By Mason Johnson
When I first heard of the man who butt-dialed police while he was conducting a drug deal, I thought to myself, “Wait. You can use phones to make calls?”
What? In between tweeting pictures of the expressions I make while sitting on the toilet and reading missed connections, I forgot you can make calls with cell phones.
Sometimes I even write missed connections while on the toilet, but let’s not spread that around too much.
Moving along, some people wrote poems this week. Unlike previous weeks, I stuck to my word and only picked three to publish. They are below. My comments are italicized below the poems. Also, you may have noticed the awesome illustration to the right. It’s helpful. Thanks, Meghan Rock, for creating it!
Freedom by Beach Sloth
But for a butt dial I would be free
But for a butt I would be free
Damn my butt to the annals of Hell!
May it burn with an odious sulfurous smell!
A+ — Oh. A fart joke. How original, Beach Sloth. Why dontchya grow up?
the butt that wanted to discuss astronomy (a smart phone sandwiched between butt and infinite foam and springs) by Michael O’Brien
the butt is lonely on the outside
the phone wants to be a computer
on a space station
the car seat is indifferent
the butt wants to talk about
a video it had watched on youtube
discussing the possibility of an invisible planet
beyond the kuiper belt
the butt has no way of talking
it has no way of knowing this
like the petals on a daisy
and endlessly ignorant to talking
it shim shimmies
pressing the phone down into the seat
it likes the sound of the keypad tones
a voice booms
the butt sweats with excitement
A+ — Never before have I felt more like a butt than this moment. This one here. This moment. The one we’re having right now. Together.
When I was born my father looked down across my tiny blue expanse and said This child will cover the world someday. They nurtured my fibers and sent me to school, taught me how to fight to get the most from each spool. But fighting = lonely, no friends. They laughed at my largeness and called me ocean ears. I cried and wiped the tears against the softness of my arm. When I dried I was smaller and I was happy. So I cried and cried so I could be happier.
My parents lost faith and one night brought me to the back of a giant Used Stuff place and left me. I cried. I met an old duvet who told lots of dirty jokes. I laughed; I laughed so hard I cried… and became even smaller. They marked me down. That made me sad and I cried. A kindly lady comforter warned me with her voice quiet and fearful if I became any smaller I would be discarded.
I watched how the afghans brightened when customers walked by and then were taken home. On a cold Saturday in January, Man and Lady came and took me, an angry sham hissing out It’s only because you’re so cheap! That made me sad and… yeah. I could barely cover their sagging double mattress. Every night was a battle; I would puddle down across Man’s feet and stretch my right arm up high to the small of Lady’s back. I was never enough for her; she cursed at him, tore at me constantly.
Last night all was peaceful and then Man rolled over and Lady jumped up and grabbed his throat. He was choking and coughing and I was trying to climb up her back so I could wrap around her neck and pull her off when the door exploded and large men with funny hats and shiny badges burst in and took her. The whole rest of the night I spent snuggled against his ear, whispering take me… leave her… take me… leave her… take me…
*apologies to David Tomaloff: “A Woman’s Shoe, An Empty Bottle, A Sextant Box”
A+ — Best Brave Little Toaster fan-fiction I’ve ever read.
Before this article, I was certain I would never get tired of the word “butt” — it’s never NOT funny.
Am I tired now?
No. I will never tire of butt.
Anyway! I can’t do this without more poems. Send me yours. They can be based off ANY CBS article. You can find the full Submission Guidelines here. Remember, no poem is too stupid. In fact, stupid is preferred.