Unnatural Disaster

Stunned isn’t quite the word I want here.

Nevaeh

When you were born 5 years ago,
your mom and dad were high.
They named you “heaven” backwards
and it makes me want to cry.

I want to say I’m sorry,
for you will never be
a CEO or president,
named so stupidly.

They tried to be creative
and shun the status quo.
And now the name will haunt you
wherever you may go.

As your teacher, I can’t do much
to help your sorry state.
But know that you can change it
before it gets too late.

For now I’ll mark you present
with Braeydynn, Jhett, and Graeyse.
And weep into my drink at night
so I can look you in the face.

When it comes to naming children,
please stop before you do.
It’s their lives that you’re screwing.
Take time to think it through.

The Hipster’s Lament

You think you’re so damned trendy-
skinny jeans and plaid.
Trucker hats and vinyl,
oh, aren’t you just so RAD?

Well, world, I gotta tell ya,
I did all that cool stuff first.
  Gotye and Absinthe,
now they are the worst.

Everything I’m into
you take it as your own.
You sell it at Hot Topic
and that I can’t condone.

You’ve stolen all the things I love
and made them so mainstream.
I have nothing cool to live for
and it makes me want to scream.

There is nothing left to eat or drink
or wear or watch or hear.
You’ve ruined everything I love-
for that I shed a tear.

I’d kill myself to end this pain.

It’s not as easy at it seems.

There are more folks dead than living.

It would make ME too mainstream.

IKEA

To Whom It May Concern,

I write on these napkins with the last of my strength and a little IKEA pencil. I can only hope someone finds one before it’s too late.

We came for curtains and a Billy bookcase. I watched as my wife, my beautiful wife, filled up the cart with 49 cent spatulas, 59 cent dish towels, and 89 cent glasses (“tumblers, dear. They’re called tumblers.” “Whatever. We have plenty of…tumblers…at home.” “Come on, they’re only 89 cents”) and I knew that only the sweet release of death or at least a cup of coffee would make this Swedish hell any better, so I bid her adieu (“are you positive we need 8 spatulas?” “Party favors. Christmas. I’ll find a use for them.”) and attempted to navigate my way through obnoxious young families with two carts AND a stroller left in the main aisle while they shopped, old folks who might have thought they were at a theme park, the determined couples who thought that by watching reruns of Trading Spaces they were master interior designers, and, strangely enough, not one IKEA salesperson.

Nerves rattled and stomach rumbling, I pushed my way through the crowds, following my nose, hoping that it would lead me to the sweet, caffeinated water of life, but I instead found myself at the scented candles. I tried calling my wife, but the damned Swedes seem to have something against cell phone reception.

I started going a little delirious. Was I really here? Was this a dream? Was I dead and hell was a Swedish discounted home goods store? Maybe this wasn’t IKEA at all. Maybe this is what Sweden really looks like and I was kidnapped by Swedish terrorists and drugged and here I am in Sweden and I’m going to get tortured by the government with 49 cent spatulas.

I walked in circles, never once finding the exit, the entrance, or any sign of my wife. I knew in my heart it would be a long time before I would see her sweet face again. Exhausted, I sat down on a Gråtrunka chair, right between the Sniglar bed and the Rövhål lamp and, soon after, I fell asleep.

When I awoke, it was morning and the throngs of people had already arrived, searching out the greatest deals on pillows and rope lighting. I was starving at this point and, by the grace of God, or Thor, or Odin, or whoever the Norse god of home furnishings is, I found the café.

Coffee in hand and gravlax in my stomach, I renewed the search for my wife. I scanned every face in the crowd, but to no avail. For three days I did this and, on the third day, I came to a horrific realization: the people, the confused, zombie-like people who clogged up the main aisle. They weren’t looking for Pattar dressers. THEY, TOO, WERE LOOKING FOR THE EXIT.

I ran up to one semi-lucid looking man of about 75. “How long, old man?”

“Twenty years, son. Twenty long years. We just wanted a salad spinner and a laundry basket. I miss my wife. I miss steak. I’ve been living off meatballs and lingonberry soda.”

“I’m going to get us out of here, pops. Just you wait and see.”

It’s been ten days for me. Longer for the others. So, please, if you find this, if you’re reading this, there are hundreds of us, trapped in here, looking for the exit and our loved ones. Please send help. We gather at 9 and 5 by the Karlstad and Kivik sofas and do a headcount to ensure we are all still alive. Please find us here and GET US OUT!

Publix Raspberry Iced Tea…you complete me.

/too hot for coffee

//need to stay awake for French

///Every college student in FL should be handed a 500 gift card to Publix every semester.

lV Subs, iced tea, fried chicken, peppermint stick ice cream, and mac and cheese should be 5 major food groups

V But, like, in lowfat, low-cal versions that taste just as good.

Sleeping for the next MONTH now, thanks.

107!

It would not have been possible without the hours and hours of The Whitest Kids U’Know I mainlined to get inspiration for my sketch. Also, to Seth Grahame-Smith and CDC in Atlanta for additional inspiration. And to the makeup guys at Universal for teaching me how to make buckets of fake blood and totally awesome horror makeup, I love you all. To scripped.com for maintaining a great scripting program, I could not have done it without you. To my actors, I still think the Mayhem/Flo/GEICO gecko sketch was funnier, but I’m not going to say no to this A++.

107. I’m FREAKING OUT.

I got a 102%

with 650 points needed for a perfect A, I should finish out at 662 points!

I AM A MATH GENIUS. AS LONG AS THIS IS THE HARDEST MATH I WILL EVER TAKE.

When you email your final to your professor and all he has to say for himself is, “There’s something seriously wrong with you?”

I accidentally wrote one of my profs using my fannish email address…one that he could totally trace to my LJ and here. I have my inboxes all going to one address and I have the option of replying as any one of those email addresses and then Gmail had to fuck me royally by addressing it like blah blah blah ON BEHALF OF blah blah blah.

I have visions of my prof reading ALL THE SLASH. AWKWARD.