- The Diary of Mitch R. Singer
- Hanging with the Goon
- The Consummate Politician Apologizes
- Rating the WWE's Roster by Their Stench
- The Esteemed Critic's Multiple Sentence Reviews
- Conan Brothers' Q&A
- Theme Park Mistress
- Hillsdale Paranormal Society
- Writer's Block
- Select Farmers Only Profiles
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
The Prize-Winning Poetry of Percival P. Pederast
Pop, squeak, toot,
Stinky little flute.
The wind breaks from my anus,
Sending forth foul smells
That delight your nosehairs.
How is it that we cannot enjoy
The simple pleasures God hath given?
A man farts in the face of another man;
The victim takes it in, inhaling in one great gasp
The methane refuse of his lover.
If you know another way to love,
Please tell me.
You have no idea what it is like,
To take something that you have fattened
For eons; A creature malevolent and reeking
Of ammonia, a simple beast unfit
To walk upon its four legs any longer;
You have not an inkling what it is like
To sacrifice such a monster,
To drink its blood and eats its flesh
Like the Christians do.
Hail Satan! I hath devoured Lucifier,
Greatest of all felines.
He tasted like stinky feet
and sea-bound leather.
In short: you have no humor.
You do not perceive the greatness that moves before you,
A colossus that walks with long shaggy legs,
Its taint visible for all to see,
Resembling a giant hairy spider,
The type you might see on the discovery channel.
Let me shout it for all the world to hear:
Boy-love is natural,
It is good,
All the same,
You have nothing on me.
Get that burrito
Outta my face.