Just Four Friggin’ Linesis a new daily, poetry series penned by Miss Snarky Pants. Afraid to make a commitment or intimidated by sonnets that have the nerve to go on for fourteen lines? That’s not an issue here – because it’s Just Four Friggin’ Lines!
Go ahead; follow me. Leading is exhausting, isn’t it? Take a break. It’s Just Four Friggin’ Lines.
If you prefer your low-commitment verse on Instagram, check MSP out @dinsworth.
Just Four Friggin’ Lines is a new poetry series I’m writing for the lovely people who don’t have time to read my longer humorous, satirical, political or just-plain-indulgent-and-confessional posts. It’s poetry. Written in less than a few minutes, then printed out and photographed – so you know I didn’t come back and tinker with it later. It’s not meant to change the world or even be any good. The poems may be serious, funny, observational, lyrical, raw or bleak. But it’s my way of saying hello and, most importantly, it’s Just Four Friggin’ Lines.
This is number one.
Follow…so you don’t miss out.
Miss Snarky Pants is – usually- a humor and satire blog. Apparently, we’re branching into poetry, for no apparent reason. Deal with it. It’s JUST FOUR FRIGGIN’ LINES.
1. If one is the loneliest number, I suspect seven is Homecoming Queen. 3.14159265359 is Most Likely to Be Irrational and Transcendental. And sixty-nine is annoyed that everyone keeps trying to stick a misogynistic label to her perky breasts.
2. Ever wonder if Jesus might have just been a really good magician? Thank you, my disciples. Now for my next trick, I shall turneth thy water into a full-bodied Merlot. Or my blood. Just kidding. No, it’s my blood.
3. Is it just me or does the word “feces” sound like a pharaoh’s name? It’s probably just me.
4. I miss Pluto. What’s up with these astronomers suddenly downgrading Pluto from planet to dwarf planet. (And yes, I realize this happened in 2006. I’ve been catching up on my reading.) That’s not even PC. Shouldn’t Pluto be referred to as a little people planet? And what about the mnemonic device I used to remember the planets’ names in order? My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine makes no sense without the big finish: Pizzas. Frankly, I think we should all be wearing black and sitting shiva. It’s only been nine years and everyone’s over it, like we weren’t lied to since second grade science class. I blame Neil deGrasse Tyson.
5. Why doesn’t everyone double-knot their laces? I mean, why risk an untied shoe when you don’t have to? Seems like there should be a law.
6. Since snakes come in every color but purple, shouldn’t garden hoses only come in purple? Otherwise, we’re just torturing ourselves every time we walk in our yards and are accosted by garden hoses impersonating snakes.
7. Maybe people with minimalist, modern homes aren’t classy and restrained, but too poor to buy dust-covered chotchkies. And maybe their furniture is comfortable.
8. What’s up with all the confusion about the words gender and sexual preference? When did anyone write “gay” in the gender box on an application?
9. Schools no longer teach children how to write in cursive. Ha! I know more than a fifth-grader. Finally. But they don’t carry around the pain of losing Pluto.
10. The other day, I told someone on FB that he was “missing a sensitivity chip.” You know I’m pissed when I start quoting Jennifer Aniston. Steal her husband and she turns into a beast with words as her fangs.
Miss Snarky Pants is a humor and satire blog. If you don’t get it, you should move along quietly or be mocked.
Meet Judy Smith. She is one of my blogging buddies who has become very dear to me because of her warmth, humor, kindness, generosity and optimism. I consider her a real, true friend, and I’m so excited that she is branching out in her writing in a wonderful, creative and sassy way that is hilarious and uplifting, without being saccharine and nauseating. I plan to follow along and find out what happens, so take this journey with me….
Here we go … Every woman’s response to “We’re having a party.”
Mashes the buzzer! … What is “I have nothing to wear?”
Casino Night is looming on the horizon, a dress-up affair at Abe & Jake’s Landing, significant because friends are hosting and it will potentially benefit other friends. I’m slated to give a speech but I have NOTHING TO WEAR so I’m not too pumped about the whole thing.
