I oughta say
what I oughta
feel. So let me
peel the pin
wheels off
my feelings
(emotions’ po
tions, hone your
libations). So
jacked are we
that a bumble
bee got on our
boat and rode.
Aidy Bryant’s
barfing up ta
males. Herb
Alpert just ate
a bowl of sauer
kraut. My sham
poo is mostly
grape juice.
Then we dressed
for the ship’s ball,
which transpired
in the ship’s ball
room. Mercado
was sweeping up
the afternoon’s
hair when a big
brown bear shuf
fled in for a bear
cut. “Hold it right
there, bear!” trills
Hilda McGillicuddy.
Aidy, now in her
tenth season at
SNL, trills along
with Hilda (which
in this sentence,
were it spoken
by a Briton,
would sound like
Hilder). Just not
icing how hideous
the show has got
ten, everybody
all at once shouts
“But where are the
writers???!” Why,
they’re down with
the depoisoned
brown recluse
spiders. “The ones
wearing topsiders!”
sings Aidy, the cast
and crew and onlook
ers unsure whether
or not this is mere
improvisation. Mean
while, at your under
grad’s newly reno
vated dorm complex,
ain’t no fraternities
here (I went to Hen
drix), there, on the
swinging porch of
Martin Hall’s down
stairs fenced in
HobbyLobby,
there sits
Babballoo
playing the
pie annie. She
lifts her beary
head up just e
nough to relay
an exhausted
nod up a tidge
then down to the
ground. The bear’s
haircut was now a
piece of Modern His
tory. Everyone finds
a dorm room and goes
to bed with the Contemp
orary just to seal their
respectively illicit deals.
Would that this had any
thing whatsoever to do
with anyone’s sex. My
own proclivities are de
cidedly not showing.
“Not now, LouAnn!”
But there’s a bomb
cyclone just got spit
from the local trailer
park. At the park the
cyclone only blows up
the cuisine before tak
ing off like gangbusters
in search of some guac
amole and Doritos. Fin
