Hookers or Cake

Where the self-obsessed get serious about silly
I'm too wacky to be hip.

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      • ------------------------------------- How this blog got its name

      ------------------------------------ There was a large painting of Evel Knievel shaking hands with Richard Nixon. It hung in the Mayors office. Late one evening after everyone went home. I took it down to the lab. I zoomed in on Evel’s left eye a 100x and enhanced it. It was an address. I went to the address. It was a modest, 1970’s style, split level ranch home in the suburbs.

      ----------------------------------- Inside I found a dead parrot lying on a waterbed. I revived the parrot with some saltines and adrenaline. We became good friends. The parrots name was Randy. One night a few years later while Randy and me played Gin Rummy, he sang me a song about a fire. The title of this blog was never mentioned but I sensed it, and Randy confirmed it by giving me ‘THE LOOK’.

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          tell me lies! Submit stuff
          • March 1, 2012 11:49 pm
            Everyone has a godSomething they worshipThe inner reaches of outer spacethrowing key-lime pie, into the faceof deathof loveof mystery…History’s slow dance into the futurethat no one everseems to remember.What are we?This endless tumblinthis slum flunk drumblinhobo trumpettremblininto the mouth of god 


            Everyone has a god
            Something they worship

            The inner reaches of outer space
            throwing key-lime pie, into the face

            of death

            of love

            of mystery…

            History’s slow dance into the future

            that no one ever

            seems to remember.

            What are we?

            This endless tumblin
            this slum flunk drumblin
            hobo trumpet
            tremblin

            into the mouth of god

             

            29 notes Filed under:  shitty poetry, poetry, total fucking godhead,.
          • December 12, 2011 1:20 am
            There is a wild silence that ties itself to the trees falls from the leaves  telling ya “please baby please! won’t cha blow me?!” and tells you about a long ago war how god got frightened down at the store.   and lighting when its divided can run a sewing machine stitch together in my mind curling till I find the line running to 7-11 to get more cheap wine your laughter creates a breeze, and that in turn creates time to count all the rocks on Venus

            There is a wild silence that ties itself to the trees

            falls from the leaves 

            telling ya “please baby please! won’t cha blow me?!”


            and tells you about a long ago war

            how god got frightened down at the store.  

            and lighting when its divided

            can run a sewing machine


            stitch together in my mind

            curling till I find the line

            running to 7-11 to get more cheap wine


            your laughter creates a breeze, and that in turn creates time

            to count all the rocks on Venus

            40 notes Filed under:  The Ludicrous Breeze, gpoy, shitty poetry,.
          • December 11, 2011 2:12 am
            Notes on watching the QVC channel high on peyote I don’t know if you’ve ever made love in a haunted house at the bottom of the sea but its not as bad as Neitsche says it is. Its actually quite fun. Similar to making biscuits for the sun, that is until you run out. And if you order this soul killing blender in the next 20 minutes we’ll throw in the Hieronymus Bosch attachment and TWO roaring voids for FREE! You only pay a small shipping and handling fee. It reminds me of the time that my spell check started acting up. It began to suggest lurid spellings and emotions - high school potions that we made out of whatever liquor was left. These magic rings speak secrets to your hands. Hot tickling moments whispered into the sand. That reality is slipping through your fingers is still the best handjob ever. Up next, an infinite chain of delight that will drown you. Made out of Cap’n Crunch’s soul and with a limited lifetime warranty.

            Notes on watching the QVC channel high on peyote

            1. I don’t know if you’ve ever made love in a haunted house at the bottom of the sea but its not as bad as Neitsche says it is. Its actually quite fun. Similar to making biscuits for the sun, that is until you run out.
            2. And if you order this soul killing blender in the next 20 minutes we’ll throw in the Hieronymus Bosch attachment and TWO roaring voids for FREE! You only pay a small shipping and handling fee.
            3. It reminds me of the time that my spell check started acting up. It began to suggest lurid spellings and emotions - high school potions that we made out of whatever liquor was left.
            4. These magic rings speak secrets to your hands. Hot tickling moments whispered into the sand. That reality is slipping through your fingers is still the best handjob ever.
            5. Up next, an infinite chain of delight that will drown you. Made out of Cap’n Crunch’s soul and with a limited lifetime warranty.

