Ronald Hoover looked in the mirror and adjusted his tie. He winked at himself and smoothed his hair. He had changed his clothes three times now, not because he couldn’t decide what to wear, but because he liked looking at himself in different outfits.
After one final glance, he walked out the door and drove to the grocery store. He wasn’t planning to buy anything, but instead was going to check out all the pasta sauces.
First, he found the sauces that he had tried before, and read the ingredients list on the back of each one. Then he wandered over to see what was in the cream sauces. Most of the ingredients were what he expected, but he did not know how preservatives and manufacturing affected each final product.
Ronald was researching the pasta sauces because of the idea he had for a company, and he knew that the product needed to be familiar. In a way, it could have been anything, because his true dream was about the company itself. Ronald Hoover’s plan was to clone himself and start a company made of workers who were all him and him alone.
He decided to go ahead and buy a few of the sauces, added some boxes of pasta to his armful of groceries, and went to check out. He looked across the checkout lines and imagined if all of the workers were essentially the same person. It made him feel a sense of urgency, like a need to hurry and achieve his dream before anyone else thought of it.
The next week, he met with the cloning team at the science lab associated with his old college, and he told them his plan. They said that they could actually produce thirty duplicates of himself within just a few weeks. But they also said, “how do you know they will all be willing to work for you?”
“They will simply have to,” Ronald said. “I will give them a legal document stating that they signed a contract previously. And I will sign that contract myself right before they are cloned, so it will be true!”
The scientists smirked. This was exactly what they had signed up for when they had endeavored to clone people.
The process was easy. Ronald literally cut a lock of his hair and gave it to a scientist, and two weeks later, a bus full of himself drove up to the new warehouse and office building that he had bought for his company.
The clones talked to each other loudly, some of them raising questions about the contract. Ronald handed each of them a random envelope assigning them their job at the new company. Some would be salespeople, some would be factory workers, and a chosen few would be vice presidents and corporate strategists. Within days, the different Ronalds were showing up to work and clocking in.
Mostly the Ronalds got along well for a while, but some had questions. “Why are we all named Ronald?” one Ronald asked. “Why are we all the same person?” another one said. “I’m gay,” said one Ronald, and indicated that he liked one of the other coworker Ronalds.
“I don’t believe in that,” said that Ronald. He then chased after a dame at their bingo group, but she liked one of the other Ronalds.
Some of the Ronalds started a union and tried to leverage their work for higher salaries. There was plenty of money for it, because the company was very successful. But the competition among workers was still a problem. Some of the factory workers showed up in the board room one day, pretending to be the head bosses. They agreed to give the whole company a week off and a budget for vacations. By that time, the original Ronald was very tired, so he agreed.
He took off to a tropical island away from all the other Ronalds. While he was there, he met a bartender named Lisa, who talked to him about his work.
“It’s just a mess,” he told her. “I don’t know what to do.”
Lisa smiled and listened and said, “Wow, you really have worked hard in life, and I would almost say thirty times as much as most people. I think I have some ideas of what could help you. Also, I love you, Ronald.”
Ronald married Lisa and she shared her ideas for the company with him. Her main idea was to clone herself thirty times as well, so all the Ronalds could each marry a Lisa. Everyone thought it was a great idea, so they all did in fact marry their own Lisa and moved away to start new pasta sauce companies with regular workers. The original Ronald also hired a variety of people to replace his selfish crew, or rather, his crew of selves. The pasta products, however, remained the same at all the companies. After all, it was a family recipe.
go awol on your mission in the army of rudeness
default on your loan of harrassment
declare bankruptcy in your economy of hatred
leave your spouse of bigotry at the altar
be bad at what you are bad about.
it’s the good you didn’t think of.
ET the Extra Terrestrial.
Just her face, really, and her grayness.
Honestly I can’t say for sure that she wasn’t ET.
Memories aren’t that reliable,
They kind of are slippery in the mind,
Like ET, and like my grandmother.
When I get to heaven,
I won’t know what to say at certain occasions.
Do I say, Grandmother, I missed you.
Or ET, I knew it was you.
That doesn’t mean I pray to ET,
Or to my grandmother.
That is another thing
that ET and my grandmother have in common.
I do not pray to either one of them,
And I don’t scatter Reeses Pieces in the backyard
To try to lure them both back to earth.
I don’t believe in that,
though if I ever saw two ETs at one time,
I would almost assume that one of them
Was my grandmother.
