When I put your heart in a cage like a bird, I am keeping it from flying away… away…
When I put your heart in a cage like a bird, I am protecting it from the cat’s claws.
When I put your heart in a cage like a bird, I can hear it sing to the breaking dawn.
When I put your heart in a cage like a bird, I can take it to the doctor when it is sick.
When I put your heart in a cage like a bird, I am keeping it from shitting on my furniture.
Tag: valentine
Sleep on the couch
Ever get in a fight and have to sleep on the couch?
Yeah, it happens all the time to me.
But it’s not my fault. Really.
There I am, in bed, minding my own business, and a fight breaks out.
It wasn’t me. I didn’t start it.
But I get dragged into it, and the next thing I know, I’m having to sleep on the couch.
Isn’t the bed big enough?
Did I snore or cut a really bad fart?
No.
I wish the damn cats would get along and stop fighting on the bed while I’m trying to sleep.
Dividing Things Up
Breaking up is hard to do.
Dividing up the furniture, all the stuff.
It used to be you could just sort out the book and record collections, but Amazon and iTunes make that a pain in the ass.
And then there’s the friends.
How do you divide up the friends?
Doctor Odd suggested cloning them, but that’s a hassle, too.
Who gets the clone? Who gets the original?
So he’s experimenting with quantum universes. A universe exactly the same.
But without you. And you’ll go to one without me.
Which solves the book and record collection issues, too, I guess.
Shower Her Out
You washed her out of your hair and down the drain.
But she’s back.
And she’s wrapping herself around friend after friend, whispering in their ears.
Sweet nothings. Worth nothings.
Preying on their loneliness
and fear
and greed
and all the things in her that made you get out the wire brushes and the borax…
SCRUB SCRUB SCRUB!
Can’t they see the bullshit for themselves?
Can’t they hear the bullshit for themselves?
What the fuck is wrong with them?
No, it’s not you. It’s them. It’s all of them.
They’ll wake up.
They’ll figure her out.
They’ll see. Eventually. Eventually.
Seven Brides For Seven Monsters
It all started when Victor Frankenstein made his monster.
The monster got lonely, so he made a bride for the monster.
But the bride was way too hot for the monster, so he kept her for himself.
This pissed off the monster, so he made another hottie just for him.
But this new hottie was even hotter than the bride, so he kept her as a mistress.
“So, about the monster…”
No way, said the bride.
“Threesome?”
No.
All this time, the villagers sat around with their pitchforks and torches, far too amused at Victor’s shenanigans to storm the castle.
Ignorance Is Wedded Bliss
Igor found her body in a chair, poison in one hand and a note in the other.
“Victor
I remember now.
I know what kind of monster you are.
Please, no more experiments. Burn my corpse.”
Instead, Victor found her diary, and burned the note with it.
Flushing the poison was difficult, but the rejuvenation formula not only replaced the contaminated blood, but neutralized all toxins.
They laid her out on the table and hooked up the wires.
Once again, the electricity would cause temporary amnesia.
Two months? Three?
“Isn’t love grand?” said Igor.
Victor nodded, and threw the switch.
Backwards and in Heels
Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, but backwards and in heels.
Absolutely everything. Just like that Benjamin Button fellow, she aged backwards.
At first, she needed makeup and pain pills to match her dance partner’s youth and speed, but over time, her body loosened up, and her wrinkles faded.
Oh, how radiant they were, Ginger’s bright face, shining like a starlet’s, gazing into Fred’s eyes.
Younger… younger… then, the audiences got suspicious, so the makeup boys came back in to turn forward the clock.
They looked back and laughed, Fred wheezing heavily, and Ginger as giddy as a schoolgirl.
The Elegant Elephant
The Elegant Elephant
Dons his top hat
Puts on a tuxedo
Gives his wallet a pat
“Where are the tickets
To the opera?” he thinks
”Are they lost? Are they gone
If they are, well, that stinks”
”They’re at the box office”
Says his wife, heaving sighs
”I knew that, I knew that”
The old elephant lies
His wife says “You’re senile
Or maybe you’re drunk
If it weren’t attached
You’d forget your trunk!”
“How do I look?”
“I think you look fine.”
She gives him a stare.
“I mean, you look simply divine.”
And they had a good time.
The Divorce of Figaro
Did you know that Mozart wrote a sequel to The Marriage Of Figaro?
It’s called The Divorce Of Figaro.
A year after the chaotic wedding day, Figaro is lamenting his crazy.
Seductions and singing.
Feasts and fancy.
Subterfuge and plots.
The Count and The Countess are on the rocks, too. The entire mansion is a wreck, every treasure having been smashed against walls in endless fighting.
The four take their fighting to the street, and they bump into each other.
They end up divorcing, The Count marries Figaro, and the curtain comes down.
A good story, but the music sucked.
You may now kiss the… WHAT?
I got married in Vegas eleven years ago.
It was a small ceremony. Friends and family.
And a preacher who was drunk out of his fucking mind.
He stumbled and slurred his way through the ceremony, and he couldn’t stop staring down the Maid Of Honor’s dress.
Then, at the end, he said “You may now kiss the bridge.”
“Don’t you mean bride?” I asked.
But by then, he was passed out, and I thought I smelled gas, so we all ran for it before a spark could blow us all to Kingdom Come.
What about the bridge?
Tasted… rusty.