No Post Today

Hey everyone, no post today. Come back tomorrow for some more poetic greatness. Happy Halloween!

Post the Fourth

Hello, world. I'd like to start off by saying that if you like Life of a Pastry, tell your friends about it! And if not, tell your enemies about it! Because I want to feel good about myself when I look at my StatCounter page, and what's the point of shitty poetry without readers?

Anyway, today on Life of a Pastry, I ruin the Laura Numeroff classic, If You Give A Mouse A Cookie.

Don't Give Cookies To Mice, You Fuckin' Idiot

So I'm watchin' TV last night, drinkin' some brews,
when my shitty kid comes up to me and tells me
his pet mouse (or rat, or whatever) asked him for a cookie.
(I was gonna get him a dog, but fuck it, right?
I ain't cleanin' up no doberman shit,
and I ain't gettin' no chihuaha either,
'cause if it fits in a microwave, it belongs in a microwave, that's what I say.)

So anyways, I tell the moron that first off mice don't talk,
and second mice don't eat cookies,
everyone knows they eat cheese and shit.
But he keeps on askin' me if he should give the mouse a cookie,
and he won't stop botherin' me.
So I beat the piss outta him, and he quit askin'.

Anyways, next night I'm watchin' TV again,
when little Mr. Johnny Dumb-shit walks in and tells me, get this,
he gave the mouse a fuckin' cookie! And now the little fucker wants milk!
Well I'm obviously pissed.
Little shit didn't listen to me, and now he wants my advice again!
Of course the asshole wants milk,
he's just a tiny hobo trying to score free shit 'cause he knows he can!
So I yells at him, "I SWEARS TO GOD,
IF YOU GIVE THAT FUCKIN' MOUSE ANY OF MY MILK,
I'M GONNA KILL YOU, YOU SHITHEAD!"
Then I kicked him 'til he cried, just to make sure I got the point across.

Long story short, Dipshit never gave that mouse any milk,
and the little hobo quit beggin' for shit.
I guess the moral of the story is,
when you beat your kids, make sure you kick 'em.
That's how they learn.

--Pastry

Post the Third

Thursday is haiku day on Life of a Pastry! These poems are inspired by the recent weather where I live.

Two Haiku for a Rainy Day

dreary, rainy day
I don't want to go outside
perfect day for porn

------

rainy day is done
I disdain my love of porn
damn you, calloused hands

--Pastry

Post the Second

Today's poem is something I wrote about true love. Sorta.

A Love Poem

My heart beats hard and fast at the thought of tonight,
when I'll get to hold you tightly in my arms,
and I'll kiss you as the evening passes
while we neglect another terrible romantic comedy.

It's true, I can't wait 'til our date tonight.
But what I can't wait for most,
the moment I wrack my anxious mind in anticipation of,
is the day when collecting Pokemon cards
will be socially acceptable again.

--Pastry

Welcome, Plus a Poem

Well, welcome to my new blog, Life of a Pastry. Sure, the title sucks, but hopefully there'll eventually be some pretty cool stuff on here. Anyway, I figured I'd kick this whole shindig off with a little poem:

Pop Tarts and Coitus

I lay down next to her, breathing heavily,
and as the sweat rolled off my cheek I lit a cigarette.
Taking my first puff, I thought,

How long did I last? That must've been two minutes, right?
Yeah, definitely two minutes. But isn't that really short? Like, borderline shameful?
No, of course not. You could have absolutely made a couple Pop Tarts
while we were having sex just now.
At least you could have microwaved them. Not sure how long it would have taken using the toaster.
(Damn toasters can take so long, you know?)
...
Fuck, I could really go for a Pop Tart.

I looked over at her,
and she stared back at me with a look in her eyes
that obviously betrayed her profound lust for me.
Or profound confusion.
(I mix the two up a lot.)

Was I saying all that Pop Tart shit out loud? Is that why she looks so confused/lustful?
Oh God, should I ask her?
No, I shouldn't. If I was really saying all that stuff, I already look completely insane,
and if I wasn't then I'll definitely seem batshit crazy by asking.
Wow, I just logic'd the shit out of that problem.

After staring at her for a decidedly uncomfortable amount of time,
I figured I should go for my best post-sex follow-up line:
"I hope that was as good for you as it was for me."
She started to say something, but I interrupted her.
"Shut up, you'll only ruin the moment."
She turned her head to look at the ceiling,
with a look on her face that seemed to ask
just what chain of events led to this juncture in her life.

But to be honest I really didn't care,
because all I was actually thinking about as I fell asleep
was how much I wanted a God-damn Pop Tart.

--Pastry