Microwaves of Nausea

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Permeating the walls and halls,
The fumes worse than bathroom stalls,
You thought you’d have a nice, warm snack—
Instead it’s a mustard gas attack.

The popcorn doesn’t need that long.
The smoke means you’ve done it wrong.
Last night’s curry should have stayed at home-a,
Now we’re sick from that aroma.

And YOU—with the leftover trout.
Pack up your things and just get out.
If nuking fish is your bailiwick,
Find somewhere else to make people sick.

Crimes against noses linger for hours.
I feel like I need a Silkwood shower.
My nostrils are thoroughly defeated.
Are you sure that “food” should be reheated?


I don’t work in an office anymore, but I cook lunch every morning for my sandwich-hating, food-allergic kid.  Fish sticks at 8AM, folks.  Takes me back to my cube farm days, and not in a good way.

The popcorn was meant to be the other child’s snack.  It only took eight hours or so for that to dissipate.

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The Wee Knight

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potty poem


I found this little vignette all set up for me, and the play on “throne” was too delightful to pass up.

As a side note, I apologize for the crappy quality of the poem type.  I had to insert that as a picture translated through three programs, because I could not get the formatting to work no matter how much HTML I crammed in there.  An hour later, I decided that it added a certain “vintage” quality to the poetry and it’s actually the best.

I promised myself that I’m going to write a sonnet for tomorrow, just because I haven’t done that since high school.  Dusting the rust off the iambs right now.

The ‘Pause That Enrages

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It turns out I don’t want a purple hat,
Or a red dress that doesn’t go.
I just want to be completely done
With my monthly visit from Flo.

I am over producing progeny,
All my oats, I have sown.
Now for the special bonus round–
All systems shutting down!

I’m hot for no reason.
Today, I’m feeling stabby.
The Noxzema years are back,
And my hair is getting shabby.

Well, not all my hair,
That would be a silver lining.
The hair where I don’t want it
Is luxurious and shining.

You can tell me about dignity,
And post-40 freedom—that’s true.
But physically? This sucks a lot,
I hope it’s easier for you.

Doctors will mess with my ‘mones,
Heh… sort it out in a…flash,
But for right now I’m stuck–
Waxing my menostache.


Since poems about lady problems are super popular, I saved this one for the Sunday night dead zone.  I’m also at a point in my own lady journey where I don’t much care who likes it.  That said, here’s a *high five* for all the women.  You ladies are tough.

Beach Body

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The tide goes in, the tide goes out,
The tide goes up and in your snout.

The air was there, but now it’s not,
The tide macramés strands of snot.

Again it’s in, then out the breach,
Behind it leaves a little beach.

You’re found aground, tide receded,
The nose now knows–you’re deceded.


This seabird appears to have slipped on a banana peel and DIED.  Life is not a cartoon.  Please pick up your fruit skins.

The first couplet is an homage to the old classic nursery rhyme, “The worms go in, the worms go out…” etc…  That’s one that’ll stay with you for life.