Pees [sic] Porridge Hot [uh… really sick]

SUBTITLE: Sonny Sows His Wild Oats

Once upon a time… not too far from the hubbub of The Big Apple… there lived a sophomoric, imbecilic, narcissistic 7-year-old bully named Sonny. One mid-morning he ordered his chauffeur to lead-foot it back to the family estate where… upon entering their zillion dollar, palatial mansion… he immediately began snorting, sniveling and whining…

“Mumsy, why don’t everybody in da hood love me?”

It being a school day, Mumsy just knew her little wittle son was playing hooky. But since his gruff Dadsy typically growled ungrammatically, “Sonny, youse knows more than all dem dummy teachers”, she didn’t DARE even breathe one word re her boy’s habitual truancy. Knowing, too, that she had to take enough time to guard her words, YET, rapidly concoct some sort of a plausible sounding cock and bull story… all the sudden… the figurative light bulb lit up over her noggin. Trying her best not to sound patronizing, said she…

“Sonny, we both know that To Know You is To Love You. So, it only makes sense that to get everyone to love you, all you need do is make sure everyone knows you.”

With Sonny suddenly growing livid… his face flushed into a bright orange hue, he bellowed…

“So you ARE saying that everybody don’t love me!”

“Sonny, we both know that you’re a stable genius who’s never, ever wrong… so… how could I not agree with you?”

“But Mumsy, dem kids should be coming to me. Me going to dem would be too damned much hard work. I know… why doncha call up all their folks and order dem to order all their kids love me?”

Somehow Mumsy fought off the urge to roll her eyes. Once again, thinking on her feet, got her off the hook. The trick, here, was to really “sell” her schmooze the classmates scam to her ne’er-do-well boy. Indeed, to sound even remotely sincere, she’d need to lie through her teeth. And lie she did…

“Sonny, I’ve got a tremendous idea! Why doncha invite all your classmates over for a backyard, Sunday oatmeal brunch? You could even show off your cooking skills… I mean… we both know how you get a kick out of dumping the dry rolled oats into the boiling water.”

“Oh, do I ever! I always pretend each oat is someone I hate. But Mumsy… you got to be kiddin’! Cook for dem commoners? NO WAY! They not worthy of such a feast. Besides, it’d all be too much work. Why doncha order our cook to do it for me?”

“Sonny, you’re too smart not to know that you can’t WOW them unless you’re the Chef who’s cooking up the porridge! I give you my word… they’ll be so impressed by your magnificence that you’ll have them eating out of your hand. They’ll remember you for the rest of their lives. Hell, were you to ever run for President, you could always count on their votes.”

Reluctantly, Sonny agreed… on one condition… that Mumsy had to be the one to send out all the invitations on his behalf. Of course she’d never fess up that she had actually tasked that out to her social secretary. It didn’t take too long for the dozens of RSVP’s to began flooding in.

By the time Sunday finally rolled around… as his guests arrived, Sonny felt elated by the massive turnout. Hell, he estimated crowd attendance to be at least 3 MILLION… possibly up to 30 MILLION! He even caught himself musing…

“Hmm, maybe Mumsy had been right, after all?”

Sonny being the ringleader of his nasty gang, naturally, he did gravitate more to his homies. Of course, it was inevitable that there’d be a couple of scuffles between them and the non gang members… BUT… things began to cool down when the cauldron grew hot… when the boiling, bubbling water told Sonny it was time to dump in the oats!

With nearly the entire student body cheering / chanting rhythmically in time with each stirring, swirling motion of his YUGE spoon, he felt giddy from the outpouring of adulation… even though, in actuality, it was their love of oatmeal… not for Sonny that so inspired them. Anyway, all seemed to be going well.

HOWEVER… towards the end of the five minute cooking time… something just didn’t seem quite right. The porridge was way too thick… way too dry. Dumbfounded Sonny didn’t quite know what to do next. With this being a day off for their entire grounds-keeping crew, there’d be nobody to boss around… nobody to snap to attention and exclaim “Yes Sir!” to his barked out command…

“Uncoil that damned hose and add more water!!!”

