An Easter Poem

‘Twas the night before Easter, and I was drinking port and sitting on my keister.

The bunnies are all hiding in fear, that Zombie Jesus would soon be here.

After being beaten senseless and killed on a cross, three days later He rose to show all who was boss.

The Marys, they came to put flowers on the grave, but what should their eyes see, well, it certainly wasn’t the Big J.C.

“Twas an angel, all glowy and white, and boy howdy, did he give them all a fright.

“You silly bitches, Jesus ain’t here. The fact his body is gone is quite clear. He’s risen from the dead to elicit fear.

The Marys rushed away from the tomb, crying and screaming, for their fragile little minds were left reeling.

A zombie, a zombie, a zombie! They cried, this shit is fucking wack because we saw his ass die!

‘Tis true, he’s risen and Jesus is pissed, for the episode of the new Dr. Who season he has missed.

So tomorrow when the Easter bunny has come, all you motherfuckers should get up and run,

Zombe Jesus is on the loose, and he ain’t playin’, he’s here for your brains, and he’s gonna do some slayin’.

So the next time you people decide to kill, be sure the fucker’s really dead, or he’s going to rise again and blood he will spill.

The end. Happy Zombie Jesus Day!

Adventures In Not Smoking/Smoking/Not Smoking Again/Smoking

Aanndd this is why it is difficult for me to stop smoking.

HE showed up today.

HE, of course, is The Man With Whom I Still Share A Last Name.

I live next door to his friend. HE is over visiting said friend. I was outside with the dog and heard voices. Dog freaked out, and lo and behold, HE appeared at the back gate.

Enter stage right anxiety, a touch of resentment, and Marlboro. Hello, old friends.

After twenty minutes of painfully awkward small talk, which by “small talk,” I mean me puffing nervously away at cigarettes and HIM playing with the dog.

As I mentioned in my first Adventure’s story, HE was the reason I began, and apparently, HE is the reason I continue.

I am not placing the blame squarely on his shoulders; on the contrary. I am placing a very large, hefty, painfully heavy portion of it, though. HE is my boulder and I am Sisyphus. That analogy doesn’t really work well, but I think you get what I’m trying to say.

I am having a hell of a time quitting. It’s vexing me. It eludes me. I want to very much, as I’ve noticed over the past two weeks, I wake up feeling like my lungs have been filled with horrible, vile, unmentionable things during the night and are trying desperately to expel whatever the hell is in them. I wheeze. I can’t take deep breaths without feeling like some organic coup is being staged within my body. I cough. I sound like I eat cigarettes instead of just smoke them when I get up in the mornings.

Given this laundry list of blaring “STOP SMOKING, YOU FUCKING BUFOON!!” signs, what I am going to do after I finish this post? It isn’t organize my sock drawer, I tell ya that much. It is to go outside, and cast nervous glances at the house next door, knowing full well that HE is a mere thirty feet away from me. It is to sit outside, puffing away on my certain death. It is to inhale disgusting and lethal chemicals into my lungs, praying that the retribution for my actions is swift, and I succumb to my stupidity.

As you can tell, I still let HIM get to me sometimes.

And the last time I checked, murder is still frowned upon.


Solution: stress management. Typing this, I gave a small “heh, funny” chuckle to myself. Stress management is my great white whale. I do not manage stress. I ignore my stressors. Healthy, no?

In all seriousness, I need to find more constructive ways to deal with shit, one that does not involve smoking. Writing helps, but writing is also a stress inducer, so talk about your catch 22’s. I used to knit like a grandma about to have eight grandchildren at once, knitting blankets and scarves and sloppy squares of stitches I called potholders, but a serious knitter would call “crap.” I’d read, but I’m in that weird hiatus mode I go into frequently where nothing I pick up appeals to me, so I won’t read for months and months on end. I’d go for walks, as lord knows I need the exercise, but due to the recent foot surgery, my left leg has suffered mild muscle atrophy from wearing that goddamned boot for so long–irony alert: cigarette smoking stunts bone growth. D’ oh!–and I tire quickly and my foot screams at me. Plus: lazy. Double d’ oh!

Hopefully, this week will signal a change; due to paying a ridonkulous amount of taxes/car payment/car insurance/phone bill, I’m on a very tight budget until I receive my next paycheck, so the frivolousness of spending nearly $6 a pack will make me feel intense guilt and like I just rolled up a ten spot and smoked it. In a few words, wasted money. And that is something I do not have the luxury to waste.

I know this is difficult, people try to stop smoking all the time and end up back in the arms of nicotine, but son of a bitch. Despite my previous thoughts on living (see other blog posts), I kind of want to stick around for a bit, you know, to see what happens in this cartoon strip that is my life.

I need to quit. I have to quit. And this is the only thing I will be proud of for quitting.

Until next time,


Adventures In Not Smoking, Which Is Actually Now Adventures In Continuing Smoking

I suck. I really, really suck. On cigarettes and life.

The smoking continues, unabashedly.

People ask me, “How’s the not smoking coming along?”

I reply with a sheepish look, and instantly, they know. Plus, I’m sure the stench of Marlboro Smooths tips them off, as well.

Why is this so damn hard? Why? I don’t want to smoke anymore. I’m tired of wasting money on shit that going to eventually kill me if I continue. This alone should be reason enough to kick the habit, but I’ll be buggered if I keep smoking.

I just need to quit, stop being a whiny baby, and give it up. Like I mentioned in an earlier post, I started smoking when my marriage started disintegrating, so now that I’m essentially free from the marriage, I should free myself from the nicotine. But I don’t. I’m sure some psychobabbling psychiatrist will say I’m holding on to the habit in a hope that maybe my marriage can be resurrected. Or that I have daddy issues. Or that I was molested as a child. I’m a nymphomaniac with an intense oral fixation. I declare shenanigans on this. I say it’s the goddamn nicotine.

