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Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

I Could Have Been Named What?!

baldyDid you know that my nom de plume for this blog, Michael Cedarwood, was concocted by using the classic porn formula of (middle name) + (street you grew up on)?

But did you also know that like NBA legend Dikembe Mutombo Mpolondo Mukamba Jean-Jacques Wamutombo, I have more than one middle name? And that I grew up on more than one street? With all those names and all those streets under my belt, the identity of my blogging alter-ego had the potential to swing in many different directions.

I have compiled a list of my other middle names and streets that I grew up on. Let us now take a look at what could have been.

Girth McThickness

Cratch Sacknard

Barb Marbly

Veiny Von Opulent

Hoagie Flundlecrode

Baldy Waxmas

Hairy Crinkleheimer

Crusty Gustaffson

Squirt Terdhurdle

Caspian Vanderhoot

Blimpy Slipplenip

Whiffle Gristlesniff

Squizz Stinkelsteen

Firt Girdle

Berf Girkin

Lactose Jackson (not to be confused with Catfish Jackson)

 

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My War On Christmas

Next year, instead of dealing with the whole Christmas gift racket, I’m doing this:

<Tell anyone that might be considering me as a gift recipient to instead write down what they would have bought for me

<I’ll do the same for them

<After sifting through the lists, both sides can decide if they would like any of the potential gifts, and go buy them if they want

<I don’t want stuff and I don’t like to shop, so I will end up buying nothing

<I will save a lot of time and money

<Others will save time and money too, unless they want to buy themselves a bunch of stuff that I wrote down

 

 

Interview With The Guy That Collected My Urine

December 16, 2015 4 comments

Sometimes you find yourself in an establishment, wondering about the strange trail people took to end up working there. That’s why I asked the guy that recently collected a sample of my urine how he wound up analyzing pee for a living.

Me: You sit in this room all day and wait for people to urinate.

Urine Collector: Yes, I do.

Me: So how does a guy get started in the urinalysis biz? Were you interested in urine as a child?

UC: Obsessed. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t  thinking about urine—drawing pictures of it, bringing it to show-and-tell, collecting samples from my siblings and our pets. I couldn’t get enough of the stuff.

Me: Describe your ‘Eureka!’ moment, the time when you said to yourself, ‘This is what I want to do with my life. I want to collect piss in small plastic containers.’

UC: I was in fifth grade. By that time, I was always lurking in the restroom, because I enjoyed urinary environs—human friends didn’t interest me—and I would take in the smells, the sounds. I have a poem I wrote that day. Allow me to read it. (the room goes black, except for a single spotlight that shines down on The Urine Collector, who is resting on a stool, smoking a cigarette, and snapping a slow beat)

Behold now, these ancient echoes that reverberate as splashes of flaxen liquid strike the alabaster surface of a urinal!

Envelop me, O ethereal, pissy mist that floats over toilet bowls both old and new!

Bladders From Above, bless us with thy holy golden rain, and smite those that conspire to stop thine rivulets!

Me: That didn’t rhyme.

UC: Expressions of passion rarely do.

Me: So are you passionate about poetry too? Did you ever think about writing as a career?

UC: No. Writers don’t get to analyze urine.

Me: Of course they don’t. Be honest with this next question. Can you tell from a person’s looks if they are going to test positive for drugs? Like if some guy with dreadlocks wearing a Phish T-shirt walks in, do you just say to him ‘Nope. No way. Don’t waste my time. Get the hell out of here,’ or is that frowned upon?

UC: The brotherhood of People Interested in Scrutinizing Sewage (P.I.S.S.) requires us to take an oath of equality. Every person that comes through our door receives a cup, regardless of weight, ugliness, hairiness, whatever. Having said that, words like ‘stoked’ are a tip off, and spotting even the smallest traces of tie-dye on a garment raise red flags as well. Whiffs of patchouli will also garner special attention. In those cases, I personally get in real close and watch the urine come out of the urethra.

Me: That seems like a good place to end this. Thank you.

UC: No, thank you (he wraps both his hands around the container, like he’s holding a cup of hot cocoa, closes his eyes and sniffs deeply, taking in the aromatics and other unseen nuances that only a seasoned expert can detect).

