Jennifer Weild
August 4, 2010 at 1:01 pm

Ask her nothing, dudely dudes, for she
before all else does thee in truth despise.
Do not protest thy honesty. Twisty
knows well the lies thy phallus signifies.

Aloft above her ranch the boiling hawks
the smallish, brownish birds and mice do hunt,
while Twisty Jill o’er interwebs doth stalk
the stupid man who dares her wield her gun.

Do not, dear dudes, assume sincerity
will shield thee from the spit of her contempt.
She can to thee attribute no real parity.
Your penis by itself leaves you exempt.

Tremble then, dear man, before you post,
or your head surrender to her cruelty’s boast.

Related posts:

1. Poetry Korner

Untitled
by PandanCat

I’ll have no hoes! No, no, noes!
Hoes with clothes? No, no, noes!
Hoes at shows? No, no, noes!
Hoes with piercings in the nose and hoes with eyes for all the bros?
No, no, noes!
Hoes who ask for a rose and hoes where fem’nist theory grows?
No! No! Noes!
I’ll say it now before I go:
This bro will never love a ho!

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1. Poetry Korner with Jennifer

I tried to upload a photo of a painted bunting, but this proved impossible, as it turns out I haven't actually taken any pictures of any painted buntings. Instead, please enjoy this photo of the spinster aunt's winsome young relative Finn. We were all surprised when her face did get stuck like that.

I admit it; I have been moonlighting as a flesh-and-blood person lo these past few days, flitting around the countryside as though the Internet didn’t even exist. Spring is boinging up all over the rancho, and — not to be too adorable-woodland-creaturey about it — there are painted buntings to espy.

It’s not as easy as it sounds, espying painted buntings. They are not, apparently, my specialty. I mean, barn swallow: check. Summer tanager: check. Ladderbacked woodpecker: check. Scissor-tailed flycatcher, red-tailed hawk, mourning dove, roadrunner, assorted hummingbirds, Carolina wren, ostrich, black-crested titmouse, 8 black vultures sitting in a row on a fence: check, check, check.

But the painted bunting? It might as well be a dodo.

I regret that I do not have a decent post even now. In fact, all I have, in addition to my gripping bird-watching checklist, is a funny comment from the moderation box, left on an old post wherein I assert that culture is nothing but the realization of patriarchal fantasy. The comment goes like this:

Hey You People !!

I am a Man !! (Patriactical ??) …

I have a wife AND, I have a child …

I am (was) willing to step up to the PLATE (!!), to take the HIT from this loser, that was harassing BOTH, my wife AND my child …

It’s just NOT the female’s OR the child’s nature, to really be able to protect themselves …

Men are NECESSARY !!

But, men are NOT God !! …

And, men should Love their wives, and, men should Love their children …

I’ve ALWAYS tried to do, just those …

And, I’ve ALWAYS had a hard Time with art !!

But, I’ve always believed in, “freedom of expression !!”

So, I’ve put up with their art !!

I didn’t have anything (!!) to lose …

In closing, I don’t even know who Firestone is, but, Life IS Life !!

Let’s get on with IT, shall we !!

Yours truly,

[email address redacted to protect our correspondent from a flood of marriage proposals]

I offer the preceding, not as an excuse, exactly, but for your consideration as an explanatory condition regarding my obligation to take occasional unscheduled vacations from blaming. Even the spinster aunt, with her mighty nerves of steel, can only take so many ellipses before she snaps.

Related posts:

1. Bunting bonanza
2. Incisive blamer commentary clippets of the day
3. Spinster aunt laughed out of town

A perfect opportunity to speculate on your death, sing an earworm song twined in the DNA of anyone raised West of the Miss, embroider the scantily known facts of the situation, and triumphantly work out my horse envy:

“She comes down from Yellow Austin
On a dark, flat land she rides
On a pony she named Stanley
With a whirlwind by her side
On a hot Texas night

Oh, they say she died one summer
When there came a killing rain
And the pony she named Stanley
Busted down its stall
In a shopping mall he was lost

Chorus:
She ran calling Stan-ley
She ran calling Stan-ley
She ran calling Sta-a-a-a-a-an-ley

By the dark of the moon – I blamed
But there came an early rain
There`s been a garbage truck growling by my window now
For six nights in a row
She`s coming for me I know
And on Stanley we`re both gonna go

We`ll be riding Stanley
We`ll be riding Stanley
We`ll be riding Sta-a-a-a-a-an-ley

On Stanley we`re gonna ride
Gonna leave ballbustin` behind
Get these hard times right on out of our minds
Riding Stanley!”

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1. The little-known lyric souls of blamers

I was sitting around in my interior designer Ed’s studio yesterday. In willing compliance with my request to help me “funny up” the new Spinster HQ at El Rancho Deluxe, he was showing me pictures of some offbeat lamps for my office. One of these was a white plastic Venus de Milo bust that glows from within.

“I dunno, man,” I said. “There are feminist implications.”

Ed’s response was to whip out the laptop and play me this video.

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On the subject of PhysioProf’s account of PZ Myers’ bloodthirsty rampage at the creationist movie screening, rootlesscosmo writes, incorporating my new favorite word (but turning it into an anapest in the process, whoa nelly!), this epic saga:

Wackaloon, wackaloon, wackaloon,
Let’s rejoice ‘neath the Roquefort moon
For this glorious earth
Whose divinely planned birth
Happened only last Tuesday. At noon.

And from the First Lieutenant Reverend B. Dagger Lee, whose muse was the prosthetic anus, is this ode to beauty in medical science:

There was an old lady from Germany
Plagued with a leg of infirmity,

She went into hospital
Quite bad at anatomical,

Now she shits with robotic efficiency!

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1. Veteran blamer lyricizes her way to a chin nod