Post the Thirty-Second

Hey everyone. It's summer and I'm jobless, which means LIFE OF A PASTRY IS BACK! I'm back to writing poems, because I got tired of pretending I write for Cracked. Anyway, today's poem is dedicated to anyone who's taken a philosophy class.

A Variation on an Old Story

A professor sits down in his classroom,
ready to give his students their philosophy final.
The final consists of one essay question,
in which the students have to prove
that the professor's chair does not exist.

Most of the students write for the full two hours,
some writing as many as thirty pages
trying to prove that that chair does not exist.
Billy, however, being the most clever student in class,
simply wrote on the exam, "What chair?"
and turned it in to the professor.

The students got all of their exams back,
and Billy noticed he got an F on his,
because a two word essay is clearly too short
for a college-level philosophy exam.
That's what Billy gets for being a smug douche.

--Pastry

Post the Thirty-First

Hey everybody. Today on Life of a Pastry, I talk about some seriously fucked up shit.

This is Fucked Up

You know how a lot of TV ads
show a family with an 8-year-old son?
Well, a bunch of boys had to have auditioned
to play the son in that commercial.

Seeing as most TV actors are evaluated, in part,
on their physical attractiveness,
for each of those commercials,
there had to have been someone sifting through a pile
of photographs of 8-year-old boys,
judging how hot they are.

--Pastry

Post the Thirtieth

Hey everyone. My laptop is sincerely fucked, so I now have to update Life of a Pastry from the computers at the library until it gets fixed. This unfortunately means no Comics/Image Day (hence why there was no post yesterday), but it shall be replaced with beautiful poetry. And today on Life of a Pastry, I honor this whole incident in haiku form.

Two Haiku for Steve Jobs

Fuck your stupid face.
I'm as fucked as your whore mom.
"I'm a Mac." Fuck off.

Fuck fuck, fuck fuck fuck.
Fuck fuck. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck, fuck. Fuck.

--Pastry

P.S.: Where else but on Life of a Pastry can you get a haiku composed entirely of the word "fuck?" (Probably plenty of places, who knows.)

Post the Twenty-Ninth

Today on Life of a Pastry, I prove that some logicians are assholes.

A Proof that Some Logicians Are Assholes

PREMISE 1:
My friend Dan is a logician.

PREMISE 2:
When I asked Dan
what time the sun would rise tomorrow,
he said, "Dawn."
Ipso facto, Dan is an asshole.

Based on PREMISES 1 and 2,
we can conclude that
∃x(x is a logician, x is an asshole).

--Pastry

P.S.: But I'll be damned if he isn't right every time.

Post the Twenty-Eighth

I've decided I want this site to be more philosophical in nature. (Bullshit.) So today on Life of a Pastry, I prove that you've been doing philosophy all this time, and you haven't even known it!

Rude Philosophy

How can I know that anything exists outside of my own mind?
When I'm having sex, how do I know I'm not just masturbating?

If there is no free will, am I still responsible for my actions?
How drunk do I have to be before I can fuck an uggo and it doesn't count?

Is there such a thing as evil thoughts?
It's cool if I fantasize about your mom, right?

How can a loving, all-powerful God create a world with evil in it?
Oh my God, why haven't you gone away?

Do we punish criminals because they deserve it, or because it benefits society?
Should I bang your girlfriend because you're an asshole, or because she'd love it?

--Pastry

Post the Twenty-Sixth

Well, another Thursday, another Haiku Day. Today on Life of a Pastry, I pretty much just throw in the towel. But there's a twist ending!

A Lazy Man's Haiku

one two three four five
six seven eight nine ten e-
-leven twelve NINETEEN

--Pastry

P.S.: Whoa.

Post the Twenty-Fourth

Let's avoid the pleasantries and just cut to the chase: today on Life of a Pastry, I discuss living vicariously through others.

Living Vicariously

As I stepped inside my house
and walked into the family room,
I noticed that my Mom was reading People magazine.

"How could you live with yourself," I said,
"knowing that all that interests you
are the achievements and failures of others?
Have you really done so little with your life
that you have to live vicariously
through a bunch of total strangers
who could not care less about your well-being?"

I sat down and turned the TV to ESPN,
just in time to watch the Ravens game.
I wonder how my fantasy team's doing, I thought,
praying that Ray Rice could rack up some yards against the Steelers,

even though I had heard he had a minor left ankle injury.

--Pastry

Post the Twenty-Third

Welcome back. I insincerely hope everybody had a nice weekend. I'm back in Williamstown after a flight from D.C. Short story short, there was an annoying baby on my flight that wouldn't stop crying, and so today on Life of a Pastry, I discuss the annoying baby on my flight that wouldn't stop crying.

Ode To The God-Damn Baby That Won't Stop Crying

Your screams and cries sound, to me, like the most beautiful music
that could possibly be misplayed on an out-of-tune accordion
forged by Satan himself in the bowels of Hell.

