Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
When I was young I thunk Chicklet was quite the sassy, saucy dish:
double stitching ******, stripping for money, eating discounted fish
and majoring in alcoholics while imitating crapped-out Lillian Gish
******* on Easter portraits to the wall as that was her Easter wish.
It's the original sin that kills everyone who won't shut up. It ain't 34
bombs strapped to a nun or this hare-triggered Cuban machine gun.
My mind wanders like Cubans to the front of the free-cheese line or
like a Japanese back-transplant-surgery patient waiting for his spine
or like a kindly hippo with swollen ****** puking on a knotty pine.
β€œWhat's for supper?” I asked my mommy who often provided food.
β€œGarbage! Mounds of it!” She duly replied not even remotely rude.
β€œHoly Moses!” I moaned havin' recently had useless surgery again.
β€œShut your cake hole!” Barked she harshly like Barbie does to Ken.
Sitting by the lake, taunting my "pet" gator with my
bare feet brought me to the attention of a doctor
who specializes in foot amputation. His name is Pete.
Next page