Mercy! Mercy! That Dang Nabed PERCY!

Prose Poem

I felt wierd this morning and wrote a poem on dieting. Then I converted it to a prose poem.

Fatsos Don’t Get Laid

That’s the name of my diet. It sends a subliminal message to my brain, saying to my psyche, “The Reason I’m not being invited more often to the Kabooky dance is because my girth has become excessive. That if my body wants more of the ultimate pleasure, it will simply have to lose weight."

The little minions, who run my machine, will hopefully see this message and cry out, pounding their breasts in despair, “Me oh my.” (So I see them lamenting)… and it’s my duty to point out that the reason, “The true purpose in life,” is going unfulfilled, is all their fault. The weakness of unabated compulsion has upset the harmony of our physiology. Caloric intake has run amok, exceeding the fire in the furnace.

“Duh!” Minions are like computers. They do some really smart things but deep down they are dumb as rocks. You have to remind them, like a foolish wife, about the simple truths in life, before the light of unvarnished truth begins flickering in their dark souls. That’s the analogy of how it really is. Inside of our bodies, the minions are as a bunch of busy-bodied women who make things tidy as we sleep.

They’re the unborn children of the gender gene that was ignored, cast aside at birth, and left to wander the corridors of those forgotten dimensions in life. Alas the poor dears are seemingly forgotten… but not by me… Nooo indeed. When nature flipped the coin making me a man… (Gods be praised) I figured out what happened to the womanly part. She was cursed to a lifetime of minionship; sweeping up the insides as the chosen one slept peacefully. In the still of night I hear the “swish,” as she sweeps, makes up the beds, scrubs the floor and chases the cobwebs. I hear her groaning in my bowels; an odiferous task, while still others mend worn muscles, lubricate those nagging aches and pains, and darn callouse to the chafe of feet and hands. They are paid, (This is important, now pay attention) in the coin of pleasure…. That’s right pleasure, and their commonest pleasure is eating. They also enjoy the procreative pleasures but eating happens three times a day and ‘oft continues, unabated during the interludes.

However, the sweetest and most intense of delights is the joy of surcease, which comes less frequently. So the minions do plenty of eating and if somebody doesn’t point it out, they forget that getting fat makes them less open to the opportunities of, ”Guess what?” Why fewer and fewer of the opposite sex, decide to socialize… You know, come knocking at the door... flitting and flirting, buzzing around the flower. Seeking to titillate the blossom of desire and sprinkle some dew on “Miss Goodness Gracious;” perhaps to wave the wand of seduction and ride hard the saddle of bliss, into the sunset of eternity. Get the drift? So sad.

Thus I am posting this message on the bulletin board of my soul, where the minions congregate during their waking hours…. Giving gentle reminder that... if they expect to experience the ultimate pleasure, they need to exercise a little willpower and begin to limit what they eat. Hence, the “Fatso’s don’t get laid,” mantra. For my part I’ll set the example with one meal a day.

I’m calling it the Percy Goodfellow diet. It’s already working with the minions. Everyone has initialed the memo.