If I Wasn’t Such a …

If I wasn’t such a dumb-shit
I wouldn’t be so very dumb;
If I hadn’t lost my license
I wouldn’t be relying on my thumb;
If I didn’t mistreat girlfriends
Today I might have one;
If I wasn’t such a dumb-shit
I wouldn’t be so very dumb.

If I wasn’t such an ass-hole
I wouldn’t be so all alone;
I might actually have friends
In the directory on my phone;
In my twelve step program
There would be far less to be atoned;
If I wasn’t such an ass-hole
I wouldn’t be so all alone.

If I wasn’t such a jerk-off
I might keep a job where I get paid;
I might become more attractive
And at night I might get laid;
All the people who once trusted me
Wouldn’t feel as if they just got played;
If I wasn’t such a jerk-off
I wouldn’t be stuck in jail today.


Contently Flawed

A genius, I am certainly not;
A full head of hair, I haven’t got;
My bank account is awfully low;
My beer belly continues to grow.

Fame has not smiled on me;
Questions are asked about my sanity;
I lose arguments I have with myself;
There are no trophies lined up upon my shelf.

My body is riddled with maladies;
My balls now hang below my knees;
But, even saddled with all these flaws,
I’ve been able to stay happy throughout it all.

The Process

You walk into the waiting room nervous and a little bit embarrassed but with a resolve to do this because you love her that much.  The room is crowded with men reading, or pretending to read, one of the “Golf”, “Sailing” or “National Geographic” magazines with a doctor’s name on the white mailing label on the cover page – anything to avoid catching another man’s eyes.

Very silently, in a barely audible whisper, you check in with the nurse at the front desk – also avoiding eye contact with her.

As the nurse calls another man’s name, you keep your eyes on your magazine, knowing what he is being beckoned for and pretending that you might actually be there for another reason.

When it is your name that is called, you put down the magazine you have been staring at for a half hour without ever reading a single word, and cautiously approach the front desk.  Although you have heard the instructions whispered to the dozen of men who went before you, you listen as if this is all news to you.

“You are in room three.  Here is a receptacle; here are the instructions; and, here is some soap and lubricant.  Please follow the instructions carefully.  When you are finished, place the receptacle in the cabinet door and press the green button on the side.  Make sure you place this label over the lid of the receptacle once you have finished sealing the container.

“Is the information typed on the label accurate?  Is that your information?  Is that you wife’s name?

“When you are finished, leave the door opened and go to room 272 down the hall and wait for someone to take you to your wife.  Any questions?  Good”, without waiting for an answer, “room three is just down the hall.”

You think to yourself, “What?  No good luck?”

As you confidently walk into room three, which is no more than a small bathroom with an E-Z Boy lounge chair  squeezed in beside the toilet and far wall, and a small TV with a video player mounted to the wall, your first thought is, “Which one of those guys was just in here?”

Your second thought is, “I hope she appreciates this.”

Then, you read the first part of the instructions: “Wash your penis and testicles with the soap provided.  Thoroughly rinse, removing all of the soap residue.”

Although this instruction sounds easy enough, you look at the toilet and the small, waist-high bathroom sink and wonder, “How?”

“How, exactly, do I wash and rinse my penis and balls?  Do I dangle them in the toilet and splash toilet water over them to rinse, or do I somehow climb up onto the sink and do it?”

This now explains why there was a mop and bucket outside the bathroom door.

Although you were not planning on doing this, you decide to completely take off all of your clothes so whatever wash and rinse technique you settle on you will not get your clothes soaked in the process.

After pulling a couple muscles and wrenching your back trying to wash and rinse your private parts, you read the next part of the instructions:  “Completely dry yourself off before applying the lubricant provided for the process.”

After chuckling over the phrase, “the process”, you now notice that there are no towels in the room.  This is when you become aware of the chest-high, hot air hand dryer mounted to the wall.  You try to imagine a way to move the E-Z-Boy chair close enough to the dryer for you to stand on to complete the drying process and realize that this cannot be achieved without opening the bathroom door to provide enough maneuvering room.

This is when you decide to use your underwear as a towel and wonder if you now just contaminated the parts you sanitized with that special brownish-yellow soap – and, then say, “The hell with it”, and move on to the next step in the process.

Even though you are now completely naked in a small bathroom, with soapy water all over the floor, the video tapes and magazines in the side pocket of the E-Z-Boy recliner are so raunchy they even make you blush.

