Temporarily out of order

This blog is temporarily closed.

I'm a bit busy looking for someone to marry...immigration reasons.

Take care y'all,

Spook E.

BTW if you want to help a brother out with finding a "green card suitor", I'll kiss your ass for life.

I don't mean to offend anyone and I hope this post will be taken with a grain of salt or something smaller and saltier.

This is a yarmulke.




and these are a couple of things about the yarmulke I want addressed:


1)There was a Jewish kid on the bus today wearing one with which he needed a little paper clip to secure. If I bought a hat and needed a paper clip to keep it on, there better be a healthy breeze blowing my way or I want my money back. But in the event there is a slight draught a-strirring, can yarmulk-ites do no better than paper clips? I mean come on, no one uses paper clips anymore, not even for paper. Here's my humble suggestion. Yarmulkes should be modified to have a larger circumfrence that grip the head better and maybe for extra security, a one-size-fits-all velcro strap that loops under the chin. Is that so far fetched? Is that such a revolutionary idea?


2)You see the guy in the picture? You see where he has his little hat centered, on that little cranial bulge we all have? (unless you have a flat head and then you know the almighty has truly fucked you over) Thats where all yarmulkes are worn, in that exact spot on the head. Long ago, some poor balding Jewish dude probably thought he'd escape a toupee that way and the trend caught on. Soon wearing small hats in the middle of your head became hip and fashionable and even little Jewish kids began capping their heads like this. I say it's time for a fashion makeover. It took us a while but we eventually turned the baseball cap backwards, remember? I say it's time to turn the yarmulke backwards. It would be hard to notice, but it'll look awesome.


In reference to #1, On further consideration, making the yarmulke larger would just make it a skull cap like us heathens wear, but still there is no argument against a one-size-fits-all velcro chin strap.

I pilfer from my Ma

Be patient. Wait for the sound of the shower to die off. If you feel motivated, heave your bony ass out of bed and try to drop for 10. You will get to 7 before your arms give out but that’s OK. Last time it only took 6. If it's piety moving you today, dust of your old King James and read a psalm. Before you, the bible was your sister's and before her, your dad's. Now it looks like it survived a civil war. Last Christmas Ma gave you money for a new one but that morning, Mike and Kathy invited you over for breakfast at the IHOP and you didn't want to look like a chump for not ponying up your share. Ma thinks you bought the bible.

But if things are as they usually are these days, you're feeling neither motivated nor spiritual and you haven't felt either way since that long sleep between high school and college freshman year so stay in bed. If necessary, pull the pillow over your head and try to mellow your matricidal thoughts into something less violent and more non specific. You do not want a fight with her over her morning routines. You did that once, went off on her because she kept flushing the toilet – once, twice, three times, four times – It’s 5AM goddamit. How about you drain the Pacific too.

That day, you discovered Ma had skills, a backhand – a swift back-swing pausing delicately over her left shoulder, and then a reckless decent landing and exploding on your stupefied face. To think you believed backhands were only myth, the kinds of theatric rhetoric people added to threats more as garnish than actual bite. Remember years ago when she told you she played tennis in her high school days? You'd laughed and for good reason - the woman, who took a full minute to ease her considerable mass out of her one-storey SUV, scampering after a rubber ball on a tennis court, was enough to short circuit your imaginative faculties. She made you a believer.

If she’s been in there 20 minutes, she’s probably washing her hair today and will be at it for another 20. Go to the kitchen, to the cupboard where she leaves the garri and her Nigerian spices. Look behind the jumbo plastic bucket of "I Can't Believe it's not Butter" she now uses to store dried pepper. You’ll find that pot you discovered last night on your way to the cereal box. The one with the warped lid charred so badly the metal was flaking. The one she always says she’s thrown out but which just happens to find its way buried under the living room sofa or wedged behind the refrigerator or the oven or haunting every last crook you'd never think of looking in, bearing a tight roll of $20 bills.

As you wet your lips and grin, remember:
one bill and she blames her carelessness
two, she blames the cashier's
three and you're a thief.

Choose wisely

Random Quote

Quote from Edmund White's book

"...but you, I don't think you'd know what to do with a truly big dick except throw it over your shoulder, burp it, and weep. Are you Irish?"

I've been laughing for hours.

Elective: Stupidity 101

Uncle G looks through his rear-view mirror

The weather is so bad. I can't see anything.

I'll go out and look for you

No, no, its ok, I'll manage

I look back and it's practically opaque with fog

are you sure?

yes, yes, it's ok

He's still trying to coerce his eyes into seeing, he cocks his head about looking through the rear-view mirrow

It's just terrible...I can't see anything

Let me go out and look

He ignores me, puts the car in reverse and begins backing out slowly

I hope there's nothing behind me...

He cocks his head about some more still trying to see

Oh God, I hope I don't hit anything

Maybe I should look

No.

I roll my eyes, look out the passenger window and there is a lady, running at us, hysterically waving her arms and mouthing something I couldn't quite hear

What the hell is she doing, he says, still backing up

Then it all makes sense, but it's too late. Fender meets bumper and they kiss...the police arrive, take statements...insurance companies are called and briefed...Uncle G mumbles something about his premiums getting hiked and sulks all the way home. I on the other hand, find the entire thing rather amusing, even hillarious.

A breath of stale hair

I used to wonder why women took so much pains
in trying to be as hairless as possible.

I really did.

Facial hair:
Removing those I understand.
Facial hair is manly,
the human equivalent of a lions mane.

But I thought -
Why do they have a problem with body hair?
the one's on thier legs, forearms, even armpits.
It's hardly anything
or barely something-
which really,
is just splitting hairs.

Well...

Last night at the book store, I saw a 6'3 man in a -

blond wig and high-heeled shoes
and a
poofy-sleeved blouse and knee-lenght skirt
and a
pearl necklace and red clutch purse.

Besides the broad, meaty, quarter-back shoulders,
the one-to-one, waist-to-hip ratio,
his shoebox jaw and side-burns,

he looked decent, even chic - a handsome girl waiting for a date.

Truly a vision
as they say,
to haunt, to startle and waylay.

That was all before I saw his forearms
looked like a furry animal crawled under his sleeves
and was holding on for dear life.

Now, I'm no male-chauvinist.
I'm all for feminists and their cause
and I don't think anyone should be obligated
to look a certain way to be validated as what they are.
But to those women who choose
to shave
and wax
and pluck,

I get it, I sincerly do.

Is it rain or is it snow? I wish the skies would just decide - and when it does I hope it settles for rain.

I though of writing a poem today inspired by the gray skies outside my window.

Something melancholic and nostalgic, something that makes you want to press your nose against the window and wish for summer and sun

or run outside and bathe in the rain like you did when you were little.

So I sat beside my window and leaned in to watch the puddles form in hollows beside the curb and snow flakes melting softly on my windowsill.

It all looked so ripe for a poem

But all I could think of were of idle dreamers just like me looking through glass, waiting to find poetic grace in dim, dull, indecisive weather.

I wonder how many poems have been inspired by rain.

PS: I think I'm going to stop using "lol". I use it way too much. lol FUCK!...starting now...