04 May 2005

Culture Clubbing

Every Evil Genius must show himself to be a man of culture. This can be through musical or literary expression. These are union rules, and must be followed, or risk having one's Nehru jacket confiscated.

I play the Highland pipes (indoors, for extra evilness) and dabble in poesy.

Now, before you get your knickers in a twist, I am neither a Republican, nor a Democrat. Besides, convicted felons, are not allowed to vote in US elections; not that I'd let that stop me.
This is poetic license to kill, written from an eeeeevil perspective, and let's face it, the Democrats are a bunch of cute and fuzzy bunnies compared to the Republicans who have Cheney, Rove, Ashcroft and Rumsfeld in their corner. I could have poked fun at them, but then I could have been fitted for cement overshoes and bunged into the Potomac. Nothing doing.

Besides, whom do you think the Brotherhood of Evil Geniuses is going to support? That's right.

Now, shut up, and listen:

Once upon a evening dreary, after voting; Bush, not Kerry,
Came to mind the strange and spurious Lawsuits of the Loser Gore,
Whilst I prayed for a ’bitch slapping’, suddenly there came a tapping,
Caught me in this midst of crapping, trousers draped upon the floor,
‘Tis some pollster’ I muttered, ‘Tapping at the kitchen door;
Only this and nothing more’.


Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak November,
And each surly Journo member, made the wait a painful chore.
Eagerly I wished the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow
From whiskey surcease of sorrow; hearing the attention whore.
Lo the foaming dingbat’s blather, spewing from the mouth of Rather,
Chilled me to my nut-job core.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of the shower curtain
Accompanied a gastric lurching, seldom ever felt before;
So that now I sat there bleating, ever more profanely pleading;
”Dammit, Honey, stop your sleeping; would you kindly get the door?
”But alas, there was no answer beyond the wife’s stentorian snore,
Only this, and nothing more.

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
”Sir,” said I, “or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I am crapping, and my dearest wife is napping,
that I have to leave you tapping, tapping at my kitchen door,
Thus I sat in noxious vapour; discovered there’s no toilet paper;
Nothing left but cardboard core!

The rapping then became a pounding, cursing down the hallway bounding,
Soon I heard my neighbor Downing; the one who channels Michael Moore.
“Though your gut may be you vexing, what I find that’s most perplexing,
Is why you’d vote for Bush and Satan; that stole the vote from Albert Gore?”
Over me like a red curtain, came the urge to leave him hurtin’,
For making me befoul my drawer.

Then a fantasy beguiling, sent me into insane smiling,
Suddenly discomfit clouding the countenance my neighbor bore,
Flung at him, my skivvies laden, with the foulness I had sprayed in,
Digested, eggs and fried menhaden, flew out of my kitchen door.
With his thus improved complexion, I bade him come back next election,
Quothe my neighbor, "Nevermore."


And that's the way I likes it.