Something confusing is to watch the movie ET
At Christmastime.
Because my grandmother used to visit us on Christmas,
So is she really there?
Or is it just a movie?
You can say it is just a movie,
But why would I pretend not to know my own grandmother?
Maybe they want to read this poem.
That just says hello and then
Trails off at the end with no meaning.
Not all poems have to be a zinga zing zang.
A ringa rang rang
And a glass full of tang.
Some poems might just want to flop,
Like a lop that hops to Stop and Shop.
For instance, this is a poem asking
The government for a pet rabbit
And a checkered suitcase
Full of magic marbles.
He’s not going to believe some of the ideas I thought of.
That one that says,
“dessert first, that’s my rule, dessert last, also cool,
He’s going to say, “Why isn’t this in the bible?”
He’s going to write a new bible that says more about guinea pigs and other rodents.
He’s going to say, this is why I sent my son to die on the cross,
For this very reason,
And then he’s going to create a new rule
Even stricter than the golden rule,
And it will be called the platinum rule,
Where you cant say anything
Without first eating a plate of tarts
And a mug of hot chocolate,
And then go to the mall
To buy a blanket
for every groundhog
disguised as a friend.
Poem
What if Judgement Day is organized
According to the high schools people went to
And it is like a battle of the bands
With points and scoreboards
Poem
You know how they have those churches
That are modern and are called things like
The Edge, or the Verve, or such and such?
What if there was a ministry called “Bullcrap.”
“Hey we missed you at Bullcrap last week.”
People riding on the train
Some are crazy, some are sane
Who knows where they’re going now
Or when or why or what or how
But when I close my eyes I see
All that matters is not me
Jesus rises in the east
Or in the west or where its best
Or where its worst or where its first
Or where there’s people who are cursed.
He spins the worlds that heaven holds
And heals the cruelest winter colds
And tells the darkness it must hide
And says he knows that people lied
He takes the poems that have no truth
And writes them in the book of ruth
And takes the art that shouldn’t be
And makes a better mystery.
He says I know you didn’t care
Except your heart is truly there
And that is why the angels fly
In God’s own glory of the sky.
They say we hang by just a thread
But that will sometimes cause me dread
When people need salvation fast
And I am scared they will not last
I feel the pressure for their case
And think the thread is my own face
And anything I say and do
Is how God chooses who is who.
With stuff all hinging on my life
And what I say to solve their strife
So then they tell me their demands
That cause me shackles, traps and bands
But that is simply not my job
To say who has to wail and sob
So next time I’ll refer them where
Our God will let me just not care.
flash mob of dementors
Blocking the grocery store
The cash register connects
To the dark web
please remove card
Do not remove card
Transaction complete
Transaction canceled
Please remove card
Get on your knees and beg
Or we will admit
God hates us.
the only words left with any meaning are slurs?
Not necessarily. Some food is still what it is, like an orange.
What do you mean by that?
I mean the next fall of man will probably be from an orange.
Hmm. Fascinating.
Do you mean fascinating like a book,
or fascinating like a piece of green diareah stuck to the toilet bowl?
I don’t know. Let’s move on.
I guess my next question is, would you rather go to heaven
Or have a chance to slap every single person who has ever existed?
Well I guess we don’t know that’s not what heaven is.
Like just slapping people.
Is that how you interpret the Bible?
I don’t think this poem is in the bible.
You can’t hide from Christmas Day, it will find you.
And the presents that you get, will remind you
Of the many years before of more delusions,
Being crushed on Christmas day, in confusion.
Finding out that those you liked don’t like you back,
And at dinner hiding grief for what you lack.
So you try to stay in bed or take a walk,
Hoping time will pass you by and you won’t stalk.
But the day will run you over like a truck
Even though you thought that life would never suck
If the pain just hurts again then you can pray
For the other people also not okay.
And you know that in the million years to follow
There’s a love that heals all hearts still feeling hollow
So please stay alive and wait for nicer times now
Even though that no one really knows how
It is true that there’s a hope so real it blinds you
And I pray that better Christmas Days will find you.
Arcades,
Laundromats,
Slot Machines,
Gumball Dispensers,
Or just a magic trick on an elbow.
