Thursday, October 20, 2011

It's Like Riding into Serena Williams

The Bradenton Bearded Bike Brigade had just finished their meal at Jose's Real Cuban food, and we were on our way back toward downtown. There was a decision to be made as to which route we wanted to take. Jake, one of the founding members of the BBBB stood at the corner of Cortez Road and Palma Sola Boulevard. He peered in multiple directions. We pulled up beside him, and asked if he was okay going down Palma Sola, because we thought there would be less traffic that way. The only reason why we wouldn't take that route was because there are no street lights or bike lanes. Jake looked down the road, then turned back toward us and said, “I like my roads like I like my women. Dark and ominous.”

We all laughed and peddled our way toward the darkness. The decision seemed like a good one, because we have small headlights on most of our road bikes, so it wasn't going to be completely pitch black. Everything going fine until the nonexistent traffic we were expecting, quickly became existent. There was the septuagenarian woman whose rolling stop nearly became a injuring collision. Luckily for her front left quarter panel and our rib cages, the collision was avoided. We also held up a Ford F350 for at least three quarters of a mile. His wide chunk of rolling steel could not easily move into the other lane to pass us without fear of oncoming traffic, so he idled behind us what seemed like five minutes. After he had made his way by, we didn't encounter any other traffic.

Once the traffic was clear and my mind was calmer, I thought back to what Jake had said before we pointed our faint lights toward the darkness of Palma Sola. “I like my roads like I like my women...” Great adjectives aside, I was not sure I approved of Jake's comment. Only because I know the woman he is currently dating, and she does not fit either category. His girlfriend Erin (the Godmother of the BBBB), has fair skin and stands about 5'3” tall. I think you must be at least 5'8'' tall as a female to even be considered ominous (men need to be 6'2”). So, Jake was obviously just cracking a joke for the sake of levity as we headed toward possible doom and dismemberment.

As we approached our next cross street, I began to think about what a dark and ominous woman would look like. The obvious physical description would literally be a tall, dark and menacing figure (I'll call it Serena Williams-esque). I was thinking more along the feeling you get when you encounter something ominous. Like a dark gray rain cloud hovering over the horizon makes you feel. You see it and you know that it will produce lightning that could electrocute someone, or pour never ending amounts of rain onto the streets until they flooded the surrounding neighborhoods. Serena Williams is scary, but a skin-tight mini-dress pulled over tree trunk thighs and broad shoulders does not create a feeling of impending doom. Only a feeling of immasculinity.

I imagined a woman standing in front of me in bright daylight. Her shadow creating a total eclipse of my father's son. Her voice was deep, but carried a feminine lisp. She did not unleash a boom of volume, she only whispered. Her makeup was caked on, but only because she wanted to add some color to cover up any imperfections on her face. There were traces of defined muscle peeking out from underneath a knee length red skirt and matching red blouse. She would be wearing high heeled shoes, but of a height and width that would still allow quick movement if the need arose. Her hair showed faint roots of a darker color, but the dye kept it blonde like that of an Aryan princess. This was the woman I pictured when I went back to Jake's comment over and over again. It disturbed me to no end. Not because I was afraid of this mythical woman who personified the terms Jake used. No, it was because I felt like I knew who this person was. She was no longer a figment of my imagination. She was becoming more and more real as I described her in my mind. It was all becoming much clearer as every second passed. I was not sure if this is who Jake was thinking about when he concocted his comment, but I was 100% sure I had encountered this person before. Actually, come to think of it, I think I saw her at Drag Queen Bingo one night. I believe her name was Russell.

Saturday, October 15, 2011

Appetite Despite Amputation

The din of a densely populated bar is something that can play tricks on your auditory senses. One minute, you’ll be shouting in order to be heard by those who are sitting within an arm’s reach, and the next minute you can speak at normal volume and be clearly understood by an entire table of people. The same can be said when you are listening to the din. Some conversations turn into a repetitive “rabble, rabble, rabble…” While other comments just cut through the noise like a hot knife though conversational butter.

One of those conversations happened to cut right through and find its way onto my ear toast. It came from a younger guy who was dressed in a freshly purchased set of new scrubs. He was obviously someone who worked at a hospital or Doctor’s office, and judging by the pristine condition of those scrubs, he had not been employed there very long. Up until this point, I hadn’t paid him much attention. That is, until I heard him say, “Yeah, I got to go down to the morgue today. It was cool. I mean, they have six drawers for the bodies, and then one dedicated for just the amputated body parts.”