Enter my friends Adam and Seth, armed with knowledge from every episode of What Not to Wear, Project Runway, their own impeccable taste, et.al. A shopping date is set for the following week, beginning with a lunch of salad and wine. Thus fortified we hit the stores, fearless and ready to incite terror on both sides of the street. A saleswoman whispers to me early on, “These guys are making me nervous.”
I now have this thing called a waist. I know; I had to look it up, too. Apparently, this phenomena occurs when deposits of fat suddenly disappear like Christians before Armageddon, leaving you with two curved dents between your lower ribs and hip bones. Having only observed this waist thingie from afar, I’ve always likened it to a mythical creature captured only on blurry video. A Yeti. The Lochness Monster. J.D. Salinger.
And thanks to the miracle that are high-waisted, skinny jeans – the moment I tried on my first pair, I believed in Jesus all over again – my muffin top, if not completely gone, is tucked snugly into my waistband.
A few friends have noticed my new, slimmer figure, but many have been distracted by my hair, which is growing at an alarming rate for someone who isn’t imprisoned in a tower. Combine that with my new waist, and I now have two whole things in common with Gisele Bundchen.
Yesterday, I was donning one of my standard chubby girl dresses to wear to my husband’s office cocktail party…and it was too big. Everywhere. I knew I’d lost some weight. My tees were begin to hang away from my body, rather than cling to my muffin top like cinnamon glaze. Each week, I’ve had to bore a new hole into my belt so that I don’t look like a lank-haired, wanna-be rapper, holding up my jeans with one hand as I lope down the sidewalk. That realization began what I call The Dress Frenzy. Which dresses fit me now? Which ones are too big? Which ones can I donate to Sea World? I slipped on one after the other and, at no point, did I feel like a sausage. It was like Christmas in July…mostly because it is, in fact, July.
For the past two years, my packed dress closet has been virtually ignored, with the exception of a few frocks towards the front, all of which are stretchy, Empire-waisted numbers that have each garnered me myriad versions of the question: So when are you due? When I stepped out in a coral and white, fitted, sleeveless dress last night, I felt fierce. Sasha Fierce fierce. All I needed was a wind machine and some blonde hair extensions, and I was ready to march on stage and rip Jay Z a new asshole.
At one point during the evening, one of my husband’s co-workers asked me what I was doing to lose weight. “Nothing,” I answered truthfully. Hubby and I did move ourselves – and our 17,000 books – into a new place a month ago, so I did engage in quite a bit of exercise for a few weeks, but the weight continues to creep off, pound by pound, day by day. In retrospect, I should have answered, “Cancer.” Or maybe, “Tapeworms.”
“Have you been watching what you eat?” the co-worker asked. Yes, I’ve been watching what I eat. In fact, I stare at my food quite intently as it leaves the plate, balanced on a fork, heading for my mouth. For example, this week I’ve seen beef and potatoes, macaroni and cheese, nachos, freezer pizzas, brownies and candied bacon. Last night, as I was pouring myself a glass of milk before bed, I noticed the brownies, stacked like chocolate bricks of poo in a plastic storage container in the fridge. I told myself, “I’m going to pass on that brownie,” as I closed the refrigerator door. About fifteen minutes later, I decided to make good on that promise – and I passed on that brownie. I passed it on to my stomach and it’s currently lodged somewhere in my intestinal tract.
The other night, my husband asked, “What’s that dark stuff on your face?” I figured it must have been that crappy mascara I’ve been using or maybe stray brownie crumbs.
“Where?” I asked. “Under my eyes or around my mouth?”
“Neither,” Hubby replied. “Under your cheeks.”
I rubbed both cheeks vigorously with the heels of my palms. “Is it gone?”
“Nope, it’s still there.” Hubby’s forehead furrowed with concern.
I dashed to the bathroom, curious about what could possibly cause my husband to look serious, and ogled my reflection in the mirror. After a moment, I figured out what merited Hubby’s worry. Returning to the living room, I flopped down on the sofa.
“The dark stuff is still there,” Hubby said.
“I know,” I answered. “They’re called shadows. I have cheekbones now.”
