Palooka v. Palooka: A poem

Ever'thing, Floetry, New

Former Cham-peen, champing at the bit to get hit, take a dive like the tomato can he’s become. Sum total of a man: One title, one belt, 67 wins, 27 losses; tosses and turns, alone, in the pre-dawn bed, ready for road work, rope work, speed bags, raw eggs, blood, vomit, piss, spit, shit, sweat, viscera, stink and cigar smoke, naked light bulb hanging on a wire, obese masseuse, Ben Gay; fire in the belly: must be the Ramen noodle/jelly donut/PBR dinner. On the corner, places a collect call to his Muse. “What do you expect? To win?” She snorts in his face, his Fate, amused at his Superflyweight state of fallen grace, the race already run, already won—others on top. None left to watch, no pay-per-view, no newspapermen, it’s a one-man bout; he goes the distance, takes two knockdowns, a standing 8-count, and a low blow, loses on a split decision, spits the mouthpiece into the bucket, and raises high his gloved hands, the once and future cham-peen, now and forever alive, forever loved.


The Love Song of J. Alfred Sedaris by Freddy Flow

Ever'thing, Hop hip, New

Semiotic acrobatics, semantic sideshow.
semiautomatic dummy, take what you don’t know
roll it up and smoke it–blunt your jagged edge
bake your brain with microwaves, throw your head off from the ledge

trim the hedge electric Fantastic Sam
Trip the night bombastic Sam I Am
Flip the switch eclectic AC DC
Lip the witch with chap stick Mercy Me

Spastic lap dance, Plastic lasses flip their wigs
Flash their bigs, gettin’ small, Up with people, down with y’all
Gastric bands, heart bypasses, Stochastic sunglasses
Freddy’s Dead spits saliva, More alive than ya.

Live so serious, dead man frivolous.
Saw a gibbous moon and prayed to deliver us
From lunar lunacy and wolfman urges
Bridal shower blood bath binge and purges

Shoppers splurge, Bed bath beyond belief
Shark feeding frenzy, garbage on coral reefs,
Lots of F words and verbs get thrown about
Erogenous power surges blow your lights out

Dour schoolmarms ace take-home tests
Ace in the hole A-plus blessed
With hidden assets like Vlasic pickles
Crunchy and cold like a hot Don Rickles

Or Phyllis Diller’s sweet dill relish
It’s hot like that I never embellish
Stored in a medieval reliquary dish
To get a taste is my fondest wish.

Speaking in tongues, eating for two
Like a nondenominational New Testament Jew
Chewbacca ate Hans Solo, I took a bite out of rhyme
Princess Leia laid low, she’s on me all the time.

Put my clown tie on for the Elders of Zion
Diplomatic protocol, fascist folderol
Drank the Geritol with the raging ageists
Sipped the Haterade, stole a page from the plagiarists.

Try to save face, international space race
There is no basis, I’m the space case.
Getting my facial at a glacial pace
Face the facts—an axe is what it takes

Lose 10 pounds of ugly fat with one mighty blow.
Night of my living head, only on HBO.
Or one night I spent in the Hilton in Paris
Not in Paris Hilton or with David Sedaris.
But had I to choose, the socialite would surely lose
Get on up with your bad self, Santa Elf!

Experiments in Murphy’s Law: The John Q. Surfer song

Ever'thing, Floetry, New

Experiments in Murphy’s Law

by Steve Peck


The name’s John Q. Surfer, he came here to surf,

The biggest wave in the history of earth.

While everybody else evacuates the city,

John Q. Surfer will be sitting pretty.

The said, Johnny, don’t do it, it’s dangerous.


The name’s John Q. Surfer, he came here to surf

The biggest wave in the history of earth.

600 miles an hour, 500 feet high,

He heard it on the news, he said Jesus Cry!

(and they said) Johnny, don’t do it, you could get hurt.


John Q. Surfer, been waiting here since birth,

The biggest wave in the history of earth.

While everybody else was loading their cars,

John Q. Surfer was waxing his surfboard.

They said, Johnny! Are you crazy? You could die!




Johnny saw the wave come over the horizon,

Everybody else has left the town.

He better make it good, he only had one chance,

To climb on to the tidal wave and … dance

Johnny! Johnny! Good luck!


John Q. Surfer climbed onto his surfboard,

And headed out to meet the wave.

The wave came upon him, the wave was giant.

He tried to stand up, but it crushed him like an ant.

Johnny? Why’d you do it? That was stupid.

Wayward Blues (Beats by Jamel at Loud Rap Beats,

Ever'thing, Hop hip, New

Dearth of intelligence, earth to Freddy.
Bring that beat back, keep it rock steady.
Deadheads delay their date with destiny
the head on this Fred beats hell out the rest of me.
Suction out fat, Section 8 housing.
The cat that ate Pittsburgh is mousing.
Rats on the run, just like Revelations,
The 3-6 beast is the end of all nations.
But I’m still stressed about punctuation,
Inner eye trained on my own creation.
Facing apocalypse, I shrug my shoulders
Those wise old elders are way way older
than I’ll ever be, why listen to their gripes?
I’ve paid more dues than Wesley Snipes paid taxes,
Got exes in Texas,
Manipulate words like Schwarzenegger flexes.
He mates with maids, I make my mark,
Set sail on a sea of words, I’m a Cutty Sark.
Hark, the feral devils rap,
My trigonometry can cure the clap.

Map out a route or a root, where you headed.
Some thighs and breasts are fixin’ to get breaded,
Or maybe Fredded, break out the special sauce.
Cross the Rubicon, a Pyrrhic win’s a loss.
Moss gathers stones, rolling in the deep,
R.I.P. Brian Jones, what dreams may creep
deep into our quotidian existence,
Divisible quotient, futility of resistance.
Keep your distance, some words pack a sting.
Invented a new verb tense, now I make it sing.
Speak in Fourth person past present pluperfect.
This alphabet’s child’s play, gonna work it,
Jerk it around like a dog on a leash,
Got a wrinkled-ass brain but these trousers stay creased.
Catch and release, never fishing for compliments
Trapped the beast slouching east, always up on to it.

Sonnet’s son and limerick’s bastard,
Poetry glows but liquor is faster.
Master of my domain, jack of all tropes,
Eat snipe for breakfast, got a pet jackalope.
Pope Paul was appalled at my pulled pork prose,
It’s falling off the bone, Lord only knows
what I’ll say next, and he ain’t tellin’.
Nobody’s buyin’ if nobody’s sellin’.
Bring me the head of John Tesh on a platter;
Say hey, Salome, what is the matter?
And yo, Kenneth, what is the frequency?
I got more rhymes than juvenile delinquents
See here, listen up, ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust, flush the fashion.
Flashback Friday Voices Carry Til Tuesday,
Carry on My Wayward blues, my wayward blues,
Can’t stop singing these wayward blues.

Accrued more losses than stones got moss,
Got six balls less than my main man Rick Ross.
Floss my teeth with a pole dancer’s g-string,
Won the contest ‘cuz I’ll eat anything.
Some bring the noise, some bring the violence
But I got 4’33” seconds of {{{[silence]}}}
John Cage cage match, got the matchmaker blues,
Practice makes perfect, I’m practicing self-abuse.
News got old, I rock an Olds 98
My Hyundai got sun-dried like a wrinkled-ass grape.
California raisin, raisin’ cain
Drunk on dandelion wine, time to run it all back again.

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!”

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.

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