I have never been in a morgue, and I am okay with continuing that trend for as long as humanly possible. However, this comment sent me there in my mind. I pictured the standard cold stainless steel room, where corpses go to be identified and picked up by funeral homes. I imagine it being a quiet place where the people working there are respectful of their surroundings. That is, until I heard the next comment from this young be-scrubbed gentleman.

He said, “The guy opened the drawer and unveiled a drawer full of arms, legs, fingers and toes. It was awesome. I started to ask the guy some questions about it, but then someone peeked their head in and told me they were having cake upstairs. A drawer full of limbs and digits is awesome, but I can never turn down free cake.”

I thought to myself, “Wow, this kid is one morose mother fucker. How can you look at a drawer full of frozen body parts one minute and then engorge himself on cake the next.”

As if he were listening to my inner thoughts, he added, “It was Mandarin orange pineapple cake, and it was delicious!”

I pictured people running in from the emergency room to get a slice of cake, and the patients being left to deal with their mortal wounds on their own. I imagined EKG machines being left unattended and poor flat-lining souls gasping for their last breath as these cake fiends shoveled sugary goodness into their faces. The thought of it just made me sick. Plus, I hate the taste of pineapple, so that didn't help.

After digesting the comments from the kid in scrubs and my subsequent daydreams, I decided that it wasn't as bad as I initially assumed. I'm sure that they would be consummate professionals, and they most likely would take turns watching the patients so the other people could go get a slice of the delectable dessert. After all, it didn't seem like this was a single occurrence, so I am sure they have a contingency plan for situations such as that.

My next thought turned to the personality aspect of this young man. Not only did he willingly go down to the morgue and look intently into the drawer of body parts, but he had no problem switching into a mode of food consumption and revelry immediately thereafter. I know that is takes a certain personality to work in a hospital. I had a roommate who worked in one, and the stories he told made my stomach turn. He would have no problem telling them at the dinner table while he devoured a bowl of pasta. I would put my fork down, because my appetite was gone. He would ask if he could finish what I hadn't eaten. When I think about it now. I think he did it on purpose.

I thought back to the morgue and the cake. What was the occasion for the cake? What do they do with the discarded parts in the drawer? Why couldn't they have made key lime pie instead? And why couldn't someone bring me a slice?

I imagine a hospital is just like a regular office. A place where birthdays are celebrated with cake, and everyone gets together to sing a quick song, eat some cake, then get back to their daily duties. In an office environment, the bookends to that celebration are generally spent sitting around a table to discuss synergy and an afternoon of putting cover sheets on TPS reports. In the case of hospital workers; one minute they are standing around a metal table performing an autopsy and the next they are putting white sheets over a recently deceased homeless person. Only one of those should put you in the mood for cake. That is the opinion of someone who can't even hear the word “blood” without needing to sit down. Call me what you want, but just don't call me down to the morgue for dessert. I don't care if it is the best key lime pie ever baked. I won't be caught dead down there. That is, until I am actually dead, and I don't think I'll be in the mood for cake then either.

Thursday, October 13, 2011


This letter was written 1/11/08.  Three years and 18 days later, I started this blog.  Less than nine months after that, the blog reached 10,000 page views.  I thought it was apropos to share it with my readers on this momentous occasion.

Necessary. I felt like necessary should be the first word in this random act of of literature. It started yesterday as I was driving home. I was thinking about writing in the Italian leather-bound journal I received as a gift last Christmas. I decided I had to write at least one word in it. Something impactful. Something meaningful. What should it be? I settled upon "necessary.” It is both the feeling that I have in my heart, and the one word that has been the bane of my existence. It is the one word that no matter how many times I write it, I can never seem to spell it correctly. That is, until I press F7 on my computer keyboard. Unfortunately, a leather-bound journal does not have spell check. In my most careful and purposeful penmanship, I spelled it out. N-E-C-E-S-S-A-R-Y. I was delightfully surprised when I verified that my spelling was indeed correct.

I have recently come to the conclusion that although I do not get paid to write anything professionally, I am still in fact a writer. I may never be able to support myself financially using the written word alone, but I will surely strive for such a thing. It is no longer just a dream, but I won't go as far as to call it a goal just yet. I choose not to classify it at this point, but I am most certainly headed in that direction. I can't see myself being satisfied with my life's work consisting of 40 more years of being a payroll supervisor. All I know is I spent two hours on Tuesday with my hands hovering over a keyboard and letting words flow freely through my fingers. It was effortless, and I felt phenomenal after I was done. I work between 40-50 hours per week at my day job, yet I felt more accomplished in those two hours. The feeling of accomplishment came from the step I took toward where I truly wanted to be, and not from any successful financial transaction or finished project. I created something, and I want to share that moment with anyone who will listen.

