HEY SUCKA!
Remember that time with Serge in Homosassa?
The air was humid and the sun seemingly solar
We was riding on an air boat poached from the Everglades
Sailing down a cantankerous suburban canal in a demented subdivision
Smoking that PCP I carjacked from Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood,
There was choking, coughing, cursing in Spanglish, floral shirt wearing
Then Coleman told us a riddle that was totally bubonic…
He said that if you chant Mr. T three times into a mirror
Mr. T will appear!
Just like “Bloody Mary” or the “Candyman!”
THIS AIN’T NO JIBBA JABBA!
So one night I’m lonely and afraid
Poking my teddy bear with hypodermic needles like a voodoo doll,
I look into my coke mirror and righteously repeat:
“Mr. T! Mr. T! Mr. T!”
Voila!
Here he is!
Right here!
Jumping outta my mirror!
Mr. T then slaps me upside the head
…I think he said:
“I pity the fool that don’t know about the epidemic of school kids
Ditching class to go to the library and read Emily Dickinson poems
Only to graffiti villanelles into the handicapped toilet stalls!”
Mr. T says we need to get to the bottom of this
I say, “Well, let’s attempt to contact the reclusive spirit with my Ouija board and ask her advice”
Mr. T thinks that’d be swell,
Possibly even nice
Then we joyously jump onto my two seated bicycle,
“Nous devons aller!” cries Mr. T
We start pedaling fast,
Pedaling so fast,
Faster than death
Faster than Lance Armstrong on crack or meth
On our way, we ride by a conga line of transsexual ninjas
Dancing like Kevin Bacon to Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing”
We also pass by a gallant gas station on fire
Where Mike Tyson is out front getting beaten with a tire
His attacker a 12 year old girl in braces, dental headgear and wires
(This completely reminded me of the time Lady Sovereign f***ed David Cameron up the ass with a strap-on in front of British Parliament but nobody noticed)
!
!
(Hello. My name is Macadangdang. I have no reason to be in this poem other than to complain about the two hairy Italian guys playing tennis with testicles. Please make them stop.)
!
!
Soon enough in the rough
We be at the inflatable porta-potty where I keep my Ouija board
Once there, we start the séance…
“MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
BAKAKAKALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALAALALALA
MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
WAAKAKAKAKAKAKALALALLLALALALALALALALLALABAAA”
(The Ouija chant)
Unfortunately, we only get through to a telemarketer
No long distance plan in the world could make me amputate my penis!
Or change my favorite brand of bathroom tissue!
F*** you and goodbye!
Oh, you want to get your supervisor on the line!
Didn’t think so!
Ciao!
Mr. T swiftly springs up and chases a stray Emu
All the way to the ballet where he’ll probably get into a fist fight
With a disgruntled ballerina or maybe even a Katie Couric or two
I plummet quickly into a trapdoor in my membrane
Activated by eight acid flashbacks on suicide sale at the Gap
Climbing up the nearest telephone poll,
Dressed in a hot pink S&M latex suit,
I play the bagpipes and croon in double octaves:
“AHHWHEEMAWAY, AHHWHEMMAWAY, AHHWHEEMAWAY, AHHWHEEMAWAY”
“Let this be a lesson to yoooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuuu!”
“DON’T F*** WITH THE POETICALLY RETARDED!”
LEGAL DISCLAIMER:
(Mr. T, Katie Couric, Mike Tyson, Lady Sovereign, David Cameron, Serge, Coleman, Emily Dickinson’s ghost, any dancing transsexual ninja or 12 year old girl or ballerina, nor any Emus were harmed during the making of this poem; unfortunately, neither were any telemarketers.)
(Serge and Coleman are characters of Florida author Tim Dorsey. Check out his books, especially “Hurricane Punch,” if you’ve yet to do so.)
