A partial list of things that I can realistically suplex: Part 2.

(Click here for Part 1)

– Yoga mats.

– A barbell with no weights on it.

– An intoxicated child.

– A paper mache statue created with printings of posts from this blog.

– A premade Halloween costume of the Queen.

– Art.

– Husks of corn.

– Very large life jackets, but not the people wearing them.

– Come to think of it, suplexing an inflatable raft sounds like it would be
pretty fun.

– A suitcase full of whatever it is that you cherish the most. I feel like most
people don’t cherish bricks or anything like that. If you cherish bricks more
than anything else you’re kind of weird. Call me. ❤

– Guitars. Especially if it’s a solo guitar during a solo performer’s solo. Not
to be confused with silos of any kind.

– That tower you spent the last couple of hours making with Legos? Oh ho ho ho
yessssssssssssssss.

– Trees. Well, small ones that aren’t really dug in that deep and haven’t taken
root yet. But it’s not as impressive when you point that out.

– Stop signs. Could you help me with taking them out of the ground first?

– A rolled up poster-sized drawing of the band Queen posing with the Queen.

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I should start a band.

Actually, I tried to start a two-man act with a friend of mine (Let’s call him DJ Sven again because he still be spinning like mad yo.) a couple of years ago. It was going to be called Anger Cake and our band logo would have a cake being smashed with a hammer. It was pretty friggin’ awesome. The only thing that got in our way and the very thing that destroyed our endeavor was the fact that we had absolutely no ideas about anything whatsoever beyond those two things.

I need to start over beginning with a new name. Using Anger Cake wouldn’t be cool since that was something I was supposed to start with somebody else. I’m thinking something along the lines of Birthday Box for now, but I’ll dwell on that for a bit.

Now I need to pick a genre of music. I don’t really have any talents with an instrument, but I hear that ‘spoken word’ is a genre? Basically someone loudly tells a story while someone else plays music. Not really singing per say, but I feel it’s something I could do with some practice.  As for the background music I’ll need something that will stand out. Nobody’s really made it big with an accordion player in their band recently have they?

As for subject manner I need to pick something agreeable that hasn’t already been covered a million times already. Social/political commentary is overdone, hot-button issues will drive people away and I have to avoid being too preachy. So I guess I’ll have to use my spoken word music to raise awareness of the dangers of carnivorous jellybeans and the like.

Anybody wanna sign up to be my accordion player? I can’t promise that I’ll be able to pay you anything but we’ll have a hell of a journey at least.

Things that cause me to do a double-take.

– Somebody else doing a double-take.

– Shadows that are shaped like people trying to stab me. Also, people who are trying to stab me.

– A really hot wombat in a tube top. Gotta stop and give them water, it’s just the right thing to do. The tube top always confuses me though.

– The Queen. Every. Single. Time.

– Explosions. Because I’m not a cool enough guy not to look at them.

– That table I just stubbed my toe on again and why is that table still there shouldn’t somebody move it already!?

– New Brunswick.

– Bubble wrap.

– Rips in the space/time continuum.

– Anything that looks like a duck, especially a duck.

– I asked Cleverbot about what causes a double-take, and it had this to say: “I make reality to be anything. Which means everything is real.”

– Kick-able snow banks because apparently I’m still twelve.

– Kick-able twelve year olds because apparently I’m still a vengeful snow bank.

– VHS tapes for rent/sale at corner stores. Even as a vinyl fan I’m puzzled as to if there’s actually a scene for that sort of thing still.

– You. ❤

***

(My ladyfriend went to Ontario for work-related purposes last week and left this on my computer desk. She’s pretty much the coolest person ever.)

Poetry Slam!

I was posting posters on a post,
To share my love of toast.
I even snuck them onto poles of light,
Just before I quickly took flight.

But from behind I was caught!
I struggled and I fought.
I turned and saw my assailant was a cop.
Needless to say he came out on top.

I came up with a solution,
It was the only logical conclusion.
The only way he will let me go,
Is if I impress him with my mad flow.

“I’m going to get this off my chest,
And tell you why you’re being a pest.
I have the right to advertise,
And I don’t need any of your jazzercise.

My main commodity is knowledge,
I got more than a college.
I be bringing these mad rhymes,
All of the . . . Times?”

My freestyle rap failed to provide thrills,
He was not impressed with my skills.
Instead of simply letting me go,
He stomped on my left big toe.

Then he told me to stop with the postering,
Or a court date would be a’fostering.
He told me to have a nice day,
Before skipping along on his merry way.

I need to massage something right now.‏

My hands quiver as I feel the need to just rub something gently. I look around the city street I’m on. Not a single person in sight, although massaging random people is just creepy anyway.

The rain falls heavy creating an extremely familiar atmosphere. I’m drenched, the street is drenched, the buildings are drenched but somehow I don’t feel wet at all. I look around. A fire hydrant, various doors without knobs, street lights and stairs. None of these will do any good to me now.

I keep running. I run until I can’t feel feelings, only the pounding of my bare feet against the sidewalk. I see a potted plant. Yes, this will work. I shove my hands into the soil and enjoy the gloopy sensation.

A panda joins me. He gives me a panda suit as a salutation. I change into the suit and we knead the soil together. The sky begins to change color. It becomes various shades of magenta. The flower that was in the pot has shrunk away and has been replaced by a small man.

That man is me.

From the pot I start to sing. I’m now watching myself knead the soil around me from a smaller set of eyes and a new perspective. I sing the song of attrition. At the same time I sing the song of growth from my old perspective to counteract myself.

I grow from the pot as the pot grows with me. I have become much taller than myself and although my feet are in the earth my head is now in the clouds. I frighten off the panda and myself, but it is okay. I have done what I had to do to help me grow.

Reaching down and grabbing handfuls of the planet below me I begin to eat it. I eat and eat until the planet is no more. This takes years. Space is my home now, and the pot is the only thing I know. I believe I have feet but I can’t be sure for I haven’t seen them since I began rubbing the soil.

An asteroid breaks the pot. The soil spills out and to my horror I have become the soil. I have been essentially ripped apart and as my body is spread throughout the universe I black out from the pain.

I wake up in a grassy field. And only the panda suit remains.