Oh, the Lame Places You'll Go!

 Oh, the Lame Places  

Congratulations!

Today is your day.
You're off to Lame Places!
You're off and away!


You have feet in your head.
You have brains in your shoes.
You can steer yourself  
but any direction, you lose!

You're on you own. And you know what you know.
And it isn't that much, YOU'RE an ignorant shmoe! 

You'll look up and down streets.  Look 'em over with ennui.
About some you will say, "too much effort, not me!" 
With your shoes full of brains and your head full of feet, 
you'll stumble and bumble down just about any old street.

And you probably won't find any
you've the gonads to tred.
In that case, of course, 
you'll head straight back to bed!

It's much safer, you'll swear
"On my Beauty Rest so fair!"

Out there,

 Shit Can Happen!

it's invariably true
to people as incompetent
and inept as you!

And when shit starts to happen,
You'll worry. You'll stew.
With perfectly good reason
Because UP you will SCREW!

OH! THE LAME PLACES YOU'LL GO!

Are you on your way up?
Are you seeing great sights?

Nah, you're watching the tube,
It's Kardashian Nights.

C'mon, don't lag behind,  if you must take some speed,
and some downers and cocaine and hashish and weed.

Wherever you fly, you'll think life's a big bash,
But wherever you go ... BOOOM!!! my friend, you will crash!

Except from now on you don't.
Eight trips to Rehab say you won't.

Still I'm confident to say so
and, verily, it's true
that Car Bang-ups

and Phone Hang-ups

will happen always to you!


Life will have you all strung up
It can sting like a birch.
And the gang will fly on
You're less popular than Lurch!

That's the Addams Family's Lurch,
You dumb ignorant chump!
And the chances are finally 
You've caught on you're a Shlump!

And when you're a Shlump
you're not in for much fun.
Un-shlumping yourself
by a Shlump's never been done!

You will come to a place where the streets are not marked.
Told you not to use Mapquest! You're surrounded, it's dark!
Six fullbacks are pummeling your head, face, and chin!

And there's nary a cop out. When you need 'em, they're in. 
How much can you lose? All you got, Gunga Din! 

Now, if you go in, should you turn left or right ...
or right-and-three-quarters? 

At SEX, you're a fright!  

Or go around back and sneak in from behind?
Your date will cry "Foul!" and no doubt you will find,
She will mind-maker-upper to dump your behind!

You can get so confused
you go out and buy Mace,
and spray it on peaceful protesters right in the face!

And the world will brand you a disgusting disgrace!
Better hurry right back to your favorite place ...


                          THE WHINING PLACE ... 

...for people just whining.

Whining like a pain, you know
annoying all so they wish you'd go,
whining about all that rain, all that snow,
or why you didn't ding-a-ling Marilyn Monroe,

or about what you'd do if your Big Chance would show,
or why your scant hairs just won't grow.


Everyone - mostly you - is just whining.

Whining that the fish don't bite,
or whining that your date's a repulsive sight, 
or whining why your house is such urban blight,
or whining why you don't have Body by Jake,

or some pot to smoke, or a theatrical leg to break,
or teeth like pearls or expensive implants,
or a string of girls with your great big shvantz.


Everyone - mostly you - is just whining.   

SHUT THE HELL UP!

KNOW!

That's so you!

The only way you'll escape
all that wailing and braying
is if I drag you out somewhere,
anywhere, long as ABBA's not playing!

With your fly flip-flapping,
once more you'll squeak by,
messing up everything under the sky.
Stepping in elephant poop cause you're a poop-steppin' guy!

Oh, the Lame Places you'll go!  There's seeds unsown to bemoan!
There are points you won't score. There are games to be blown. 
And the marginal things you can do with that ball

will make you the losing-est loser of all.
Lame! You'll be a lame-ass as lame-ass can be, 
with the whole wide world watching you scratch your nuts on TV. 

Except sometimes you won't 
Because make the team, mostly you don't! 

And, yes, there'll be times
you'll play lonely games too,
like solitaire on the PC
and the loser'll always be you. 

