And Your Next Set of Nominees Are…

Greetings My Fellow Citizens: I am sure all of you are breathless with anticipation while awaiting the next set of nominees in the Burnt Toast Cafe’s poetry contest. Well you have to wait no longer. All parents out there in cyberspace can appreciate this next entry. I know I can identify with the sacrifices of fatherhood. Please give it up for…

Fatherhood

by The guy who made fun of my pajamas

I’ve always lived my life
On the line between good and bad
But recently I’ve realized
That does not make a good dad

The doctors always said to me
That I’d never be a father
But an evil paper company
Blessed me with a daughter

I also have myself a son
But I can’t recall his name
Claire can be shot by a gun
But he’s mortal and lame

Since the beginning I had expected
To give Claire away to Primatech
But ever since she manifested
I’ve found myself a total wreck

I tried to hide her from the bad guys
I used my ninja skills and the Haitian
She was protected by my lies
But my wife suffered mental retardation

I didn’t mind, though it made me sad
Claire Bear was my only concern
I promised myself I’d be a good dad
Even if it killed my wife in turn

But a Jewish chick ruined my plan
She attacked my family with her goons
A dyslexic ex-cop and a caveman
Broke into my home one afternoon

The cop shot my girl, by my command
Then we got some tranquilizers for Ted
But things didn’t go quite as I planned
My boss wanted the caveman dead!

He shot the fool in the shoulder
And this triggered his nuclear power
My entire house started to smolder
I screamed out for Jack Bauer

We all would have died or worse
Yet Claire Bear rescued us all
Her heroism came with a curse,
A celebratory trip to the mall

After maxing out my credit card
and purchasing 21 new pairs of shoes
My boss stopped by my houseless yard
And delivered some terrible news

He wanted to dissect her guts
It was my patriarchal duty
To protect her from paper cuts
So I had The Haitian shoot me

It’s tough being a good father
Dealing with diapers that are smelly,
Be thankful you don’t have to bother
With taking a bullet in the belly

The Haitian took memories from under my hair
But there is one thing I’ll never forget
I’ll always remember my lovely Claire
I just don’t remember if she’s blond or brunette

…and now on to our second entry for today. Notice there is an intriguing juxtaposition of verse and the need for a dictionary. This poem is certainly going to bring on the questions…In fact, I have one myself. Why is there no mention of me? Certainly I am worthy of poetic verse.

Destiny

by That guy who talks funny

Is it not our ultimate destiny
to obliterate ourselves as a species?
Are we destined by technology
to eradicate all eternities?
What is this unhopefully dooming scheme
Dictating all universal existence?
Can we disrupt the figurative balance beam?
Or are we merely tools of its insistence?
Are we nothing more than products of ontogeny,
Unknowingly forcing a similar fate
Onto our unfortunate ill-fated progeny?
Can we alter our course or is it too late,
has the lackluster battleship already sailed,
Leaving us like a football team with no coach?
Could it be that we have already failed,
Or can we yet be saved by God the Cockroach?
And what is this God, a mere mental figment?
Has he no decency, is he not good?
And why would he curse me with this blood-awful accent?
Am I to be laughed at, made fun of, ridiculed?
Or is there some meaning, some divine design,
Pulling us in, as gears of the machine?
When it’s all done, will we be on Dateline?
Or will we unluckily appear on Channel 13?
May we frolic around with nary an aim,
As radical wheat monkeys swing through the trees,
Until they crash and ignite and burst into flames?
Or do we possess a greater intent,
Something more important than even TV,
Perhaps resulting in some explosive event?
Could that event be our ultimate destiny?