Just Four Friggin’ Lines is a
daily, workweek, pretty random, mostly reliable series for people who have the attention span of a goldfish with Alzheimer’s. People who have to cram their verse in between tweezing and waxing. Or mowing, as the case may be. There’s no judgment here; after all, it’s Just Four Friggin’ Lines. You and your monobrow are welcome.
Read, enjoy, share and contribute your own four-liner in the Comments below. I triple dog dare you. Do it or I’ll give you a noogie. C’mon, it’s Just Four Friggin’ Lines!
Follow Miss Snarky Pants on Instagram at dinsworth or on Twitter @CristyCLewis.
Just Four Friggin’ Lines is a new, daily* poetry series by Miss Snarky Pants – okay, it’s the only poetry series, unless you count my Big Bang Theory Haiku – written especially for people who like their poetry the way they like their flu shots: fast and painless. This might not be Shakespeare, but it’s Just Four Friggin’ Lines.
*Daily, meaning Monday through Friday. Someone has to binge-watch Netflix on the weekends. What if they went out of business? You’d be wishing I’d taken the weekends off then and focused on helping poor, little Netflix, wouldn’t you? Think of it as a public service. That’s the lie I tell myself – and it works AMAZEBALLS.
Just Four Friggin’ Lines is 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.
One by one, as states legalize medical marijuana and/or decriminalize the possession of weed, more and more studies are being conducted and published which support the argument that pot is the very least of our worries, particularly when compared to the scions of legal addiction: alcohol, tobacco and Game of Thrones. In fact, a recent study published in Scientific Reports found that alcohol, in particular, is more lethal than heroin, cocaine, MDMA and crystal meth. This doesn’t mean you should stock up on Sudafed, don your Walter White hat and whip up a batch of Blue Sky. Meth still makes you look like this:
However, you may want to consider a move to, oh, I don’t know, Denver. Why? Because in states like Chillin’ Colorado and Wasted Washington, both of which legalized the recreational use of cannabis in 2014, the crime rates have plummeted; in fact, Denver has seen violent crimes like homicide, rape and assault steadily decline since Colorado legalized marijuana and not a single case of “reefer madness” has yet to be diagnosed. Nor have the residents of the country’s thinnest state been overcome by the munchies and succumbed to double digit dress sizes. What has increased is Colorado’s tax revenue – to the tune of $53 million in less than a year.
Alcohol, the big winner when it comes to killing its users, causes approximately 88,000 deaths per year in the U.S. alone. Tobacco use buries another 48,000 Americans every year. Weed, on the other hand, is only responsible for…well, no documented deaths. Ever. Zero. Zip. Nada. Nein. In fact, a 1998 DEA report states that the lethal dose of THC, the active ingredient in marijuana, is between 20,000 and 40,000 times the amount of THC contained your average joint. There are much easier ways to kill yourself. Snoop Dogg’s apparently been trying for years – and despite smoking a self-professed “81 blunts a day” – he’s still here. Physically, anyway.
So if weed isn’t the problem, with its non-existent death rate and low addiction potential – only 4% to 9% of users may become dependent vs. 15% of Happy Hour fans – what is? What seemingly harmless things lurk in your life, lulling you into a sense of security, only to pounce when you least expect it? And KILL you!
1. Bed sheets
In 2009, 717 people died in the U.S. after being strangled by their bed sheets while they slept. Terrifying, huh? It is until you consider that, the year before, over 800 people in the U.S. were murdered by their bed linens. No word on if the suspect bed sheets were of a lower thread count or merely infused with the rage that comes with being left unmade for days at a time. These numbers also don’t take into account those who have been killed by someone wearing a bed sheet – as a hood.