All Alone!
Whether you like it or not,
When those sexual urges hit
you'll be alone quite a lot.

And when you're alone, there's a very good chance
you'll need websites and videos to get off neath your pants! 
Hot babes? Yeah, right, loser, go you hither and yon,
you'll be lucky to nail a female Elton John! 

But on you will go.
"Nah, the weather's too foul."
On you will go.
"Nah, can't miss A Night with Simon Cowell."

On you will go.
"Nah, our neighbors, the Hakken-Kraks, might howl."
Onward up many channels,
you lame TV freak,
though your arms may get sore
from clicking something even dumber to seek!

On and on you will hike.
... from your TV not far.
and succumb to your problems
however lame-o they are!

You're get mixed up, of course,
you'll be readily whacked.
You'll get mixed up
with strange turds like the GOP Presidential pack.

So be sure when you step.
Step with care, watch for shit,
and remember that Life's
one Piece of Crap SNL Bit!

And never forget though you're sad and bereft,
That everyone's nuts on the far right and far left!

And will you succeed?
Are you kidding, dickweed?
You'll wind up in the toilet,

On you Life will have peed!

So ...
be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray


AHHH ... I'm just having some fun in my typical way!


Yes, you're off to Great Places!

Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting

so .... 

Good Luck and Oy Vay!

the end
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Cruelest Month

Ah, the Beauty of the Fall.  Know what?

Shut the hell up!

"April is the cruelest month," once wrote the poet, revealing himself to have been woefully ignorant of the true nature of the seasons of the year as well as of the concerns of one Perry Block, regardless of how good he might have been at personification and bowling over the ladies at parties. 

No, that cruelest of all months is the one underway.  September, for me, is the Simon Cowell of the Gregorian calendar.

September marks the end of Summer. It’s the time I realize that not only did I fail to do all those outdoorsy things I hoped to during the last three months,  the one time I made it to the beach the water was 58 degrees, the top of my head got so sunburned I resembled a human flashlight, and the only attractive woman who talked to me on the beach asked if she could bury me .... that is, completely.

With September comes the Fall.  So this is your favorite time of year, huh?  To me, September marks the beginning of a season characterized by the impending death of all things green, growing,  and alive, with the one exception of the Incredible Hulk. 

That nip in the air?  It spells animals scurrying for cover as if the Luftwaffe were approaching and leaves and plants beginning to sag and shrivel like your Aunt Hilda's face before she had the work done,  and meanwhile all you can talk about is where to get cider.

Those shortening days? In a couple of months, Nature will  be throwing its leafy little hands up to its dainty neck and doing a command performance of the final scene from Camille, and there you go hopping on a hayride. 

September sets this all up as coolly and deliberately as a bartender at 4:00 P.M.  All while you're busy bobbing for apples.

September marks the annual return to reading, ritin', n' 'rithmetic.  Doesn't matter how long it's been since I've been in school, every September I walk about inquiring of everyone if they got their books yet, who they have for homeroom, and if that hot Nicole Halaylos is in any of their classes.

It's a compulsion I cannot control. How about you?

Oh, I forgot.  You're still slurping cider.

And worst of all, for the 41st year in a row seems I’ve gotten Miss Kretchmer in Geometry.  She's still mean, she still doesn't grade on the curve, and OMG! she just called on me in class!

And September presents the anniversary of my birth. This year I will be 61 years old on September 12th.  

That's right --- my freshness seal expired deep into the last century.  I am "better if used before September 12, 1982," although few now would rightly want to use me anyway.

Nevertheless, every year the date September 12 sees fit to drop another unwanted digit on the mass of digits it has already mercilessly deposited upon me.  I am annually being rung up like a cash register by the month of September itself!  

This is indeed the cruelest part of the cruelest month of the year.

“Try to remember the kind of September,” once wrote the songwriter, revealing himself to be have been woefully ignorant of the true nature of the seasons of the year as well as of the concerns of one Perry Block, regardless of how good he might have been at rhyming three syllable words and bowling over the ladies at parties.

Try to remember the kind of September?

There’s 21 days ahead of me I’d like to forget!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~