Just as Sonny was about to panic, he experienced his own light bulb over the noggin moment… came up with what he deemed to be an ingenious idea! He unzipped his fly and… well… let’s just say he cooked up a Pees Porridge… one that never, ever must be confused with the totally different recipe known as Pease Porridge. Surprisingly, even above the loud piddling noises, audible were the multiple horrified gasps accompanied by the veritable chorus of EEEWWWS!!!

By the time Sonny had zipped up and looked back up, the crowd of kiddies had thinned dramatically… so much so that all who were left were members of his ugly gang.

Naturally, with Sonny being a germ-o-phobe, he absolutely had zero intentions of ever consuming this porridge. However… as for his sycophantic gang? Well, since they knew how easy it would be to PISS OFF Sonny they didn’t DARE turn up their noses. More importantly… they all knew the highest form of praise would be to pretend that nothing was wrong… i.e., that the “alternate facts” told them that Sonny’s unhealthy oatmeal was actually healthy to chow down… no questions asked! And chow down they did!

Well… it is now… some six decades later and we find sicko Sonny and his entire gang of sicko sycophants satisfied by their trade-off of NYC for DC turf! Since these rowdy underlings having, long ago, proven their undying loyalty to their sophomoric, imbecilic, narcissistic boss, he has vowed to never, ever again cook Pees Porridge. After all, for him, it’d be too damned much work! Even so, all of his toadies are still ready, willing and able to take whatever (hopefully figurative) shit he chooses to cook and serve up.

 

 

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The Praise Junkie Gets His Fix ~ 1 Quick Limerick #072

 

Let’s all think clearly / take moment to pause,
To deconstruct some syntax, each damned clause,
In re Trump’s speech to the nation,
What was his main motivation?
He just showed up for the limelight / applause!

 

 

 

 

Big Head ≠ Big Mind [1 Quick Limerick #062]

 

Let us assess the crass, ruling class creatures,
Know nothing, know-it-alls! Despotic screechers!
Big heads rarely think big,
That’s a big minded gig,
Big heads and big minds, are worlds apart features!

 

For more limericks (as well as other verses and song parodies, etc.), head over to my “Categories Menu” and select “Poetry”.

 

Aw c’mon… does anyone really need ask who “YOU” is?

 

Today is no different. You wake up in a heart palpitating, cold sweat! You leap out of bed in a handwringing, tearing out your hair, pacing back and forth, snorting, hyperventilating frenzy! You are consumed by that overwhelming sensation of sinking – sinking – sinking into the bottomless pit of need.

To attempt filling in this chasm… once more… for as long as it takes… you will rush off in desperate pursuit of your ONE and ONLY true love. You momentarily breathe a sigh of relief once you locate that very person, who is now adoringly, longingly staring back at you… in whatever mirror you, ALONE, happen to be standing before.

You are dead-set certain that all of your thoughts, words and deeds are right… YET… you still rampage onward ISO no-questions-asked, unanimous validation. YET… every kindhearted, critically thinking, living soul on the planet flat-out disputes your self-evaluation. And THAT infuriates you NO END! You stand down only after that little voice in your head reminds you of what a daunting task it would be to FIRST brainwash multiple billions of doubting Thomases and NEXT secure their unconditional love… their mindless adulation.

Even so, you ask yourself, “What’d be the harm in venting my zero tolerance, hostility towards everyone I deem disloyal to me… Me… ME?” With your tempestuous, emotional mood-swings now alternating between woe-is-me, shed tears and spat out bile, one thought consumes you, “How dare they flat out refuse becoming my next-door neighbors in my self-proclaimed wonderland! Only a god could ever make our nation great again! And dammit… I AM THAT GOD!” And a vengeful god to boot.

Ergo, you will plot your crusade. You will track down and severely punish each and everyone who has ever flipped you off. But, having never worked up a sweat in your entire lifetime… i.e., beyond what happens during your panic attacks and sleazy one night stands… you throw in the towel… opt to postpone that mission for another day. Perhaps your standing army of sycophants will do all the grunt work for you? Heed your call to arms? Target your mutual enemies? Execute your suggested… wink – wink… 2nd Amendment solutions?