2. Fishing boats
For those who brazenly partake in the act of angling while in a fishing boat, playing Captain Ahab could be a deadly pursuit. With 108 deaths attributed to drowning after falling overboard between 1999 and 2010, those who endeavor to catch Moby Dick might consider donning a life jacket, learning to swim, or, smartest of all, engaging in a safer hobby like, say, selling sketches of Mohammed in Texas. The worst part about the menace that are fishing boats is that you don’t even have to be fishing. You could be a hapless passenger, vomiting up chum for God-knows-what swimming in the depths below you, and fall over the side of the boat because of these unpredictable, bumpy things called waves.
Hence the mantra: A bad day fishing is better than a good day working. Unless you drown. In which case, a bad day binge-watching Sons of Anarchy is better than a good day working.
I know, I know. It’s not fair to include wheelchairs when many of their owners aren’t just knocking at Death’s door, but are complaining that there isn’t a ramp leading up to it. However, I’m not talking about people who die in their wheelchairs, but as a direct result of falling out of their wheelchairs, and the numbers are pandemic-worthy. With wheelchairs slaughtering their owners at a rate of over 4,000 per year in the U.S. alone, it’s surprising that wheelchair seat belts and airbags aren’t required by law. Hell, the wheelchair-bound would be better off scooting around in Smart cars; at least they’re kitten-licking-a-sleeping-dog-cute and come with air conditioning. And considering Smart cars don’t even make the Top Ten Cars Most Likely To Kill You List, they’re a much safer, albeit obviously hipster, alternative.
With flat panel televisions exponentially increasing in size every few months and dominating American living rooms like monobrowed moais on Easter Island, it’s not surprising to discover they often tip and fall over, particularly if you’re raising a budding gymnast, own a cat, or your husband didn’t know what to do with all those “extra screws” that came with the wall mount kit. Despite the pervasive belief that “TV rots your brain,” the 215 folks who were killed by boob tubes between 2000 and 2011 didn’t kick the bucket as a result of cerebral deterioration caused by binge-watching too many episodes of Sons of Anarchy (when they should have been working), but were, for the most part, flattened by their idiot boxes, which, it turns out, were aptly named.
5. Your Feet
When tripping is involved, LSD needn’t be. In fact, your feet are usually the guilty culprits, if not conspirators with uneven sidewalks and yappy dogs on leashes. Statistics indicate that a whopping 7,160 deaths are attributed to people toppling over their own feet. Perhaps your feet have it out for you, ladies – you who insist on squeezing your bunioned toes into pointy stilettos and trotting around like Lipizzan stallions, all while complaining that your feet are killing you. Can you blame your Louboutins for living up to the nasty reputation you’ve spread about them? Bitches, the red on those soles ain’t paint – it’s your blood.
Note to self: Buy some Birkenstocks, get a pedicure and tell my toesies woesies how much I love them.
Twenty Americans are moodered by bovines each year, but let’s not milk this statistic to death. Cows are large, sturdy and, apparently, udderly dense, animals. In fact, an adult cow can weigh more than two sides of beef. There’s a reason no one goes cow tipping alone. It’s a three frat boy job, easy. And, sometimes, those drunken, beefed-up collegiates confuse the words push and pull. And left and right. And yes and get the fuck off me, you scumbag!
And if you’re thinking, “Wait, I’m smarter than a frat boy. Cows only kill trashed young men with privileged backgrounds and a fondness for beer pong and Greek letters,” you’re wrong. In 2013, a Brazilian man was killed when a cow wandered onto the roof of his home, courtesy of an adjacent steep hill, causing the roof to collapse. Clarabelle plummeted eight feet onto the sleeping Joao Maria de Souza, who later died of internal injuries. Neither de Souza’s wife, who was in bed next to him, nor the cow, sustained any harm.
Approximately 15 people are killed – and thousands injured – each year by falling icicles. Ever open your crowded freezer, only to have a package of frozen chicken breasts slip out and land on your bare foot? If you have, you know from that point forward, chicken breasts will be forever known by the name Motherfucker! If you haven’t, you either have an incredibly well-organized freezer or your feet are always encased in steel-toed combat boots. Now imagine that the chicken weighs up to a hundred pounds or more, is falling from a tremendous height and is shaped like a dagger. Oh, and there’s an entire row of these frozen bayonets and they’re all pointed at your skull. I suggest a helmet or a move to Florida.
