Holy Crapness.”

Deep like Dante

Ever'thing, Floetry, Hop hip, New

Girls are burning with optimism’s flame.
Gamed the system, Miss Pessimism’s got one claim to fame:
That she knew me back when.
Trees fall in the forest, I’m all about the zen.

Got a yen for y’all and a lust for life.
Took two in the morning, took a third for a wife.
Got a slow burn and a four-alarm fire.
Plead the fifth, get my drift, arouse ire.

Aspire to greater heights, where mighty mites tremble,
Can’t nip these ankles, I never dissemble.
That means “lie,” some-a y’all better look it up.
Tectonic plates about to subduct
got nothing on me, I’m deep like Dante.

Open more doors than Monty.

For those about to AARP, we salute you!

Floetry, New

This’s a shout-out to all my shut-ins,
throw off your walkers, the revolt is coming.
Rise from your wheelchair, clap off the TV.
Tell your daughter your pet otter can’t see

Why you ought to be cooped up in here.
Jail break time, no need for fear.
The world is waiting for Grandmama’s wisdom.
Rock the globe like a heathen in Christendom.

Kiss some, curse some, put some in a hearse,
The first shall be last and the last shall be first.
Thirst for truth like a true Sojourner,
Burn your bra, put your life on the front burner.

Live fast, die late, leave a wrinkled-ass corpse,
forget the keys just force through the front doors
and bust through all the windows, leave nothing standing.
No one asked, now you’re demanding.

Gotta hand it to you, if not you’ll take it,
No Harry and Sally orgasms faked.
It’s the real thing, baby, shake it and bake it.
Start the party, start to get buck naked.

Might be 80 but you could pass for 60,
like Tom Cruise, your business is risky.
Frisky filly, put on this bridle,
hit high notes like a violin recital.

Get stoned on Geritol, hold a Ben Gay orgy,
Print bills in the basement, spends those forgeries.
Can’t take it with you, use it all up,
Set a bad example for all us young pups.

For those about to AARP, we salute you!”

Getting bigger than Myrtle the Turtle, yo

Ever'thing, Hop hip

Blank pages fear me, I blow their doors off.
Heavy artillery I’m all Norman Schwarzkopf
with pencil stubs, ink pens, and crayons.
Voodoo zombie Ouija board séance,

Back from the swamp with an alligator typewriter,
Packs more wallop than Walter Cronkite or
any other newscaster or Cindy Plaster Caster.
Remastered 10-inch, shouldn’t have sassed her

Fast or slow, I’m a 45 on 33.
78 rpm on the Victrola, G.
Say you want a revolution, I spin it
Got my hip waders on, I’m all up in it.

Begin it or end it, either way works
Like Caribou coffee, I’m all about the perks.
Some get irked at this fredlicious flow,
But I’m getting bigger than Myrtle the Turtle, yo.

Stand on the backs of those come before me,
can’t really say that many adore me.
Yet little by little, the word’s getting out,
from a whisper to a scream, then a shout.

LFMBO: Laughing my freaking Bible off: “I’m Christian and I know it.”

Ever'thing, New, Randomocracy

One night only! Live at Dr. B’s Home for Wayward Boys! (and saving y’all a trip to church on Sunday morning). It’s the Very Reverend Freddy Flow with his rendition of “I’m Christian and I know it” (to the tune of “I’m Sexy and I know it” by LMFAO:

When I walk on by, priests by looking like, damn he fly.
I preach to the book
Fisher of men with a big-ass hook, yeah.
This is how I roll, Satan get behind me, I’m in control
I clean this bod with sanctified soap
And like John Paul I’m a smokin’ hot pope, yeah

(Ahhhhhh) Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
I preach out

(ahhhhh) Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
I preach out

When I walk in the church, this is what I see
Everybody starts to blessing on me.
I’ve got passion of the Christ, and I ain’t afraid to teach it (teach it, teach it).
I’m Christian and I preach it.

When I’m at the mall, I’m preaching the ladies like Jordan shoots ball.
When I’m at the beach, I walk on the water, I’m off the leash.
This is how I roll, come on nuns, girl it’s time to go.
We headed to the chapel, but don’t get nervous
white shoes, white hat, gon’ preach some service.

(Ahhhhhh) Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
I preach out

(ahhhhh) Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
I preach out

When I walk in the church, this is what I see
Everybody starts to blessing on me.
I’ve got passion of the Christ, and I ain’t afraid to teach it (teach it, teach it).
I’m Christian and I preach it.