I think I'll choose
the plunk in the fountain
and a prayer to say
I wish you well.
what if there was a new ride at Disney World
called Journey into Tomorrow’s Problems
and it is one of those simulation rides
and they shake everyone violently and spray acid on them
prayers for the well
doesn't every girl want to be the dame in the movie who faints,
and every guy the wounded soldier being tended to?
I will not take for granted
that things I took for granted are gone.
Between winces and sighs,
and sinces and whys,
I'll defiantly spend my credit
that surely I get for this pain
on praying up some blessings
for the ones not sick but sane.
For everyone still living life and sinning and forgiving
I'll use my tears and pained arears
to bless the lands of living.
Why not? As thank you prayers
for when I was like that too,
with wishes, wants, and hopes, and cares,
and begged for dreams come true.
So now when nightmares haunt me here
and health is shaky, filled with fear,
I'll keep in mind requests for all
who find their life an easy call
Why shouldn't they each get a boost
from prayers that no one thought be loosed
Some coins are for the pinball games,
to ease the loss of health and names.
but some are going straight in wells
for all the well, til heaven's hell
and we are singing, well well well.
Prayer Power
"pray for my mom, she's crying and dying,"
well you should know without me lying
That God must hear the most from those
who suffer pains while in repose
So patient, I will say to thee
That she should think to pray for me.
Buying a box of cereal you don't like, just to punish yourself.
Then committing any crime, so as to confuse everyone on Judgement Day.
Why not just steal the box of cereal, some may ask.
Why not indeed. Except a brand you like which is Frosted Flakes.
It can be stolen retroactively if you spend your righteousness credit
on asking God to take away other people's blessings.
I guess good theology is hard to come by,
And that is why ad slogans can work just as well
if the slogan says something like:
buy a can of raid be gone or sing a song to get along,
that's where the cookies come from.
Your total is 50 dollars and 99 sins.
Francisco was a comedian in the very populated metro region of the south north quadrant. His shows had been getting more consistent, and he had a steady income from selling CDs and teaching some workshops. Most of his jokes were about dating, and office work, or funny things about relatives and awkward conversations. One night, in the middle of a show, he suddenly thought of a new joke and just blurted it out with no planning.
“What if someone was born with clothes on?” he said, standing at the mike while the audience roared laughing. The joke’s appreciative reception was as unexpected as the joke itself. Francisco started riffing on it, creating a wave of humor for the laughter to surf on. “It’s like, okay, do you wash the clothes on the baby, or what. Like is the baby just supposed to always have clothes on?” One guy in the middle of the comedy club was laughing harder than everyone. Francisco continued. “And do you tell people? Like if they say what a cute outfit, do you say, “thanks, it’s from that store downtown, called Miracle Baby.” Francisco kept thinking of more to say. “Wouldn’t you feel guilty if you had a baby shower and some people would like know that the baby already had an outfit, like the muppets, like Ernie and Bert who wear the same shirt every day?”
The guy laughing so hard in the middle of the crowd could not stop laughing. He was keeled over, clutching his stomach, drooling. His girlfriend next to him slowed her laughing and started to look concerned. A few other people nearby also seemed in distress, but mostly able to calm down. Francisco saw him but decided to go for one final punch. “It’s like, okay, so much for hand me downs, you know?”
This is when the drooling guy fell off his chair, and was suddenly motionless. He had died laughing. Some people came to his side and tried to call for medical attention. Many people still could not control themselves laughing and just left the comedy club.
Francisco watched from the stage, started to feel an odd feeling of pride, with some serious bafflement, but then smirked to himself, left the stage, and sat in a back room feeling a sense of power that he felt he had waited for all his life. “I was born for this,” he thought to himself, laughing, hesitating to make sure he would not die from his own joke, and then leaving to go home.
The joke became part of his routine, and because he toured all around from city to city, people didn’t realize there was a pattern happening when someone would die at every show.
“I’m a freakin’ serial killer,” thought Francisco, and then wondered if he could work that idea into the routine some.
Finally, at one of the shows as Francisco started talking about what kind of outfit a kid could be born in, like would it have a whale on the pocket or do you make the kid keep wearing the hat and socks or not, people started to lose control like usual. But a heckler stood up and started giving Francisco trouble. “Hey man, what we are wondering is what kind of outfit you’re going to jail in,” said the guy standing up. Some FBI agents then came on stage and took Francisco to the station for questioning. The heckler walked up behind the microphone and said, “This isn’t funny to me. I was born with clothes on.”