I will need some occasional motivation from my friends and family. But I have learned that when I need it, I should just ask for it. I know who those people will be, and I will call upon them in my time of need. I assure you that I will be there for them as well. We shall see what the future brings. I feel as if I have turned the page, moved on to the next chapter, and possibly even closed the book on the past. Right now, I am just focusing on that which is in front of me. I feel like that is necessary.

Saturday, October 8, 2011

U.S. Presidential Slogans: According to D3P

I learned a lot while preparing this list, and researching all the past American Presidential campaigns. After spending too much time looking through archived documents and presidential biographies, I learned that official campaign slogans were not even used until William Henry Harrison and John Tyler came up with theirs in 1840. I also learned what the issues of their eras were (expansionism, reconstruction, economic decline and recovery, etc). Finally, I learned that since the dawn of American elections, they have never really changed much. A catchy slogan and a little pointed jab at their opponent has been an effective norm in American politics. You will find the actual political slogans used in each campaign since 1840 in the list below, and you will also find a D3P suggestion. Some of which have some of that 20/20 hindsight, but most of all, I think they supply a little self-deprecation. And I think we might need a little of that after over 170 of self-aggrandizing and oversimplifying politics. Enjoy!

William Henry Harrison/John Tyler:
1st Choice: Tippecanoe and Tyler Too.
2nd Choice: Fall Over in a Kayak and some guy named John As Well.

James K. Polk/George M. Dallas:
1st Choice: 54-40 or Fight!
2nd Choice: We've got dibs on Oregon, and a lot of guns.

Zachary Taylor/Millard Fillmore:
1st Choice: For President of the People
2nd Choice: We are in favor of those who are anti-against you.

Franklin Pierce/William King:
1st Choice: We Polked you in '44, We shall Pierce you in '52.
2nd Choice: Voters just want to have pun.

James Buchanan/John C. Breckinridge:
1st Choice: N/A
2nd Choice: Slavery is for the birds. Well, them and white landowners.

Abraham Lincoln/Hannibal Hamlin:
1st Choice: Vote yourself a farm
2nd Choice: We plan to buy the farm, do you want in?

Ulysses S Grant/Schuyler Colfax:
1st Choice: Vote as you shot.
2nd Choice: A beard you can believe in.

Rutherford B. Hayes/William Wheeler:
1st Choice: The patriots choice.
2nd Choice: Hester Prynne got what she deserved! I'm just sayin'.

James A. Garfield/Chester Arthur:
1st Choice: Let us have peace.
2nd Choice: Lasagna on the rocks.

Grover Cleveland/Adlai Stevenson:
1st Choice: Blaine, Blaine...Continental liar from the state of Maine.
2nd Choice: Cleveland rocks!

William McKinley/Garret Hobart:
1st Choice: Patriotism, protection, and prosperity.
2nd Choice: America, assistance, and alliterations.

Theodore Roosevelt/Charles Fairbanks:
1st Choice: A square deal for every man.
2nd Choice: I'm going to shoot something, don't make it you.

William Howard Taft/James Sherman:
1st Choice: Shall the people rule?
2nd Choice: Obesity for the masses.

Woodrow Wilson/Thomas Marshall:
1st Choice: He kept us out of war.
2nd Choice: You know you've got a woody for Woodrow

Warren G. Harding/Calvin Coolidge:
1st Choice: Cox and cocktails.
2nd Choice: You just had a Woody for 8 Years, try Harding

Calvin Coolidge/Charles Dawes:
1st Choice: Keep cool with Coolidge.
2nd Choice: Shh, you won't like him if he hasn't had his nap.

Herbert Hoover/Charles Curtis:
1st Choice: A chicken in every pot and a car in every garage.
2nd Choice: I really hope we don't all end up living in cardboard boxes.

Franklin D. Roosevelt/John Nance Garner:
1st Choice: Kick out depression with a Democratic vote.
2nd Choice: My legs don't work, but I'll make sure you do.

Harry S. Truman/Alben Barkley:
1st Choice: I'm just wild about Harry.
2nd Choice: Harry is the BOMB!