I will try–again–to stop the smoking. I will keep trying until it sticks, I guess. 

Anyway, just wanted to update on the Marvelous Misadventures of Me.

Peace out.

Fish Boy

I am Aquaman.

Man, that is still weird to hear myself say, but it’s the truth.  I, Arthur Curry, am Aquaman.

How did I get to be this way?  Well, basically, my dad made it with a mermaid from Atlantis.  As a kid growing up, I liked to watch the Tom Hanks movie “Splash” and pretend that was my parents.  But really, in all honesty, my old man was a sailor and he got drunk one night, fell off his boat and my mother rescued him.  How they, uh…fornicated is a bit of a mystery to me, but I don’t want to know the sordid details.  All I know is that I am the product of their unholy union.

Growing up was a bit of a challenge.  I didn’t see my mom at all, so my dad was responsible for raising me, which was fine.  Besides, when your mother’s family are all aquatic sea creatures, you kind of tend to not have much in common.  But I digress. 

I knew from an early age there was something different about me, aside from the gills on the side of my neck that is.  Dad always changed the subject when I asked about them.

“Dad? Why do I have gills? You don’t have gills. None of the other kids at school have gills….”

“Shut up and eat your chum, son,” came the grizzled reply.

So, I let it rest, and just embraced my difference and made due.  Besides, I was a champion swimmer on my school’s team and won a crap load of medals. State champion, bitches! My records for speed are yet to be matched. Michael Phelps? You ain’t got shit on Aquaman.

I don’t know what made me decide to turn to fighting a life of crime. I mean, I obviously could have gone places with the whole being a fantastic swimmer thing, but that got boring for me.  Defeating evil-doers? Now THAT is exciting!

The day I made my life decision to become Aquaman was pretty ordinary in terms of how my days usually went. I was out for a swim in my local bay area, when a dolphin came up to me and was in a tizzy.

“What is it, fella? What’s wrong?”

“Squeak, click, click, squeak!”

“Holy mackerel! I’ll help right away!”

The dolphin told me that a local fisherman was out getting his daily catch when his ship boat got ransacked by wanna-be pirates. Of course I had to help, and followed the dolphin to the scene.

Just like the dolphin had said, there was a fisherman on his tiny ship, but he was tied to the mast.  He was yelling for someone to help him. I swam up to his boat and climbed aboard.

“Who the hell are you? Are you going to steal from me, too?  Well jokes on you, asshole, those other pirates already took everything I had.”

“Fear not, citizen,” I tried to calm the irate man. “I’m here to help you. My name is Art–er, uh, my name is AQUAMAN!!”

Damn…that felt so fantastic to say…liberating. I was going to DO something, damn it! I was going to help a fellow human in distress!

The man looked me over, and gave me a “yeah, whatever” look. Maybe it was the Speedo….

“Yeah, okay. Look, just untie me and I’ll radio the Coast Guard for help.”

“Nonsense. I am Aquaman! Which direction did those miscreants go, citizen?”

“They headed thatta way,” he gestured west with his head.

I untied the man, and assured him I will catch up with the so-called pirates and return what was his.  I could tell he was reluctant to believe me, and I was willing to prove him wrong.

I dove off the side of the boat and swam in the direction the man said the pirates went.  In a few minutes, I spotted a run-down looking vessel in the horizon. This had to be them.  I went underwater and swam underneath the ship. I was looking for a way to disable the boat from traveling any further, and I found what I was looking for. The anchor. And we just happened to be near a coral reef, so I grabbed the anchor and swam as fast and hard as I could to the reef and connected the end to the structure.  They weren’t going anywhere.

Just as I planned, the ship stalled and the pirates all came out of the cabin to see what what was up. They were yelling and cursing and trying to maneuver the boat forward, but it was stuck tight to the reef. 

I shimmied up a rope dangling off the side and silently got onboard. I hid behind a coil of rope and waited to make my move.

One of the pirates was heading my way, and just as he walked by me, I jumped out and pulled a Chuck Norris-type kick to his face, sending him over the railing and into the water below. His cohorts heard the commotion and came running to his aid. I put my fighting skills to further use and proceeded to hand out ass kickings in every direction. I am Aquaman!! I tied the unconscious men together with the rope I had hidden behind and stood ominously over them, looming like a dark cloud. 

Slowly, they came to.

“What the hell!? What’s going on?! Who are you?!” said the men.

“I. Am. Aquaman. And I believe you have committed a crime, and I am here to right the wrong you have done.”

Goddamn it. I am so cool.

After the severe beating I gave the men, they were willing to cooperate, just like I had imagined. I commandeered their ship and navigated it back to shore, where I knew the fisherman would be waiting with the Coast Guard. As we sailed into port, I knew that this was the life meant for me. I was born to be a superhero.

Of course, I was praised for my bravery and was given a key to the city by the Mayor.  Accolades were mine, and I relished them.

So that’s that. That’s the story of how I, Arthur Curry became Aquaman.

Go see my movie, bitches!

Adventures In Not Smoking, Day…whatever

Okay people, this one will be brief. Round two commences in four cigarettes.

I feel ready…ish. I think if I just get over that day one hump, the initial urge will be gone. I hope.

I was outside smoking and I was looking at my reflection in the back door window, and you know, I am not attractive when I smoke. I think it’s the fact a burning stick of chemical-laced tobacco is dangling from my lips. Or, I just look like a giant douchebag.  It’s probably the douchebag thing.

So. Four smokes left.

Wish me luck.