Totino’s, why dost thou mock me?

I have a sick love of Totino’s pizza rolls. Sick, I tells ya.

When I had my eye injury a few years back, Steve went to the store and laid in an industrial supply of pizza rolls. I would sit in the dark, sniffling, and eating pizza rolls.

A few days ago, we saw new pizza rolls. Mega pizza rolls. More pizza! More roll!

In reality, just more filling. More scalding filling that smooshes from the end with every bite. More tomato-like sauce on my shirt. A blister on the roof of my mouth.

I did not find them mega satisfying. Not that they mega sucked or anything. But they are not an improvement on the tried and true original pizza roll. Trust me.

There is a ripple in the space-time continuum!

Or, at least, a ripple in my monitor. Every once in a while, the screen ripples and dances, like a horse’s skin when a bluefly lands on it.

I assume this isn’t a good sign.

My brother used to work with TV tubes, and he would tell me of people dying because their TVs exploded, impaling them on the glass.

I can see the headline: “Killed by Blogging: What Should Be Done?”

I’ll be a cause celebre!

Now on the team

A couple of days ago, Cleveland acquired a young player by the name of Shin-Soo Choo.

I thought that after I heard it a few dozen times I would be able to pronounce Shin-Soo Choo.

But no.

I keep saying Shin-Shoo. Shin-Shoo Choo. Steve had me saying it right by saying, “Rhyme it with Ginsu!” Ginsu. Ginsu. Shinsu. Shinsu. And then a second later? Shin-Shoo Choo.

I also can’t say “free throw” or “rear-wheel drive.” I hope the Goodnight Show never has a poem about baseball, basketball, and a winter storm, or my goose is cooked.

There’s no IQ test for blogging is there?

I was toodling down the road, listening to the Indians lose, when a buzzing rattle started up. I turned the radio off. The buzzing went away. Ah, I think, it was static. Radio on. Buzz buzz. Radio off. Buzz buzz. Oh dear. Buzz buzz. Air conditioner off. The buzzing went away. Ah. Radio on. Buzz buzz. Wha? Buzz buzz. I bang the dashboard. Buzz buzz. I’m sweating. Radio off. Buzz buzz. Buzz buzz. Buzz buzz.

It was my phone.

And because I’m too stupid to shut up about it, I tell all of you!

Oh dear, now I’m a ~poet~

So, the proverbial cat is out of the bag and running around the room yowling.

My mother bought copies of pseudophakia and told my family. Of course, this is what I expected, but still. We had a family luncheon yesterday, and I was the talk of the room. Horrifying. I was squirming with discomfort.

I partake in a hobby, a pastime, a vocation, that embarrasses me. It felt as if I showed up for the luncheon naked. I really don’t want to get into in-depth conversations about my feelings about death. Well, online is fine. Face-to-face it feels like a conversation about my sex life. Danger, Will Robinson. Inappropriate! INAPPROPRIATE!

You know what else gives me the hinks the same way? Religion. I’ll talk about it on the internet, but as soon as someone brings religion up in person? I start sidling toward the door.

Kerboom

Well, despite good intentions, I have flamed out at Erato.

I was around for the beginning of the site, and it was a lot of fun. I think we were all a little giddy at having a place to talk metrical poetry, but it was approached with joy and humility. Then something happened.

I haven’t fit in there in a long time. I don’t believe meter and/or rhyme is better or worse than free verse, and the whole idea of writing empty vessels that happen to be able to be called “sonnets” bores the fuck out of me.

Back to poetry on the blog exclusively, I think.