Dwight D. Eisenhower/Richard Nixon:
1st Choice: I like Ike!
2nd Choice: I need a cigarette and a shower, because I love Eisenhower.

John F. Kennedy/Lyndon Baines Johnson:
1st Choice: Let's get America moving again.
2nd Choice: Back and to the Left of Conservatism.

Lyndon Baines Johnson/Hubert Humphrey:
1st Choice: All the way with LBJ.
2nd Choice: Vote for me, and you'll be fellated.

Richard Nixon/Spiro Agnew:
1st Choice: Nixon's the One!
2nd Choice: This administration may be recorded for quality assurance purposes

Gerald Ford/Nelson Rockefeller:
1st Choice: He's making us proud again.
2nd Choice: I'm seriously not a crook, I promise.

Jimmy Carter/Walter Mondale:
1st Choice: Not just peanuts.
2nd Choice: All I want for this country is my two front teeth.

Ronald Reagan/George Bush:
1st Choice: It's morning again in America.
2nd Choice: All in all it's another sledgehammer on that wall.

George Bush/Dan Quayle:
1st Choice: Read my lips: no new taxes.
2nd Choice: You say tomato, we misspell potatoe

Bill Clinton/Al Gore:
1st Choice: Putting people first.
2nd Choice: Putting people first... especially her.

George W. Bush/Dick Cheney:
1st Choice: Leave no child behind.
2nd Choice: These are the Droids you're looking for.

Barack Obama/Joe Biden:
1st Choice: Change we can believe in.
2nd Choice: Ebony and Irony

I hope you enjoyed your little trip through history with my twist of humor. Most of all, I hope you stopped at least once or twice to Google a reference or two. If you have a different suggestion, and want to see it proudly displayed above, post it in the comments below.

If you really enjoyed this list and want to learn more. Please feel free to read a book that has provided me with a lot of knowledge and fodder for this list. It is called “Secret Lives of U.S. Presidents” by Cormac O'Brien ( 

 You can also learn more at and

Monday, October 3, 2011

New US State Slogans: c/o D3P

I'd like to introduce my suggestions for some new state mottoes and slogans.  I think the old ones need a little sprucing up, and who would do a better job than D3P?  It was a rhetorical question, but feel free to shout "nobody" when you next leave the house.  I'm sure everyone will understand you are expressing an opinion about a blog you read, and not think you are a raving lunatic who is arguing with your imaginary pet narwhol.  If you have any suggestions of your own, feel free to leave them in the comments below.  If I find your suggestion to be better than the one I had, then you will soon find it in the body of the blog.  You can check back later to see if you made the cut, and then you can check that item off of your bucket list.  If you don't already have "Be a guest contributor to D3P" on your bucket list, then add it immediately, and begin scheming your way to accomplish such a worthy goal in life.  For now, just enjoy the new D3P state mottoes and slogans.  I know I enjoyed writing them.


Alabama: We've really toned down our racism, but stay on the main roads (just in case).

Alaska: We can't see Russia from our houses, but we do have other things to see.

Arizona: We really like turquoise!

Arkansas: Bill Clinton was our most famous resident, and our official state beverage is milk. We are the land of bad choices.

California: Making Colorado seem moderate since 1850.

Colorado: California isn't the only state with a hippie infestation.

Connecticut: The only “real” state to never ratify Prohibition (Rhode Island doesn't count).

Delaware: We're still working on an identity.

Florida: Your grandparents live here, so why don't you visit more often?
            "God's waiting room."- Erin Wright Bagley

Georgia: We have Atlanta surrounded.

Hawaii: Want to go where everything is more expensive? Take a really long flight, and find out for yourself.

Idaho: Creating punchlines for sophomoric jokes since 1890.

Illinois: The “S” is silent. Unfortunately, our people aren't.

Indiana: Hoosier favorite state for unnecessary puns?

Iowa: We would merge with Ohio if we knew how.

Kansas: Are you a fan of seeing prisons every 5 miles? Well, you're in the right place!

Kentucky: Bluegrass is kind of like jazz, except it's played by people with less skill and rhythm.

Louisiana: Currently under construction.

Maine: We're not quite Canadian.

Maryland: Do you like crab cakes and rampant street crime? Come to Maryland!

Massachusetts: We haven't burned witches in ages (only flags).

Michigan: Unemployed and proud!

Minnesota: The land of 10,000 lakes and one BIG ASS mall!

Mississippi: More S's per capita than any other state in the nation.