Yes, I have THREE things in common with Gisele. And one thing in common with actor, Benedict Cumberbatch, now that I think of it. No, wait. We’re all tall. FOUR things in common with the Brazilian supermodel and TWO with the best Sherlock since ever.
Granted, Gisele’s waist is tinier, her hair is lusher and longer, and her cheekbones could be used to saw all the lumber necessary to build a log cabin McMansion, but I can already see myself on the cover of Sports Illustrated. In the pages of a Victoria’s Secret catalog. Married to a football player. Smug about an effortless beauty I did nothing to earn. Smugger about all things motherhood even though I’ve only been one for five hot minutes.
Whaaaat? Wait a sec. I hate football. I dig for my lingerie in the 70% off sale bin at Macy’s; if any of it matches, it’s by coincidence, not by design. Certainly, I don’t stand around posing in it. I’m no breeder and I don’t aspire to rank just below Gwyneth Paltrow on the Most-Out-of-Touch-Celebrity-Ever Meter. I’d rather have four things in common with John Green or Elizabeth Warren or Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg or Harper Lee. C’mon, Tom Brady has got to be the most boring slice of white bread on earth. Just thinking about him makes me nod off.
Still…I have a waist, cheekbones and two things in common with Benedict Cumberbatch.
And, probably, not a tumor.
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Copyright 2014 by C.C.L. and Miss Snarky Pants. All rights reserved. This is my poem. I wrote it. It is my property. Do not reproduce without my written consent or I will write a stupid poem about you and how you steal stupid poems.
Cliven Bundy, the Nevada rancher whose armed protesters recently forced U.S. Bureau of Land Management agents to withdraw during an attempt to herd and impound Bundy’s cattle, which are illegally grazing on federally-protected lands, has come up with a new tactic to deter future attempts by agents: newborn kittens.
Former Arizona sheriff, Richard Mack was, reportedly, the mastermind behind decision to put women on the front lines, in the event that a “rogue” federal agent opened fire at last weekend’s Bundy protest, which involved close to 1,000 people, including armed members of Operation Mutual Aid, a non-government sanctioned militia.
“We were actually strategizing to put all the women up at the front,” Mack told Fox News. “If they are going to start shooting, it’s going to be women that are going to be televised all across the world getting shot by these rogue federal officers.”*
“If they’re going to start killing people,” Mack told radio host, Ben Swann, “I’m sorry, but to show the world how ruthless these people are, women needed to be the first ones shot. I’m sorry, that sounds horrible. I would have put my own wife or daughters there, and I would have been screaming bloody murder to watch them die.”**
When Mack was asked if he thinks putting women on the front lines would deter federal agents in the future, he responded, “No, we’ve played that card. We’ve asked Bundy’s supporters to bring kittens next time.” He explained that the plan is to attach cameras – connected to live YouTube feeds – to the newborns’ heads. The kittens will then be placed on the front lines, with the children and women behind them. “If a rogue agent takes a shot,” Mack said, “America will be watching kitten heads explode on the Internet.”
Mack further revealed that discussions originally included: playful otters in a tank, cute pandas, baby chicks and bunny rabbits.
In a related story, Richard Mack’s wife, Barbara, hastily filed for divorce this morning in Arizona, citing “irreconcilable differences.” She is seeking sole custody of the couple’s daughters.
**Also, an actual quote.
Miss Snarky Pants is a humor and satire blog for horrible people.
Miss Snarky Pants loves kittens. You should share this post because everyone loves kittens. Or photos of kittens. Or those really short videos of kittens that repeat over and over again. I don’t know what those are called, but, sometimes, they’re funny. Anyway, share this on FB and Twitter or on all those hipster sites I’m not cool enough to know about. If people like the post, they’ll remember that it was YOU who shared it.
This winter, Miss Snarky Pants had a migraine for four months. Writing – and worse, editing – with a headache that lasts longer than a session of Congress is a hell reserved for someone much worse than myself (no, really, there’s this guy in Omaha), so I thought I’d spare you (but, mostly, me) the misery. Instead, I focused on my new, erm, hobby: Snarky Threads!
