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Archive for the ‘anti-ode’ Category

 

My cat is bigger than you.

You may as well call yourself a cat.

I don’t like your beady eyes and your yap-yap yapping.

And why do you always look like you’re shaking?

You look like you need a valium.

For the love of god,  get a grip!

 

© Umansky 2013

 

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There’s no reason

to ever go to Bangor.

Stephen King is coming to Broadway!

 

© Umansky 2013

 

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You make me want to be smarter.

You make Steven Segal look like Vin Diesel

“Demolition Man” was almost as bad as “Judge Dredd”

but not as bad as “Rambo” or “The Expendables.”

 

I laughed when SNL’s “Dog Show” featured

a poodle named Rocky Balboa.

I love that my high school students don’t remember:

“Stop or My Mom Will Shoot.”

                                                (Poor Estelle)

Why glorify your life with “blood and guts?”

Somehow making movies with “tits and ass”seems

more respectable. Why couldn’t you be a  good, talented

Italian actor like that Al Pacino or Paul Giamatti.

                        (I bet that Paul makes his mother proud.

                                    Did you see Barney’s Version?)

Sylvester, I will forever cringe when I hear the name “Adrienne.”

© Umansky 2013

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What is the big deal

about a horse-head in a bed?

I’ve seen scarier things on the subway.

Don Corleon’s got nothing

on  The Dude,  Ricky Bobby

or Lieutenant Frank Drebin.

Mark Wahlberg is a scarier

hit-man. I’ve seen scarier mustaches

in James Bond movies,

and tougher men

in the aisles of Fairway.

I’d rather watch  a marathon of Star Wars.

  Scratch that – I’d rather watch

the prequels to Star Wars.

 

© Umansky 2013

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Anti-Ode to Swiss Cheese

You are not as holy as you think.

 

 

© Umansky 2013

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No one cares, Piggy.

Find your own way out.

Transportation can be unreliable.

Boys will be boys.

 

 © Umansky 2013

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Anti-Ode to Mustard

There is nothing deserving in you.

No great taste or color.  You are

putrid, in the way that puke is

putrid.  Your spice and scents are

ill-natured.  My hot dog shuns you.

My corned-beef shuns you. Even, I, shun you.

You are not allowed in my kitchen.

I don’t care who might someday

crave your stench. I forbid you cross this

threshold.  Mustard, you disgrace

the name of Seeds everywhere.

You disgrace all the fairies of

Midsummer Night’s Dream.

 

© Umansky 2013

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