“Really”, you think, “this is the kind of stuff they think is going to help me with ‘the process’?  I am here to try to help my wife get pregnant; can’t they offer something a little softer than hard-core porn?”

You now are wondering how long you have been in here, without making any progress on the real business, and get a better understanding of why your wait in the waiting room was so long.  You also picture your wife in the other room wondering what the hell is taking you so long.  So, you pop in any video without prejudice to the title or picture on the sleeve.

The video was not re-round and starts off right in the middle of some serious action.  This is when you realize you do not know where the remote control is and the TV volume is turned up to the max.  You slip and slide around on the pleather E-Z-Chair trying to get to the volume control on the TV and decide to simply unplug the set because you can more easily reach the electrical cord than the TV itself.

After relaxing enough to stop the sweating, you settle on a magazine and search for a picture that looks more like erotica than a gynecologist’s text book, before simply closing your eyes and just letting your imagination conjure up the images that make “the process” easier.

It is when you have just about achieved your objective that you realize you left the receptacle on the sink, out of your reach.  Trying to hold it in, but stay at the ready, you maneuver over to the plastic container and realize it is going to require two hands, now slippery with the special lubricant, to open the top.

After wrestling with the jar to open the lid, the urgency of doing so has faded.  You return to the recliner, open jar in one hand, and continue “the process” with the other, once again thinking, “I hope she appreciates this.”

Once you have completed your assignment and seal the container, you open the cabinet door and see that this “cabinet” has no back side and opens directly into a room that looks like a science lab.  All that was between you and this room of lab technicians walking around in lab coats was the thin, medal door of this medicine cabinet-sized window.  It is now that you realize you should have gotten dressed first, before opening the cabinet door.  You quickly shut the door upon seeing a lab technician walking your way because you prematurely pressed the green light and hope that you didn’t just knock your container off of the shelf.

When you get dressed again, you must go commando because your towel/underwear is soaking wet and covered with soap residue.  You coyly shove your underwear into the trash container in the hallway where you notice about a dozen other pairs of wet Haines.

You figure someone must have the job of cleaning up your mess before the next victim and you sneak off down the hallway to the appointed, next waiting room.  In this room, you find the same men that were in the first waiting room with their heads buried deeper into magazines then they were before.  You notice half of the magazines are upside-down because they are just being used as veils of embarrassment and the person on the other side has no idea which way he is holding it.

You tell this room’s nurse your name, knowing that she knows full well why you have beads of sweat still on your forehead, and pray that your wife gets pregnant this time so you never have to go through this process ever again!

Blue Skies (A Look Into How My Poems Sometimes Evolve)

I contemplate the deep blue sky
While lying in the sun baked grass
And wonder what it is about the summer
That makes me such a lazy ...

Um, let's start over ...

While lying here in the sun baked grass
I contemplate the deep blue sky
And wonder what it is about the summer
That makes me such a lazy guy

Okay, that works better.

Where once were clouds in skies of gray
With rain and snow falling out of it
Bringing on fits of depression
And really making me feel like ...

Yeah, scratch that...

Where once rain and snow did fall
From clouds in skies of gray
Bringing on fits of depression
And completely ruining my day

Now, that should work.

Now resides the deepest blue
A gift to bring me luck ...

Maybe I better stop right there!

Now resides a sign of luck
A gift of the deepest blue
Made even better today
Cause I lay here next to you

Done!  Now, let's go post it.

World’s Best Memory

When I was eleven years old, my family took a cross-country trip out to the western United States. Along the way, we made a stop at a gas station / grocery store off the beaten path somewhere in Arizona. Out front of the dilapidated store was an old Indian in full Indian regalia sitting in front of a hand painted sign that read: “Best Memory in the World. Never forgets a thing.”

Curious, I walked up to the old chief and asked, “If you never forget anything, what did you eat for breakfast on your eleventh birthday?”

The leathery, old Indian stared at me for the longest time before simply replying, “Eggs”.

By this time my father was calling me back to the car and I left the old Indian chief somewhat skeptical about his self-acclaimed, “World’s Best Memory”.

Thirty years later, I was re-creating my family’s trip out west with my own wife and children. As luck would have it, we stopped at the very same gas station and the old Indian Chief with the same old sign was still sitting out front in his chair. Excited, I told my children that I had seen this very same Indian years ago when I was just a kid.

I said, “Come on, let’s go talk to the old chief.”

So I walked up to the old Indian Chief with kids in tow, raised my hand and said, in my best Indian voice, “How”.

Without blinking an eye, he responded, “Scrambled.”