I know. Who gets a mega migraine and ends up with a hobby? Handwork, like cutting and embroidering, is incredibly soothing – and doesn’t require the intense constant thought that writing demands, except during the initial design process. I’d begun playing with the idea of working with wool felt and creating high-quality, but funky, fun designs – products I wanted to see in stores…but wasn’t. Day of the Dead. Steampunk. Whovian. Nerd chic.
All the work is completely hand-done – the cutting, the embroidery, the beading, the felt flowers – so it’s not a quick process, but every piece is a new adventure. I use high-quality 20% and 35% wool felt for the base pillows, which is much softer and durable than the craft felt you made ugly things out of when you were a kid. C’mon, they were ugly. The pom pom and felt panda bear ornaments I made in Girl Scouts looked like interracial snowmen with testicular cancer.
Take a peek at some of my designs and let me know what you think.
Unless you hate them. In that case, move along. Nothing to see here. This is not the Comment Box you’re looking for.
P.S. All photos are the exclusive property of Miss Snarky Pants. :)
P.S.S. Now comment away. I can’t wait to hear what you guys think of my little endeavor.
FT. LEE, NJ – Copies of personal emails between Chris Christie and his former Deputy Chief of Staff, Bridget Anne Kelly, were released to several media outlets today, in which the Governor directs Kelly to “f*ck [sic] with that black kid, the one from the rally,” now identified as Ft. Lee second grader, Nate Hoffman. “Plant some pot in his locker or something,” Christie directed Kelly.
Kelly’s immediate email response: “Governor, he’s eight. He doesn’t have a locker.”
“I don’t care. No calls me Christie Pisstie, anymore, and gets away with it,” Christie replied minutes later. “Aren’t his parents those D-word, organic farmers who refused to let us put a billboard on their property? F*ckin’ hippies.”
“I’m not going to stash marijuana in his [Nate Hoffman’s] desk,” Kelly wrote back, explaining that buying pot would be “illegal, and I’m just not willing to do that.”
After Christie asked Kelly what she proposed, Kelly replied that their investigation into the Hoffman family indicated that Nate is “autistic and attends a private, special needs school in the city. He can become agitated when trapped in a car or any small, enclosed space for long periods of time.”
After Kelly rejected Christie’s suggestion that “someone rig the elevator at Hoffman’s school” as too dangerous to other students, she proposed, via email, “Why don’t we just conduct a traffic study and close a few lanes of the George Washington Bridge all next week?”
Christie responded, “During the first week of school? On 9/11? I love it when you talk dirty like that. Make it happen.”
The boy’s mother, Diane Hoffman, confirmed that “some Christie thug” visited their farm and questioned her about an incident that had occurred a week prior at a Barbara Buono rally. “I explained that my son is autistic. He wasn’t shouting, Christie Pisstie; he was hollering, Kristy Pisstie, because his little sister is named Kristy and she had just wet her pants.” When the man asked if her son had a vendetta against Governor Christie, Hoffman said, ” I told him that my son thinks the President is DJ Lance Rock. Unless Chris Christie is on Yo Gabba Gabba!, he’s not on my son’s radar.”
Hoffman’s father, Marcus, who drives his son to school every morning, is “infuriated” that the Governor would exact this kind of revenge upon a young, innocent child – all because of perceived name-calling. “Nate screamed for nearly three hours straight that morning,” he said. “Three hours in a Prius. My right ear has been ringing non-stop since September 11th.”
In an ironic twist, the Hoffmans decided to keep their son home until the lane closures ended, so Christie’s target “got the week off of school, and spent most of his free time watching Nickelodeon and playing games on his Xbox,” while thousands of drivers were forced to sit in traffic for hours each day, and local emergency services were severely impacted.
In response to the release of these emails, Governor Christie issued a statement, which reads, in part, “I’m thrilled that the Hoffmans have confirmed what I’ve been saying all along: Mayor Sokolich wasn’t on my radar screen.”
While the Ft. Lee family haven’t, yet, contemplated legal action, when asked how he thought Governor Christie should be punished for his actions, Marcus Hoffman said, “I think Christie should have to spend a weekend with Nate. In a Smart car. In bumper-to-bumper traffic. Windows up, motherf*cker!”
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