Here we go again.
In checking that Yahoo email account wherein the 'bulk mail' builds up, I found another 30 messages awaiting the recommended brand of routine filing (aka, delete). 24 of them were more of the same "agents competing for your refi" wordstring nonsense.
Been there and done that, even if Seymour and Jane were eager to do another judging gig; worse, Seymour wants to judge and
be a contestant. He missed the William Hung fiasco on AI
, so it's little wonder he isn't into learning from example, but more on that coming up.
As I reviewed the remaining six messages, four of them were headed "message subject"; upon opening, each had the graphic (top right) sandwiched in the verbiage of the message, offering up online prescription drugs with "no hassle" (aka, no quality control, no proof of what's ordered is what's received, no one to complain to when your 'Viagra' is actually alum, etc).
But each message that ran before and after the graphic was -- instead of the usual word strings of gibberish -- poetry. Or at least, what the bulkmailer meant to come off as poetry.
It might qualify as such in a Boulder (CO) or Berkeley (CA) coffee/cocaine house, but I digress.
I'm not much of a poetry person, as my last quip exemplifies. But with a pet rock and earette of corn egging me on, I took the time to read each one. So did Seymour and Jane. Their obvious enthusiasm for another episode as judges was not infectious. But rather than have to deal with a day off shared with a pouting rock and earette...I reluctantly relented.
The reluctance mounting when I heard what they had in mind for this one.
Thus, we bring you another episode of Ahmerikan Eyedull: Bulkmailer Poets
This episode, we have five contestants. Four from the bulk mail; and...I know I'm gonna regret this...Seymour (yes, I'm gonna let the rock be a contestant; he's disqualified as a judge on his own, which he's still trying to understand). In order to present each contestant in an atmosphere conducive to poetry, according to Seymour/Jane, while each contestant's poetry is 'read' (by yall), you have to envision Seymour, quietly strumming a ukulele (gag me), and Jane, softly humming.
If you've ever heard the version of Elvis losing his composure during a rendition of "Are You Lonesome Tonight" -- aka, the Laughing Elvis song -- imagine Jane sounding like his background vocalist did in that rendition, and the rest will logically follow.
*Did Jane just kick me in the shin?*
'Nuff said. Onto tonight's contestants:Dorothy Reyes in, I Babble (*Seymour starts strumming, and Jane starts humming*):shrinking sensation, Watson..But I kept trudging on through the lonely years..(*the graphic at top right was inserted here*)His scarf and one ski are beneath the TVConsiderests thous alone the burial of stars?Children, I come back today.On glancing over my notes of the seventy off cases I find many tragic..is broken, Says Noel Tichy, A University of Michigan business school.But, above all, they floated. Above all, they were light..I nourished the dream that nothing could smotherStands a child, with her fatherit might be a shadowy traceBut God put a song and a prayer in my mouthTo start, simply type the value of currency to convert in the amount box..One picture, one puzzle piece.
(My vote: what the f*** was that?; Seymour and Jane are 'thumping' the table, which is the equivalent of applause in a coffee house, I gather...)
Next up, Mohammad Youngblood with Syntax Jihad (*Seymour, quit shooting paper clips off the ukulele strings, and get to it*)Swim the delicate brothers, the Pleiades..the rest of us pinned the kid down to the ground..(*the stupid, irrelevant graphic was hyar*)I had to keep on! No stopping for me --They were luminescent without having form or lightRemember my sweat, my pain, my despairQuince used to wonder if these poor souls were the only typeLonger than sun, or any revolving satelliteBut God put a song and a prayer in my mouth..GM's reliance on cash incentives to sell its vehicles has only added to the company's problems..Beaten and mistreated for the work that I gave --for, working as he did rather for love of his art than for the acquirement of wealth,in a small room in a small hotel, staring out of the windows at the street,dark ones of today, my dreams must come true;while in the wild wood I did liehaving nothing, but one old wet picture puzzle pieceand a sound in the night, with no smell.
(See my comments from previous; Seymour is in tears, and Jane is genuflecting..).
Next up (Gawd hep me)...Bette Franks with Babblicious (*Seymour, it's a ukulele, not a violin, and a flyswatter's not a bow...cut that out*):
So shake the very Heaven on high,some grinning morn --(*yep..the graphic was hyar*)Deep in my breast -- the Negro motherit might be a bit of the cloakBe sure you're you're sure -- you know --They were humble without having a self to humble..With my lips soothing thee, adding, I whisperno safety, no love, no respect was I duewith him -- indeed, he's here at my invitation.On the big belly bounce,it's down upon my spirit flings...I give them the first suggestion, the problem and the indirection;company Brand dimensions whereas GM would best be described as having a 'brand penalty', with his face in the curb, he kept pushing until it opened.And I grin in the morn.
(Oooooookay...Seymour has a *duck hit on the head* look, and Jane is scratching her kernels on this one...I think we have a unanimous *sucks* rating...finally).
Next up...Heidi Merrill with Dialectical Dump (*Jane, give Seymour back the ukulele...you're the hummer, not the strummer*):
Remember the whip and the slaver's track,
taught me my alphabet to say..
believe in the right, let none push you back
I am the one who labored
something there is, make of my pass a road to the light
professor and former chief of GE's Crotonville leadership development program
to lisp my very earliest word
and stand like free men supporting my trust,
hum, he's about due...do you feel a creeping...
our caravan was lost where the odd job woman lived
weep not, my darling
of the Witch of the West.
One picture puzzle piece and know thine self
a simple, separate person
up through the darkness
when Washington calculates inflation based on 105
remember my years, heavy with sorrow
devouring the stars only in apparition.
(I vote *sucks*...Seymour, don't hit the *sucks* button with the ukulele...Jane is now holding the ukulele while Seymour beats the *sucks* button with the flyswatter..).
Well, here we are...the four bulkmail poets have had their time. Now I...what? Me? I can't play a ukulele! Oh hell...I knew this was a bad idea..
At any rate, our final contestant, Seymour Stonesworth Roundfellow, and his decompostion, Flatus Ad Hominum (*I'm TOINGing the ukulele, and Jane is laughing hysterically*):
Asteroid, my celestial cousin
afire in the atmosphere,
I'll bet it sucks, you know;
go 'round next time, you dummy.
My base fiddle loudly shrieks,
beneath the tuba.
Memories of the quarry are but
sand through the catboxes of Time and Rosemary
who taught him to play the ukulele like that..ewww...
causing my hair to stand on end,
but that I have none, so it must be moss...
oh, the life of a rolling stone.
I snort the banana
and get no satisfaction from onion flatulence.
My friend in another realm, a duck by any other species,
but not GM, whomever they so think to be
while flatulating a love song in E flat.
Whoa, the aroma..
open the windows, it's blue hereabouts.
tis a coal coal world out there,
hard to be, and harder to spell,
so my ukulele plays a tune
the world has never heard
as Jane hums the melody
in E flat.
And you better pick me,
or I'll pout.
(Okay, readers: I had earplugs in, and so did Jane, to blot out the ukulele's screams of agony...so you get to vote in the comments section...who won?).
We already know the ukulele didn't.