Missouri: It's only pronounced “Misery” if you have to live here, so just visit for a few days.

Montana: Helena is not Joe's wife. It's a real city, with people and buildings too!

Nebraska: We're obsessed with corn, because that's really all we have.

Nevada: We're not just hookers and gambling, we have other stuff too.

New Hampshire: It's just like Old Hampshire, but you know... newer.

New Jersey: Don't believe everything you hear, the whole state doesn't smell like raw sewage.

New Mexico: Take a right turn in Albuquerque.

New York: We keep the Jews in “The City”, and the hicks in the country. It works for us.

North Carolina: Do you know what a Tarheel is? Neither do we.

North Dakota: South Dakota can suck it, we're the “real” Dakota!

Ohio: Baseball is America's past time, but it's the only way to pass the time in Ohio.

Oklahoma: The best thing we can say about ourselves is, “We're OK.”

Oregon: Washington's Mexico.

Pennsylvania: We apologize for anything you experience in Philadelphia, we're working on that.

Rhode Island: Our state is 37 miles wide... in a row!

South Carolina: The 1st to secede, and still not ready to concede.

South Dakota: What did North Dakota say? Fuck those guys!

Tennessee: The Volunteer State. As in, nobody volunteers to live here.

Texas: Where everything is bigger, except hearts and brains.

Utah: No, you can't do that here.  Try Nevada.

Vermont: We have black people now!

Virginia: Mason Dixon is a state line and a state of mind.

Washington: We're Oregon's Canada!

West Virginia: Just like regular Virginia, but with less teeth.

Wisconsin: Our main interests are beer, cheese and sausage. We'd recommend lighting a match.

Wyoming: Most of our population is far less evil than Dick Cheney. We promise!

Saturday, October 1, 2011

Sin Trolls and the Hobgoblin Pub

As Newton once said; for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. The same thing rings true in the fantasy world. In the case of the fairy realm, this means that there must be promoters of the antithesis of the Seven Heavenly Virtues. I know them as the Trolls of the Seven Deadly Sins. They are as hideous as the fairies are fair. They are as ornery as the fairies are polite. And they are as sinful as the fairies are virtuous.

These trolls also have their yearly gathering during the late summer months. In preparation for that evening, they scour the Irish countryside capturing prisoners and pillaging their homes. These prisoners are subjected to two terrible things during the trolls’ annual gathering they refer to as “Open Mic Night at the Hobgoblin Pub.” First, they will be forced to endure the nastiest and most watered down libation the Irish allow. It is called Miller Lite. Second, they are subjected to hours of Open Mic poetry from the Trolls themselves. Troll poetry is known as the fourth worst in the universe. And according to the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Universe, “Vogon poetry is of course, the third worst in the universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria... and the very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator, Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Sussex, in the destruction of the planet Earth. Vogon poetry is mild by comparison.” Troll Poetry is more of a mesquite flavor, yet it is still not very palatable.

Last week’s Open Mic night was a resounding flop, and that is just how they like it. In some circles it is known as the Def Troll Jam. It is not to be confused with the Deaf Troll Jam -- which is far less excruciating for obvious reasons – or at least it should be obvious. There were trolls, ghouls, goblins, imps and even a orc stepping up to the microphone that night. Each of them had their own style and panache, but all had the purpose of propagating their particular specialty sin. Just as the fairies had done to their volunteers at the “Open House” just one week prior, this time the audience was being held captive rather than being captivated.

The first troll stepped up to the stage, with his puffed out chest, and a certain unearned air of confidence. The sound of the other six trolls snapping their calloused fingers surrounded the human onlookers. The Pride Troll fixed his moldy beret so it drooped over his one blood-shot eye and began,

“Mine eye has seen the glory of the coming of the mold
With scores of spores and decomposition in my fold
This hat loosened to keep out the lighting, bitterness and cold
Forsooth you can behold!”

The crowd struggled to maintain their composure, and writhed in their seats. Each word the Pride Troll spoke was more nauseating than the one prior. It took all their might to muster the energy not to vomit on one another (which would obvioulsy create an even more uncomfortable experience for all those in attendence).

Just as they regained their composure, the next troll sluggishly made its way to the stage. He was visibly slimy, and odiferously pungent. However, the smell and sight of him was quickly overtaken by the daftness of his words. The Gluttony Troll hocked up a varitable amount of phlegm, then swallowed it back down and proceeded to recite his piece.