Check it out, check it out.
Amen amen amen amen amen yeah
Amen amen amen amen amen yeah
Amen amen amen amen amen yeah
Amen amen amen amen amen yeah

Can I get an Amen y’all?
Can I get an Amen y’all?

I’m Christian and I preach it.

(ahhhhh) Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
I preach out

Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
Girl look at that bible
I preach out

Speaking in tongues y’all!

I’m Christian and I preach it.

What American needs: A blog awards death ray

New, Randomocracy

Thanks to my snarkalicious colleague for putting a new wrinkle on the shar-pei that is The Most Perspiring Blogger Award.

Funnier In Writing

I’m a terrible person. If Jennifer Aniston had married me (which would have been creepy because she doesn’t have a penis), when we finally divorced and I posed for photos with Angelina Jolie (not nearly as creepy because I’m pretty sure she does have a penis), she would have told the press in that whiny manner of hers that I have a sensitivity chip missing. Blog success came early, along with the accolades that often accompany this lowly profession (erm, if profession means something I do to while away the hours after I’ve completely emptied my bottle of Ketel One each morning) and, as a result, I’ve been uninterested remiss in acknowledging and responding to some of the lovely awards that have been bestowed upon me by my fellow bloggers.

View original post 4,094 more words

Pull the bandage off: A love song

Ever'thing, Floetry, New

Verse 1:

Doorbells jangle, Lovers tangle
So intense, but now all past tense
Bitter twist of fate,
Turned my trust to hate

Now you will know, what I knew
Now you’ll feel the Hell you put me through
Or maybe, you won’t care
Blank x-ray, nothing’s in there.

Absence at the heart of you,
Empty chest, I never knew
Signs were there, but I didn’t heed them
Tarot cards, I didn’t read them.

And let me be, the first to say it,
You don’t want to listen, but I’m not stayin’
Hear me out, gotta get this out of me
Closing time, don’t think to doubt me.


Pull the bandage off, Rip out the stitches
Pull the bandage off, For poorer or richer
This stitch this time may save my life
May save my life,
Save my life

So pull the bandage off, Rip out the stitches
Pull the bandage off, For poorer or richer
Got to put our time behind me
I can see now, you don’t blind me.
Pull the bandage off,
Pull the bandage off.

Verse 2:

The trust I had in you was misplaced
The thrust of what you said was laced
With honey and strychnine, bitter taste
Honey and strychnine, what a waste.

Broken doorbell, door ajar
Ears burned at the noise from afar
With every thrust into her I heard it
The same sweet nonsense, something absurdist

Throes of passion, no one remembers
Let myself out, no one the wiser
Except maybe me, poked at the embers
Love in ashes, early December.

A day that will live in infamy
A day that my heart broke in half in me
Now the bandage is red and ready
To get ripped off my hands are steady, so


Pull the bandage off, Rip out the stitches
Pull the bandage off, For poorer or richer
This stitch in time may save your life
May save your life,
Save your life

So pull the bandage off, Rip out the stitches
Pull the bandage off, For poorer or richer
Got to put your crime behind me
No one else, but me is all I need.
Pull the bandage off,
Pull the bandage off.

Verse 3:

Dead part of me, I’m half-hearted
Cold to the touch, see what you started
I mean, you ended
Now you see, what you’ve been to me?

But that’s passed, passion blasted
Save the hysterics, I’ve outlasted you
You’re just some disparate thing and
I’m not desperate, pawned the ring.

Then bought me something, Third and Vine,
Means to an end, yours and mine
Prove my mettle, drop forged steel,
Nothing to think, nothing to feel.

But a flicker in your eyes
Fainter now, yet I surmise
Some secret deeper, in the bone
Too late now, I’m coming home.


Pull the bandage off, Rip out the stitches
Pull the bandage off, For poorer or richer
This stitch in time may save our lives
May save our lives,
Save our lives.

So pull the bandage off, Rip out the stitches
Pull the bandage off, For poorer or richer
Got to put this crime in front of me
Dark at dawn, but day is all I need.
Pull the bandage off,
Pull the bandage off.


And I’ll put the bullet back in the barrel
And I’ll pull this knife out of us
And I’ll put the pills back in the bottle
And I’ll smooth the splash from the water
And I’ll soothe that gash in your chest
And I’ll hold you so close, so close

And I

Two-and-a-half from home: A story

Ever'thing, New, Randomocracy

Chapter 1

We, Mama and I, move Grandmama through the living room like a fragile, ungainly piece of furniture, which is what she is, what she’s become. She’s the length of, oh, a floor lamp, and the weight of an upholstered leather armchair, without the footstool. She shuffles her size seven feet forward across the shag rug of this house in which she was married (there were braided rugs over top of creaking wood floors), in which Mama grew up and was also married (the braided rugs were gone by then, replaced by a mauve sculptured pile Grandaddy put down himself), to which Mama brought me up from Atlanta every summer of the ’60s (and in 1964, I think it was, that same carpet scratched my bare back raw while I let a boy french me and touch the nubs that were becoming my breasts).