A Multi-Layered Taco Dip Of A Joke

Taken from thedugoutreport.com

I’m sitting here watching the MLB All Star Game. Joe Buck’s forehead, which is somehow simultaneously advancing up over his scalp and down into his face, raping and pillaging any hair or sensory organs that cross its path, gave me the idea for a joke.

It will amuse nature lovers.

Sports fans might get it.

It incorporates the ancient art of rhyme.

The very masculinity of Buck himself is brought into question.

Sports, nature, poetry, and machismo in a delicious multi-layered taco dip of a joke. Here goes:

Joe Buck? More like Joe Doe!

I never said the joke would be funny. I’m very sorry.

Categories: Humor Tags: , , , , , , ,

Rapper Boasts About Average Penile Length In New Song

A blurred out image of the penis, which no one wanted to see anyway.

A blurred out image of the normal penis, which no one wanted to see anyway.

Some suburb in MN—Rapper Steven Anderson decided over the weekend to mention his 5 7/8″ long reproductive organ on his newest track, tentatively titled My Penis is Right In Line With The American Average.

“For the opening line, which can make or break a hip-hop song, I was thinking something along the lines of ‘My five and seven eighths/always satiates.’ It drops right in with the beat, and people will be like ‘What? That’s not very big. But it’s not little either.’ I’m not married to the idea, though,” Anderson said from his Toyota Camry.

In hip-hop tradition, when a membrum virile is mentioned, it is generally for the purpose of revealing great size, as well as giving a mention to the owner’s dexterity and control over the piece of anatomy, a fact not lost on Steven.

“Not everyone is hung like a goddam horse, alright? It’s just how it works,” he said. “I’ve got this weener, like most guys, and it’s just your basic weener, nothing more, nothing less, and I want people to know that.”

The reference to the mid-level junk, which is nothing to write home about, was finally given the go-ahead by Anderson after a late-night writing session in which he wrestled with the idea of whether or not people would like to hear music about his in-no-way-out-of-the-ordinary dong.

When asked if the size of his log might attract ridicule from rival rappers, or the fact that he drives a Camry, rents a middle-unit townhouse, and holds a day job in data entry, Anderson responded: “You know what? I’m just a normal person with no defining qualities, and I don’t think it’s a point of shame. The fact of the matter is, today’s average American penis doesn’t get a lot of clock in hip-hop. But the very fact that it’s not special, that makes it special among the masses, because there are millions of men just like me, and they’ll buy into this. No one makes fun of a guy for being 5’10”. That’s average. Besides, I make up for it in other ways, if you know what I mean.”

When told “No, I don’t know what you mean, please elaborate,” Steven ended the interview.

 

I Am A Poet, And I Do Know It

I found out today that I am destined to do something great.

As I stood on the deck during the small hours of this morning, I gazed to the West and pondered this life. Words began appearing to me — slow at first, and then, as if a dam had burst, they came pouring out, almost too fast for me to rush inside and transcribe them to paper. When all was said and done, I had this poem in front of me:

Somebody once told me

The world is gonna roll me

I ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed

She was looking kind of dumb with her finger and her thumb

In the shape of an “L” on her forehead

Well, the years start coming and they don’t stop coming

Fed to the rules and I hit the ground running

Didn’t make sense not to live for fun

Your brain gets smart but your head gets —–

I had to stop there because I couldn’t think of anything to rhyme with “fun.” Even though I had run into writer’s block towards the end of the poem, I still couldn’t help thinking to myself how bright of a future I could have in poetry. A future so bright, one might even compare it to a star. Or maybe one star wouldn’t be bright enough. What if you combined all of the stars in the sky into one star, and called it something like an “All Star?” There’s another idea for a poem right there.

Anyways, you’re probably wondering where I’m going with this. Several hours after composing that poem, I was listening to the radio in the car, and a song by something called “Smash Mouth” came on. The DJ introduced the title of the song as “All Star!” What are the chances? I was just thinking about writing a poem called “All Star” not three hours before! I listened intently, and was even more flummoxed when I heard the words. They were the exact same as the ones I had written that morning! What are the chances that I would write something using the exact same words that this “Smash Mouth” character had also used, as well as having all of those words be in the exact same order?! Man, if I keep this creative streak alive, I just may be “Walkin’ On The Sun” in no time! (Another prospective poem title that I just thought of)

Blong. Still lovin’ on the polka. Lovin’ it strong. The Six Fat Dutchmen, hailing from New Ulm, MN.

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