Sep 13, 2006

Classic Jerff

Since I have been posting less (easy now), I have decided to dig through my old crap and post some classic joints from the old Jerffblog. Since Paul never got to see the old ish, I figured at least one-fourth of my readership would get something out of a foolish exercise. This may be the only one I ever do--seems I erased a lot of the Jerffblog stuff.


In any event, Insigniatic Cancer Presents an Absurdist Media Production of Classic Jerffblog (the year anniversary of my ridiculositismnicity): Vainglory, a sort of not poem.


Vainglory

My pimp hand is strong.
My pimp hand will swell to immense proportions and smash the humble hearts of the innocent and foolish quotile.
My pimp hand controls half of the board in the game Risk, and will take the other half by storm.
My pimp hand has a summer home in the
Ukraine.
My pimp hand will make women cry, but will not concede to their demands afterwards.
My pimp hand settles on the shoulders of its children, consoling them.
My pimp hand is Talmudic law.
My pimp hand is strong like filterless cigarettes.
My pimp hand has grown deep like those rivers.
My pimp hand will throttle you, constricting your airwaves.
My pimp hand rests in motion like centrifugal force.
My pimp hand reads Sartre and Aquinas book sets on its downtime and mocks their credibility in philosophy chat rooms.
What? My pimp hand doesn't have time for chat rooms.
My pimp hand attacks anyone slacking their mack.
My pimp hand rules with a velvety fist in an ironclad glove, ready to strike oppressors yet oppress just the same.
My pimp hand is cyclical.
My pimp hand knows failure-- it tastes failure on its knuckles as it cleans its fucking claws.
My pimp hand marvels at your audacity-- no you CANNOT have some of its sweet sweet soda, assface.
My pimp hand is sleek and intelligent, a gentleman and a scholar, a road and a trail, the woods and the mongoose, the slim and forgotten; a worthy adversary.
My pimp hand will eat your chicken leftovers.
My pimp hand has a story to tell.
My pimp hand towers over the meek weak kneed kneaders and the needy.
My pimp hand is slimptastic, courmissive, undulescent and smitrescient.
My pimp hand sees the passing lane off the pick and roll.
My pimp hand knows you well, little lady.
My pimp hand secures the perimeter and needles through the enemy diaries instead of napping.
My pimp hand cracks the spines of the fake gangstas.
My pimp hand owns factories.
My pimp hand is non-denominational.
Who are you anyway? My pimp hand needs some identification, please.
My pimp hand is quite aware of the existence of chupas cabras, ghosts, aliens, and all the other spooks and apparitions that haunt our vision of the landscape.
My pimp hand commits my permissive nature to memory and plots its eventual independence.
My pimp hand submits to magazines, only to be told his writing style is meta-cognitive and too post-modern.
My pimp hand is well versed in "that
Staten Island bullshit," knowing full well Stapleton is where the ambulance don't come.
My pimp hand lifts bitches above it, showing them the way life that revolves around petty grievances and simple contrivances.
My pimp hand slips in the backdoor, doesn't wake you until you feel the steel against your soon to be slit throat.
My pimp hand slowly settles into a life unplanned-- an existence marked by missions married to martyred men and meticulous detail.
My pimp hand stares blankly as the sun beats down on barren ideas, badly executed, that will haunt the rest of its natural life.
My pimp hand still has trouble with its and it's.
My pimp hand sleeps alone and wishes you were next to it, stroking it while it struggles to quell its ideas into an escaping sleep pattern.
My pimp hand fondles breasts sloppily and without character.
My pimp hand is ever shaky; unconfident.
My pimp hand wants nothing more than to feel wholly merited, and know that life, in its brevity, will continue to mystify it with gifts around us like souls escaping their vainglorious form.

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