Till then, your hired hordes of unscrupulous suck-ups will have to suffice. After all, not one of these automatons ever harbors any second thoughts about mollycoddling you. Hell, they’ve made entire careers out of being professional vending machines of alternate facts.

And you, the ravenous, gluttonous, praise junkie will bask in their flattery… scarf it all down as if it were the juiciest cheeseburger or “the most beautiful piece of chocolate cake that you’ve ever seen”… YET you will hunger for more and More and MORE!

With nightfall’s curtains now descending upon the done day, you’re back in your royal cambers, all tucked into bed, cozy warm and sucking your thumb. All the while you listen raptly as your loyal subjects file in to tell you fairytale bedtime stories about all the good you’ve done… what a good, big boy you have been all day long. After you reluctantly dismiss them they obediently file out. Yawning, you hit the remote and your big, badass, widescreen TV flickers to life. As you begin to nod off, your propagandist, talking head pals also tell you fairytale bedtime stories about all the good you’ve done… what a good, big boy you have been all day long.

As your snoring rattles the rafters and windowpanes, you rapidly enter the REM stage…

Nightly recurring, phantasmagorical images now flash into your noggin… provide you IMAX™, Dolbyized™, surround-sound, lurid, technicolor, big screen imagery of a world where your Master Race… all decked out in crisp, brown shirts and crooked cross armbands… gives you a standing ovation. They rambunctiously, fist pump while rhythmically chanting out your name.

For the GRAND FINALE, tanks and rocket launchers all roll down the long avenue as battalions of foot soldiers goosestep in formation. Fighter jets fly over in formation… their sonic booms only drowned out by the detonation of the “ceremonial” nuclear warhead. And then… stepping out from the billowing mushroom cloud rushes the resurrected, scramble-brained, mustachioed Adolf, who enthusiastically shakes your hand.  You step up to the podium to ramble incoherently. It matters not what you say… you’ve reduced everyone’s minds to mush long ago.

This scene soon crossfades to visits from your two, newfound dictator pals… your heartthrobs. You swoon before them and feel all lightheaded and schoolboy giddy as your tensions soar higher and Higher and HIGHER… until… Until… UNTIL… just as the rockets’ red glare is in sight and fireworks are about to explode… yet another crossfade takes hold.

You now hear the horrified screams of the countless women you’ve oppressed, grabbed and assaulted… the mournful wails of the hundreds of southern border, tender age children you’ve abused. And that makes you feel like the big man… deep down… you know you are not.

Suddenly… once again… this all crossfades… gets drowned out by the incessant beep-beep-beeping of your real world alarm clock.

 

STORYTELLER’S ADDENDUM: So just who the hell is “you”? Aw c’mon… does anyone need ask? So, what happens next? For that answer, all you need do is scroll-up and re-read.

 

 

The Loo Too? ~ 1 Quick Limerick #052

 

We have oft seen VainMan’s underlings gushing,
Sucking up to their boss without blushing,
Do they drop by the loo?
To applaud his poo, too?
Does VainMan even crave praise before flushing?

 

 

For more limericks (as well as other verses and song parodies, etc.), head over to my “Categories Menu” and select “Poetry”.

 

 

How To Spell Strong Correctly (One Quick Limerick #046)

 

NarcissistMan thinks he’s strong? Let’s rethink!
His heart of stone boasts barbed wire / chain-link,
He burns bridges, builds walls,
Promotes partisan brawls,
All that is strong, here, is his admin’s stink!

 

 

Who Is He? / Who He Is! (One Quick Limerick #044)

 

He’s bankrupt of values and brimming with vanity,
He batters* less fortunate with inhumanity,
He’ll smooch alt-right / gun nut rump,
On free press / speech, He’ll take dump,
He suffers from ignorance and/or insanity.

 

* try subbing in the word “bullies”