"Now I Rock a House Party at the Drop of a Hat, I Beat a Biter Down with an Aluminum Bat..."

  What's up people? I was told a few weeks ago that I need to post more. I've been trying to post at least once a week now. The problem is most of my posts rely on DOD updates or shit that's happening in the news. Well, nothing interesting is going on, at least to me, and DOD isn't till next month.
  So today I'm going to give you something I wrote quite a few years back. Make sure you let me know what you think, either here, email, or on Facebook. If you like it, tell a friend. I will put up more of my random BS. I have a ton more in my vault. Vault? Who do I think I am, Prince? And even if you think it sucks, let me know. I can take it.

...Drinks almost gone, lights come on, and once again the poets alone. I rattle the ice in my sad little glass trying hard to be cool as I post up on the bar like a fool, waiting for  the tight shirt bouncer to push me to the door. "You aint staff or sleeping with the staff, get the fuck out!" Muscle head thinks he's a poet, with his tired rhyme he says all the time, wasting my time as I spend my last dime trying to get one last drink on the down low. Sweet little slinger of drinks smiles with pity at my pathetic little ditty as she says with her eyes, "get the fuck out!" I turn in a way like that cowboy in that movie with that one guy about that other guy, you know the one. Fuck that bartender.
  A gaggle of whores, excuse me, young ladies stroll by shakin' their asses hoping I'll look but callin' me a pig if I do..and of course I do. "Pig!" "Whore!" Hit the door dame, hit the bricks, keep walking, don't make me call you something we'll both regret. Damn if she was a little less, how can I put it, ugly. Yeah, that's the word for that bird.
  Back to that cowboy thing. 'Cept I aint no cowboy! I'm an Indian! I'm Rick James bitch! hehehehe. I laugh to myself cuz I know no one's around to hear the clown sounds coming from my mouth. Hell, I don't think I even said it out loud. Postin' up lookin' hard as my body is a soft puddle of booze and self pity. But that's how I roll.
  My eyes scan the bar. What a shitty lookin' place it is with the lights on. One corner presents one of my guys tryin' hard to get digits from a big booty freak that from this distance reminds me of a mailbox. Short. Boxy. Yet, with a convenient little slot. Hehehe. Again I giggle to myself. Fuckin' Dangerfield. If only someone heard that. Corner number two features another member of the crew grinding on himself.
  Coming back round my gaze takes in this dirty sick maze and then BAM! Those eyes. Those thighs. What the French call...Fucking Hot!! Least that's what my intoxicated, self medicated, over inebriated interpetation is of this fine little kitten. And me here without my mittens. Hehehe. Damn I gotta write this shit down.
  Back to the girl. Scratch that. She's much more than that. Sleek as a cat, not thin not fat, just...listen to me rhyming like a second grade Romeo. Nice legs do that to a guy. She wiggles in her chair when she catches my stare as I focus on my path to her side. Cowboy style, I mean Indian style, like a warrior on the war path. More like a buffalo hunt, specially 'cause that's what this little philly probably looks like in the light. Who cares, I don't fuck in the light anyway. Even I don't want to see me naked.
  Sorry, that last drink is kickin' in, spinnin' me deeper towards sin and look at me here without a coat. Back to the hot bitch's thighs. Check the breath stud: mix between well gin and desperation, perfect. Time for this poet to skid on over like a dog named Rover lookin' for a bone. 'Cept I aint that slick. Lookin' more like Mr. Roeper or maybe more like Mr. Ferley in search for his ascot. No matter, this shit be fate. This is destiny. This be the mating dance of the hopeless single male. Scientific name: Hairypalmusis Rex. How can she say no anyway, iza a funny motherfucker. Least in my head.
  "Everybody needs to head for the door, bars closed!" Silly meathead. He's not really that muscular. He's just wearin' his little brothers t-shirt and walking bow-legged. Still, my time is passin', and I'm no closer to my long legged Venus. Here it is, moment of truth, moment of clarity, hopin' for charity, but would settle for some digits.
  Scan the room lookin' for my boys. Clown number one is still playing post office with the gigglin' teapot. Clown number two is now on a table dancing to the music in his head 'cause the dj stopped about ten minutes ago. I look around to make sure there isn't something hotter to hit on. I mean really, no need to settle, right? "Pig!" "Whore!"
  Anyway, calm down. Keep it together man! What's the worst thing that could happen? Shoot you down? Send you into a tailspin of self-loathing and depression? That happens every friday night. Deep breath. Think cool. Poet. Cowboy. Indian. Mr. Roeper. Rick James. I leave my post and get my stroll on. How can she possibly deny this? Got my pimp walk goin', you know that walk, cross between a strut and a little kid with a load in his Huggies.
  Ten feet away. Five. Two. One. Last chance to bail, don't fail little puppet! Here it is, curtain rises, hush falls on the crowd, spotlight on our hero. I make eye contact. And then those words leave my lips, the ones I have uttered a hundred times before...Holy shit, you're a guy?!
  Oh well, there's always next friday. Time for a skillet. "Let's go clowns."



Strange I know. Let me know what you think. Be honest, I can take it.

peace.