Your head looks so fragile, your face so innocent and pure,
and your tiny lips rest between puffy cheeks,
a perfect place for my duct tape to nestle.

I know it's not your fault that you feel such a need to cry
and scream like a God-damn chimpanzee, since it's only your nature.
But, just like you, it's not my fault that I hate you
with every bone of my miserable, sleep-deprived body.
It's only my nature.

--Pastry

Post the Twenty-First

Today is the first post with a hyphenated number! Maybe that's significant? Anyway, it's Thursday, a.k.a. Haiku Day. Also Thanksgiving. But today on Life of a Pastry, I discuss weird porn.

Oh, Thomas

There's no stranger porn
than the one by Thomas Hobbes:
The Labiathan.

--Pastry

P.S.: Other ideas I had were J.S. Mill's Poontilitarianism and Plato's The Repubelic.

Post the Nineteenth

Hey, everybody. Sorry for the late post; I was going to post this last night, but after a few drinks I became borderline-incapable of using a computer. Anyway, today on Life of a Pastry: the Isley Brothers.


Things I Think About, Part II

Have you ever heard that Isley Brothers song "It's Your Thing?"
You know, the one they play in every movie
that has some scene involving female empowerment?

"It's your thing, do what you wanna do,
I can't tell you who to sock it to."
So essentially, this song
is Ronnie Isley telling some random woman
that she has his permission to fuck whoever she wants
because her vagina is, in fact, her own.

That's nice and all, but I guess my point is,
it must be a pretty stupid movie director
who thinks that the ideal song to play
while you're empowering your female characters
is one whose fundamental message is that, given the opportunity,
Ronald Isley will not rape you.

--Pastry

Post the Eighteenth

Welcome back to Life of a Pastry. I may still have relatively few readers, but enough of you guys seem to like it that I'm bringing it back. That, plus I've had a couple days to actually come up with more stuff to write about. Anyway, today's Life of a Pastry is part one of an I-Don't-Know-How-Many-Parts series on things I tend to think about while writing papers.

Things I Think About, Part I

So I was working on a paper the other night
when my thought process was completely derailed
by a simple question that has plagued my mind ever since:

What smells worse,
a skunk or a skunk's shit?

I could truly see it going either way.
I have never smelled a skunk turd
(and I hope never to reach the point in my life
where I find myself voluntarily doing so).

So for all I know,
skunk crap just might smell finer than the finest perfume.
It might smell so good, I could bottle it up
and sell it as "Poo de Skunk."
I mean, I'd bet it still smells like shit, but ya never know.

I'm sure I could just Google this
and get my answer in five minutes,
but to be honest I'd rather not know.
That way, this can remain
another of life's little mysteries.

--Pastry

P.S.: Feel free to use the comments section of this post to debate this extremely important question.

Post the Sixteenth

Today on Life of a Pastry: the bizarre birthday party that never was.

A Celebration Ruined

This was going to be
the greatest birthday party ever.
My friend and I had already paid the prostitutes
to come over to our apartment
and play video games with us.

(Don't you fucking judge us,
we needed two more players,
and I'm sure it would have been
a nice break for the ladies.)

However, the whole evening went to shambles
when the two women refused to play Mario Kart,
that bastion of extreme awesomeness
and peak of all human entertainment.
(Also, who knew that prostitutes
had such discriminating tastes in video games?)

Long story short, I kicked them out of the apartment,
and my friend and I just played by ourselves instead.
We were both pretty upset, especially him.
"Why couldn't we have just played Super Smash Brothers?
After all, it's just as good,
and that way we could've had four players!"
"You seem to have forgotten," I said to him calmly,
"that I always put the Kart before the whores."

--Pastry

Post the Fifteenth

Hey, everyone. Hope you all had a great weekend. (But if you didn't, I don't really care all that much.) Today on Life of a Pastry, a father teaches his son a very important lesson. In rhyme.

How to Overcompensate

Son, I think it's time we chat,
not just on this, or just on that,
but about something you might have realized.
Please, boy, don't take too much to heart
when you get a glimpse of that tiny part
that rests above your balls and 'tween your thighs.

I know your member's really small,
but nobody should care at all,
so long as you do enough to compensate.
So here are just a couple tips
I know for sure will help you skip
past all the pain your small friend might create.

Buy really fancy, shiny cars,
and travel near, and travel far,
and make sure that you talk sports with your "boys."
Drop names of bigwig guys you know,
and call all people "babe" or "bro,"
no matter how much everyone's annoyed.

Go tan at really nice salons
and talk about your goings-on
with women that you know find you unpleasant.
Call sunglasses "shades," and where them inside,
and don't say "car," it's called a ride.
And sometimes go with friends to hunt for pheasant.