If you insist on remaining in the Land of Sharp, Dangling Objects, be careful around those little fuckers. They’ll poke your eye out, kid.
Southwestern Vermont Healthcare thinks lawnmowers are so dangerous, they dedicated an entire web page to an article entitled, Cutting the Lawn: Don’t Become An Injury Statistic. The piece, written by an orthopedic physician, cites an average of 75 deaths attributed to the Spinning Blades of Death on Wheels each year. Apparently, lawnmower blades rotate with the force of a .357 magnum. What’s more, those blades won’t just eat through your bones like butter, they’ll leave a lot of bacteria-laden crap behind: dirt, grass, insect parts, and some gum I dropped. Yes, save a couple seats at the hospital bar for E. coli and salmonella.
Major league pitchers look like pussies when compared to a lawnmower, which can shoot debris like stones, twigs, and dried dog poop at speeds of up to 200 m.p.h. Considering the fastest pitchers clock in at around half that speed, I’d say it’s best to go inside while Hubby’s cutting the grass. Someone’s gotta be there for the children.
Worse is that approximately 800 kids get mowed down every year. Again, another good reason to allow your children to become addicted to cable television (just don’t let ’em sit too close to that wobbly telly). Outside is dangerous. For those of you who have combed your yard for potential projectiles and locked the kiddies in their rooms, don’t get too comfortable. Remember, lawnmowers are filled with gasoline. They can randomly overheat and explode. Now go inside and start dialing lawn services – like any sane person.
While new studies indicate a promising future for the use of cannabis in treating myriad diseases and health conditions – the NIH has already patented cannabinoids as potential neuroprotectants – one thing is relatively certain: Marijuana + Adolescent Brains = One Hot Mess. Studies suggest that regular marijuana use prior to one’s 21rst year can permanently affect brain development, impacting memory, impulse control, balance and coordination. Yes, marijuana can affect a growing boy’s Legend of Zelda score – and not in a good way. What’s more, teens who regularly hang with Mary Jane may see up to an 8 point drop in their I.Q. Forever. Yes, pot can also make you stupid. So, kids, if you’re reading this, wait until you’re 21. As Forrest Gump would say, “Stupid is as stupid does.” And let’s face it, some of you can’t afford to get any dumber.
Miss Snarky Pants is a humor and satire blog. And no, I don’t sell weed, so no creepy comments asking if I can score you some wicked herb. Okay?
Now, what size did you want that frappuccino?
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.
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.
If you enjoyed this Miss Snarky Pants post, you may also like these:
Plus, follow this blog (use the blue button in the right hand column) and/or share it with your blogging besties!
A Stupid Butterfly Poem
Clipped between the window pane
and the screen,
two monarch wings
lay at wicked angles,
dusted with the world that passed
since they last beat
beat beat beat beat beat beat beat.
Against the scraping mesh.
Against the July-baked glass.
Against the sun.
I wondered how it happened,
how this fluttering wisp was trapped,
a cage on one side,
an impenetrable wall on the other.
Did its heart pound with more ferocity
than the slamming of its body –
its spindly, black legs as useless as dangling threads,
against its invisible warden.
Was it an unintended kidnapping,
or did some brute chortle,
watching the aching wings slam against the hot screen?
My disappointment in Humanity hung
thick and heavy as the humidity.
It was then that I noticed the screen
gaping away from the window.
Only inches of freedom to me, but acres to one
who fits in my palm.
– Miss Snarky Pants
If you enjoyed this blog post, you might also like these:
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.
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!”
Miss Snarky Pants is a humor and satire blog. Enjoyed this post? Share it with your friends.