When a Man placates for a Woman...

*Sigh*

You know when you are first dating someone and you do all sorts of stupid things in order to earn brownie points?

Oh wait...this is AoSHQ...of course you don't.

Anyway, this is my story. I thought I'd share.

(Because this story involves EPIC POETRY it will be continued below the fold. I can't be held responsible if you actually continue to read from here.)

Alright, it's late Sunday Afternoon, and I just got home from a date.

Not just any date, mind you, but what I like to call a "Placate Date".

What is a "Placate Date", you ask? It's when you do something you would never ordinarily do to impress a date simply because you hope it will ultimately work to your advantage at some point in the indeterminate future.

So that's what I spent my afternoon doing...earning brownie points.

Usually, I wouldn't complain. Hell, it's nice to be out of the house. With a woman. Who isn't blind. Or related. Or hideously disfigured.

For once.

So last night, I'm talking to my new friend and I ask her if she'd like to do anything this afternoon. She says "Actually, yes...there is something I'd like to do."

"What's that?" I inquire.

"There is a open air amateur poetry reading I'd like to go to...wanna come?" she says.

What's the word I'm looking for? Besides "Hells No"...oh yeah..."PHHHHHHUUUCCKKKKK."

What's the word that comes out: "Sure."

Now, my tributes to Suzanne Sena aside, I'm really not all that big on poetry. Especially the sort of "guerilla street, urban liberal, metro-homo-sexual, beret wearing, commie-apologizing, patchouli driven delusional rantings" that pass for art in downtown Washington D.C.

But she's cute. So I went. I even drove.

Anyway, it was as god-awful as you can imagine. And being regular readers of AoSHQ, I know you have pretty good imaginations. (Well, except for Bart, who I am told is the most unimaginative of lovers).

It was, however, a source of much comic relief. Unintentional comedy, of course. Which is, after all, perhaps God's greatest gift to all those who are forced to suffer in silence for the prospect of a little action.

But I digress.

How bad was it? Here is a REAL verse I happen to remember from early in the afternoon. I've got no idea what the poet's name was...I do remember that he played a trumpet at certain points to emphasize his spoken word. Or something.

Anyway, the poem was called "Ethiope!" (I'm guessing about the exclamation mark tho, as he seemed to be the only one excited about it.) It went something like this:

"Ethiope! (Trumpet blasts)
Ethiope! (Trumpet blasts)
Horn of Africa,
Mother of Man
Ethiope! (Trumpet blasts)
Ethiope! (Trumpet blasts)
Cradel of Life
Womb of Civ-Il-I-Za-Tion
Ethiope! (Trumpet blasts)
Ethiope! (Trumpet blasts)"

This went on for about 20 minutes.

There was a chick poet who was particularly amusing, too. She was some sort of "avant-garde, neo-lesbian, shock the straights" type of word-warrior.

I can't remember her poem (It didn't feature trumpet blasts). But I do remember some of her "imagery".

As a good avant-garde, neo lesbian creation her poem, of course, featured 3 or 4 verses about her vagina. Which she referenced alternatively as her "tongue cozy" and her "wo-menstrual flo-wer".

Needless to say, it didn't take long for this to become the most AWESOMELY AWESOME poetry reading ever. Especially for a second date kinda thing.

Luckily, after about 2 hours, we decided to call it quits and we headed to Alexandria to drink a couple of cold beers and reflect on the lessons that we learned from these great artists.

We also wrote a poem of our own.

On cocktail napkins.

The AoSHQ way.

Here, for your reading pleasure, is our collaborative work. We hope you enjoy it.

If you do, she gets all the credit. If you don't I'll take the blame. Which is only fair, as you would like her if you met her.

"Ode to Summer's End" (By Jack M. and His girl who has promised to atone for today by at least getting Redskins tickets).

Summer
Sum-mer
SUMMER!
is almost over.

Which is like an allegory,
For where we are in our lives.
Well, where some of us are.
Some still have a little Spring
in their step.
You could say they were on
Summer's Eve.
You can always spot,
these people
by their beach-fresh
smell.

Autumn.
Au-tumn!
Fall.
When the leaves turn.
From green
to yellow
and red.
Like the traffic lights
illuminating the city streets
where the women capitalism forgot
ply their trade
and peddle their wares
to pathetic losers
and loners
with loose change
and boners.

WHY DO YOU TURN A BLIND EYE, AMERICA?
WHY DO YOU ALLOW THE CALENDAR TO OPPRESS
THE INNOCENT?
TIME IS PATRIARCHAL!

Winter,
Win-ter.
WINTER!
The city is so pretty
underneath a foot of snow.
Isn't that a backhanded compliment?
It's like saying, she's really a beautiful girl
when she wears a bag,
and you can't see her.
Why do you hate women this way,
misogynysts?

Spring,
Ummmmmmmmmmmmmm......
Sprrrrrrr-Ing!
SPRING!
We already covered Spring
With the Summer's Eve joke.
Which she suggested
So don't blame me.
Which brings us back to...

Summer
Sum-mer,
SUMMER!
The cycle of seasons continues
Heh..you said "cycle"
like the dyke talking about her
"wo-menstrual flo-wer"
I wonder if that blooms in summer.
Or if it is a perennial.

"You know what this poem needs?" she says.
"Besides an ending?"

"A trumpet?" I suggest.

"No...a dedication. It's more pretentious with a dedication."

"Ha...I hadn't thought of that" I say. "Got anyone in mind?"

"Al Gore" she offers.

"Why Al?" I ask her.

"Because we've talked about douchebags" she jokes.

(This one might be a keeper).

So I guess this poem is dedicated to Al Gore.
Congrats on your Nobel, Al.
When we win the Prize for Literature next year
we will give you a shout out.
It's the least we can do.
Douchebag.

posted by Jack M. at 08:08 PM

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