A Grumpy Poem
When Latigo Flint was eleven years old he wrote the grumpiest poem ever. Would you like to read it? Here it is:
go on lay in the arms of your cool man
some night he'll tear at your throat with a cruel hand
you'll reflect with regret on this Latigo met
whom you spurned and refused and pride did so bruise
the mean words you did say as cast flowers astray
traded morrow's love for a BMXer today...
(deadly pause, slow page turn)
I hope average and long your life is Gal
with no great pain and no great joy
I'm striding towards those far hills Gal
I'm Latigo Flint and I'm quite a boy
In the shocked silence of my 6th grade classroom, I extended my arms to the side. Each fist clutched a sheet of my two-page poem. I opened my hands and the paper fluttered to the ground.
I sneered at the ceiling for a while with my arms still outstretched and fingers spread wide, just like I had practiced. Then I slowly tucked my head to my right shoulder and by squinting down the collar of my shirt, I was able to read the note that I had inked for myself upside-down across my smooth breast. It read:
"Hey Latigo, if they aren't cheering for you really, really loud right now, then you need to say:
'Friends, I found poop in those hills! Lots and lots and lots of poop. I put all the poop in Coach Thornton's thermos. He didn't know the difference. COACH THORNTON DRANK THE POOP!!!'"
So I said it -- and it brought the classroom down.
posted by Latigo Flint @ 11:42 PM
12 comments
12 Comments:
The moral of the story is: If you feel like poop, talk about actual poop. They always like that.
It matters not which plan, A or B, brings 'em down. Just that they got brought down.
Did you know as a kid that you were THE Latigo Flint, future squinty-eyed gunslinger?
I doubt they were so uproarious about the poop story. I think it just took 'em a long time to catch on to the insignificance of the poem. It does take some study, but suddenly it smacks you right on the earlobe. You're deep, Latigo.
i usually hate performance art but when it deals with the broken heart of a 13 year old then i just break right down and cry.
Hell hath no fury like a Latigo Flint scorned. Unfortunately, that fury is lost on the undeveloped minds of youth unless it involves poop.
When in doubt, audiences always prefer poop jokes over pre-teen angst. Except Goths. And that is why they are not to be trusted.
I hope average and long your life is Gal
with no great pain and no great joy
The sad thing is, Latigo, that doubtless many of those gals did fall prey to your potent 11-year-old curse, but they lack the wit then and now to realize it.
Unfortunately, you've probably shot yourself in the foot with that one. You do know that kind of curse is contagious, right? So if any of that classroom ever went to a Starbuck's, you've innoculated thousands of promising women against the danger and daring that is Latigo Flint. "No great pain and no great joy..." yep, sounds like a Starbuck's existence to me.
Growing pains, my friend. Live and learn.
You lost your virginity later on that day, didn't you? That teacher probably couldn't keep her hands off you.
Encore!
What do you mean, he drank the poop? That is so gross!
I'm thinking there may be a revised to that thar poem coming soon.
You know, one in which every instance of 'Gal' is replaced by 'Cute Starbucks Girl'.
I'm just sayin'...
I think you are right Steve. The other moral is cool BMXers should all be shot.
Dave, I did know that I wasn't like other boys - Kinda like what Michael Jackson said in Thriller - He and I took slightly different paths from there, however.
This is very good news Old Hoss! Rumor has it the ladies go completely silly for guys who are deep.
I know exactly what you mean Ho. (I was actually eleven at the time though.)
Fortunately Trevor, half the time it really does involve poop, so I may yet succeed after all.
You just literally made me laugh out loud Amandarama. What do you think about that?
I think you're right Slarrow, and I'm pretty accustomed to self-inflicted foot wounds by now. I shall live and learn my friend. This pain, this growth, I cherish it.
Greg, at this time I am not comfortable discussing my homeroom teacher, MR. Beckworth, and any subsequent infatuation he may have developed.
LBB... Very well. Here is a simply magnificent poem just for you:
she savaged my dashboard with her purse pocketknife
and when the airbag deployed lost one pretty eye
The poop was in the thermos Cara. Coach didn't know the poop was in the thermos. He drank it. Coach drank the poop!
You heard right Amandapants. You heard damn right!
Hey DMor - you sometimes go to that Starbucks... talk me up to her won't you please? [No one else read this. I'm just talking to DMor right now.]
Heh heh Ectoplasm, I think that story was extremely fecetious.
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