“Troll love ice cream, like warts love toad
Troll love chocolate, and Pie a la mode
Troll eat ice cream, by the truckload
Troll love Moosetracks, fuck Rocky Road.”

The tears of the chair-bound audience members were similar to that of an overly emotional crowd – not unlike those who watch The Notebook or Fried Green Tomatoes – but this group was crying out of fear. It also may have been because they knew that there were five more speakers to go before they would finally be released. Without mercy, the third speaker stumbled toward the stage.

The Imp of Sloth begrudgingly made his way up the three-step stairway. He stopped on the second step to either take a undeserved break, or just as a ploy to further torment the captives. Either way, it took almost five minutes to complete the ascent and set up before he got on with the lyrical torture.

“Gurgle, gurgle... slurp
Slurp, slurp... gurgle

They wondered if the poem was inspired by the great beats poets like Ginsburg or Kerouac. That is until they realized the Imp wasn't actually writing poetry, but rather he was just dozing off on stage. After he was dragged off by his mangy tail in a unervingly Apollo-esque fashion, the show carried on. Much to the chagrin of those who were left to listen.

The Greed Goblin hungered for his turn in the spotlight. He soaked up the attention of the audience, and eagerly attempted to quell the hunger for overindulgence. He grasped the microphone and spoke slowly, coveting every last morsel of this opportunity.

“The seagull sits atop the productive pelican. Mine?
The hoarder sits atop their gathered goods. Find?
A millionaire swims in collected coins. Dime.
Yet I swim in my neverending want for more. Pine.”

The ears of the patrons had begun to bleed, and their nostrils were starting to flare uncontrollably. They knew that they weren’t even halfway there yet, but they were encouraged by the notion that after 42.857142857% of the show, they had yet to suffer any seemingly irreparable harm. They were also impressed with their math skills.

The encouragement dripped out of their psyches and was immediately replaced by fear and sickness. That was because they could feel the hot breath and smell the rotten flatulence of their next presenter. The Wrath Troll spoke of a vengence known not since the Biblical age, yet his poetry couldn't adequately illuminate his fury.

“Hey ghoul, where you goin' with club in your hand?
Hey ghoul, I said where you goin' with that club in your hand?
I'm going down to bludgen my ghoul lady
You know I caught her hauntin' around town with the boogie man.”

The audience laughed heartily, but the poem's intent was to frighten them, not entertain them. The Wrath Troll stayed true to his nature and smote all those who were caught mid-giggle.

As the crowd shivered and the injured tended to their wounds. The next “poet” thought back to each of the previous troll poets and what had made their poetry so good that they all got to go before him. He wanted to have all the ice cream, mold, clubs and onomatopoieas of which his predeccessors spoke. It was not lost on him that he was the Envy Orc. It was soon evident to the crowd as well.

Are you orcish-made, elvish-laid, or are you just tauren-footed?
Mutated you with a toughened hide, I never thought you couldn't.
Is that your orc, your troll friend or just your elf wench?
You can take my limbs, they be growin' again,
Regeneratin' the skin like my voodoo troll kin.
Now tell me who's your bridgekeeper, and what you keep 'neath your bridge?
What about damsels and billy goats, is that what you keep in your fridge?
What in the underworld is with that name, why you three got that name?
Trip-trap-trippin' you march, get up off of my arch,
I want you quenchin' my parch, but you're gettin' too large.”

After digesting the lyrics they were just forced to gobble up, they longed for a curling stone to bash in their own skulls or a spear to rupture their eardrums. Alas, all they were given was an intro to the final speaker. It was a bittersweet moment. Bitter, because they knew the worst was saved for last. Sweet, because they at least knew it was the last. The Lust Troll thrust himself into the spotlight, and made sour lyrical love to their auditory senses.
“One dreary Celtic night, after many a brew
I found myself shacked up with a horrible shrew
She had boils upon boils and a nose like a crane
And something indistinguishable entangled in her mane
Whence morning light came, I lept from the bed
Thinking of nothing but wanting her dead
With my stabby stick, I began to perforate her
She's not ripe for me yet, I'll be back for her later.”

It was finally over, and the captives were released from their restraints. They screamed as they ran, and ran as they continued to scream. Off into the Irish night air. It was a night they would never forget. Try as they might. It would take 1,000 fairy limericks to wash out the ear garbage that had been compacted into their minds that night at the Hobgoblin Pub. I hope the same can not be said for those reading this tonight. However, if that is the case, feel free to read the seven limericks from “Respect the Fairy” at least 143 more times.