            86 notes Filed under:  poetry, shitty poetry, Cap'n Crunch, slack, Bob,.
          • November 11, 2011 12:42 am
            Life is nothing without all this hot death on death action no need to use fractions we’re all gonna die. My grandma lost her mind in the end. She’d buried five children and she had a hard time remembering who was alive and who was dead. Every time she’d see me she’d start crying. I was alive. 

            Life is nothing without all this hot

            death on death action

            no need to use fractions

            we’re all gonna die.

            My grandma lost her mind in the end. She’d buried five children and she had a hard time remembering who was alive and who was dead. Every time she’d see me she’d start crying. I was alive. 

            1,316 notes Filed under:  shitty poetry, prose,.
          • September 26, 2011 12:02 am
            Experimenting with social media. I can chant shit poetry all the live long day.  But as long as I post it with a pic of a naked famous chick It’ll get notes and reblogs and then I can say to myself, “They love me for my poetry. They love me for my art.” Its not for my fake celebrity tits they truly see the depths of my soul and they like/love/reblog and I feel full no longer made of holes I am fucked completely.

            Experimenting with social media.

            I can chant shit poetry all the live long day. 

            But as long as I post it with a pic of a naked

            famous chick

            It’ll get notes and reblogs and then I can say to myself,

            “They love me for my poetry.

            They love me for my art.”

            Its not for my fake celebrity tits

            they truly see the depths of my soul

            and they like/love/reblog and I feel full

            no longer made of holes

            I am fucked completely.

            173 notes Filed under:  shitty poetry, Zooey Deschanel, nsfw,.
          • September 21, 2011 9:00 pm
            [Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.] 112 plays

            Really asshole?! Another fucking R.E.M. memorial?

            Yeah but this song…

            Its got that intoxicating beauty of autumn. Ragged stream of consciousness dirge. Fuck! Its got Patti Smith!! Its got the feeling of nature, that all good REM songs had.

            Country roads - ancient houses - dead colorful leaves. 

            The beautiful sad poet, scrawling shitty poetry in some old cafe. Turning pain into something seductive. Dark and glittering glimpses of what could be, but an almost joyous” fuck yeah” in knowing that the end will be bitter and thankfully alone.

            22 notes Filed under:  E-Bow the Letter, R.E.M., REM, music, shitty poetry, maudlin,.
          • September 20, 2011 12:01 am

            :via

            In the rough and hungover…

            lost in a strange land.

            The desert speaks to me

            taunts me

            with tales of hidden treasure.

            I lost my flask 10,000 years ago,

            but I can hear it crying still.

            All the whiskey in the world

            whispering my secret name.

            (Source: )

            90 notes Filed under:  dean martin, deano, shitty poetry,.
          • September 15, 2011 1:01 am

            Giovanni Canavesio (thanks monsterman)

            Coors Lite changed thier marketing strategy. 

            Once you hang yourself

            and are disembowled by a demon monkey

            who steals your soul 

            only then will your beer be truly cold.

            1,375 notes Filed under:  Giovanni Canavesio, the demon monkey is forming a bowling league of lost souls, shitty poetry,.
          • August 20, 2011 4:44 pm
            Mr. Giggles never did get use to my robot leg. His ferocious display of snarling barks whenever I clanked around the house… and though its been 3 years since Mr. Giggles passed I can still hear his suspicious growls from deep beneath the flower bed. sometimes in dreams I find him alone and whimpering my phantom leg in his teeth.


            Mr. Giggles never did get use to my robot leg.

            His ferocious display of snarling barks

            whenever I clanked around the house…


            and though its been 3 years

            since Mr. Giggles passed

            I can still hear his suspicious growls

            from deep beneath the flower bed.


            sometimes in dreams I find him

            alone and whimpering

            my phantom leg in his teeth.


            48 notes Filed under:  shitty poetry, bestofhoc,.
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