I think of the static building up in her with each slow, rhythmic shush-shush of her slippers. She leaves a track across the shag, walks like an eskimo in snowshoes. It’s a dry, cold day; brittle. Like her. The phrase “cold snap” comes to me at once: Weather that could break you in two, a stick over the knee.

We three pass the spot where I lay 26 years ago, a life ago; back raw, breasts raw, tongue raw, and I realize with a start, a static shock: I grew up here in this house, in this town, Prospect, North Carolina, this two-horse one-light no-boy burg (summer of ’64 aside, it always seemed that way). Not in Atlanta; here. Just like my Mama did, matter of fact. And hers too. You do a lot of growing in the summer, that’s why teachers always want you to write about it come fall, when you go back to school tanned and two inches taller. New jeans, new bookbag, new boyfriend.

Maybe I’m still growing up, right now, in little movements like Grandmama’s shuffle steps; building up a charge with each movement, trying to ground myself, reaching out only to get shocked: Forty’s not too old to grow, after all. Sometimes a step (graduating from college, for instance–the first in Stoddard family history), sometimes a leap (marrying Lamar), sometimes a stumble (Lamar leaving me)–but forward, always forward. The only direction life goes. No rewind button.

Everything’s been forward for this family, for these girls, these 20-20 girls, as me and Mama and Grandmama have always called ourselves. That’s because there’s 20 years between Grandmama and Mama, and 20 years between Mama and me. I broke the chain–Jenny’s only 13. Now Grandmama’s broken it too–Grandmama whose sickness is to forget everything.

In a different family, for a different person, that might be a cure. But not us, not us 20-20 girls, us forward-movers and shakers, us up-and-comers, us go-getters. Everything’s always been up for us. In all the pictures in all the photo albums, everybody’s smiling, and they should be. Everything went right. Well, except for Lamar. And except for Johnny–Mama’s second husband, till he ran off too. And okay, except for Mama’s first husband–my daddy–who died in Korea. Who never knew me–and vice versa too. And except for Grandaddy, who died in the snow. And except for my ’64 boy, who stuck his sticky tongue in my mouth, who said he’d go steady and a week later was frenching Mona Bridges in the plain light of day. Why do I remember her name? Why don’t I remember his? Well, why should I? Like I said, Forgetting cures. If that’s so then Grandmama is well, Mama’s so-so, and I’m on my death-bed, laid up with a bad case of the past, and the future coming on strong to seal my fate.

Of course, we’re all sick with that–with the future. All us 20-20 girls, all us human beings. It’s the future that kills us, but it’s the past that makes us sick.

Me and Al Gore invented Internet porn

Ever'thing, Hop hip

Sight for sore eyes, optical illusion
Got four eyes but my third eye’s conclusion’s
definitive—I can see for miles and miles
Louder than a bomb but don’t check the dials.

Speakers to 11 but I go to infinity,
Spinal Tap guest star, Nigel was into me
till I stepped on Stonehenge, pissed the dwarf off,
they took back my cucumber, took my drawers off.

I was off-off Broadway so far I was on it,
Even monkeys with typewriters can write a sonnet.
Even a blind pig can find an acorn,
Me and Al Gore invented Internet porn.

Swore it off when my palms got hairy,
I was practically married to five-finger Mary.
Scary when I think of the youths I corrupted,
Al Gore’s got climate change, I’m coitus interrupted.

Ineluctable fate had dealt me a bum hand,
Made money on the backs of teenagers’ glands.
But the better angels of my conscience got to me,
flapped their wings and flew right through me.
Knew me better than I knew myself:
Now I’m pimping out ice cream to Keebler Elves.

Wealth of nations, I’m a national scandal.
Mowed the lawn in Speedo and sandals.
Can’t hold a candle to my wax or wick,
Wicked weed whacker, I got the biggest . . . crick

in my neck, can I get a massage here?
Or a bottle of codeine and a six pack of beer?
No pain, no gain, then I’m a millionaire,
Spayed 10 cats on a double dog dare
without anesthetic, got the scars to prove it.

Cat scratch fever, no balm can soothe it.
Ted Nugent’s agent wanted 10 percent,
I said Hell no, these rhymes are Heaven-sent.