See, you may not have the biggest dick.
It just might be the tiniest prick,
but that won't keep you, son, from going far.
'Cause folks won't give a shit (it's known)
about how big a dick you own.
It's all about how big a dick you are.

--Pastry

Post the Fourteenth

Hey, everybody. Sorry for the late post: turns out last night was more of a drinking night than I thought it would be. Anyway, today on Life of a Pastry, I talk about leather.

Leather

My girlfriend tried to convince me last night
that I should wear leather next time we have sex.
I told her I would,
but I'm worried that once I put it on,
I won't be in the mood anymore
because that tight leather suit
will force me to admit to myself
that I am not,
nor will I ever be Batman.

--Pastry

Post the Thirteenth

Well, another Thursday, another Haiku Day. But before we get to today's poem, I wanted to remind everyone once again to spread the word about this site! It'll make you cooler than being cool. (That's ice cold.) Anyway, today on Life of a Pastry, a father and son broach a very sensitive topic.

"Daddy what's it mean
if someone is transgendered?"
"I'm not Dad. I'm Mom."

--Pastry

Post the Twelfth

So it turns out writing limericks is way harder than it seems. I have therefore abandoned Limerick Day, and am going back to free-form poetry. (Don't fret, though: Thursday is still Haiku Day.)

Last Lines

If I told you that the last lines of this poem would be:
"I fed that dumb bitch a whole lot of dick,
and her friend finished it off after she came loudly,"
How do you think the rest would go?

I ask because I noticed that my doberman Chloe was all out of food.
I knew she was hungry, even if she couldn't say it herself,
so I grabbed some pudding and dried fruit from the fridge.
When I opened the magnetic door, I heard the loud thumps
of my neighbor's puppy running down the stairs.

After I put Chloe's meal on a dish,
I fed that dumb bitch a whole lot of dick,
and her friend finished it off after she came loudly.

--Pastry

Post the Eleventh

Hello, world. Today on Life of a Pastry, I take a cheap shot at Helen Keller.

A Love Poem by Helen Keller

I remember that restaurant very well,
or at least those parts of it
that were within two to three feet of my body.

It was so sweet of you to help me find my fork,
even though you laughed for five minutes
while I tried to eat spaghetti with a spoon.

After our meal, you leaned over the table and every so gently
whispered sweet nothings into my hands.
To this day, I can recall exactly what you said to me:

.. .----. -- / -.. ..- -- .--. .. -. --. / -.-- --- ..- .-. / -.. .. ... .- -... .-.. . -.. / .- ... ...

--Pastry

(P.S.: A million points to whoever translates the Morse code.)

Post the Tenth

Hope everyone had a good weekend and is psyched for some more sub-epic poetry! Speaking of which, today on Life of a Pastry, I clear up some questions about the Jewish people.

Some Myths About the Jewish People

I have been asked many questions about my people and my heritage,
and I felt I should take this time
to dispel some myths about us Jews.

No, not all Jews wear yarmulkes.
In fact, most of us don't, and the ones that do
definitely won't let you use one as a frisbee,
so please stop asking.

No, not all Jews are bankers.
There are tons of Jewish doctors and lawyers too,
and there's gotta be at least six or seven Jewish athletes.
(No Jewish priests, however.)

No, Jews are not born from eggs.
That's stupid.

No, we Jews cannot fire lasers from our eyes,
nor can we turn into everyday objects
such as cars and cellphones.
I'm pretty sure whoever asked me this
was confusing Jews with some sort of combination
of Superman and Transformers.
To be honest, I don't really mind the spreading
of this particular rumor.

I hope this has cleared up some confusion,
because looking at the way many people talk about us,
it's clear most of them have no fucking clue what a Jew is.

--Pastry

Post the Ninth

Hey everyone, thanks for your patience. Hopefully today's poem will make it all worthwhile, because today on Life of a Pastry, I talk about something every single adolescent male has worried about.

The Great Porn Mishap

So I was watching porn the other day
(as I am wont to do),
when I noticed that the lead actress
looked suspiciously like my mother.

After I zipped up my pants
and cleaned up the vomit,
I proceeded to watch the movie in full,
disgusted at the actions committed
by this woman who resembled the one that birthed me.

I still don't know if that woman was Mom,
but I know for a fact that none of those men were my Dad.
If one of them was Pops, I'd be pissed,
'cause I definitely didn't inherit
any of his more useful genes.

--Pastry

Post the Eighth

Well, it's Thursday, which means another Haiku Day on Life of a Pastry!

Two Haiku for a Date by the Pool

shriveled private parts
fucking water's way too cold
she is unimpressed

------

went to grill some food
she laughed at the cocktail franks
"left one in your pants"

--Pastry

P.S.: A friend of mine noted an error in yesterday's post. It turns out that not only do ducks not have tiny penises, but they often are known to have particularly large ones. (Good for them, I guess.) Therefore, in the poem replace "duck" with "Canuck." Because fuck the Canadians.