A Brief Aside (the '19' Ate My Bray-EEN!) to Avoid Writing a More Difficult Post

Being Famous Won't Always Save You from the Reaper

Those who know me well know that I don't shy away from criticism. I mean criticizing others; what sort of masochist welcomes criticism from others? 😉 Certainly not me, or so I've heard before blocking such critics before they unfairly drip their bloody tears upon the fabric of my extraordinary life.

OK, where was I? Right. Criticism. The bigger the fish, the bigger the fire fry Frey. In this case, James Frey. I dislike James Frey's writing so much that I actually contemplated intentionally misspelling his name just to make it harder to find him. But that's like trying to keep a coke addict from finding a dealer—ain't gonna happen. But I'll be damned if I'm going to supply a link to that freak; a music video is better:

And on and on. But truly, Frey is small fry. Let's go bigger—a sacred cow, as it were—the only difference being that I'm fairly certain that a blind, syphilitic cow with palsy could outwrite this pathetic excuse for a writer. In this case, though, I shall share a cute little poem I wrote to enshrine him forever in my memory. He shall remain nameless except that I call him J. D. (for Just Dumb):

Here I stand, alone,
In my tiny belfry,
Looking at a fly.

He slyly wants to land,
On my panoply,
Of luscious food so ri-pey.

He thinks he is so sly,
That funny little fly.
Killing him would surely,
Make me wanna cry.

Keening to the sky,
My will shall pass me by,
As I slice my wrists, die.

For in my hoosegow high,
I have naught to read,


Let the hate flow through you, my little ones. Devour it like manna from heaven, for it is good. It is oh so good. 

I told you it ate my brain. 

Party on, Buckeroos. 


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