Just Four Friggin' Lines is a poetry series for people who insist on listening with their eyes. And in honor of those who scribble verses like sleezy phone numbers on their palms and wrists, I bleed Just Four Friggin' Lines of ink. Are you hemorrhaging words? Share your four lines in the Comments below and stop… Continue reading Just Four Friggin’ Lines #5
Just Four Friggin' Lines is a new 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.
This is the third installment of Miss Snarky Pants' random poetry series, Just Four Friggin' Lines, written especially for you who get your poetry thang on while waiting at traffic lights. Read, enjoy, follow, share and contribute in the Comments Section below - particularly if you have a four-liner you'd like to pass along. After all,… Continue reading Just Four Friggin’ Lines #3
Just Four Friggin' Lines is a new 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… Continue reading Just Four Friggin’ Lines #2
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… Continue reading Just Four Friggin’ Lines #1
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 she is illegal in Washington, D.C. 2. Ever wonder if Jesus might have just been a really good magician? Thank you, my disciples. Now for my next trick, I shall… Continue reading 10 Random Things I Thought About Today
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….
Alex, I’ll take “PARTIES” for a hundred, please.
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.”
THESE guys? You mean the ones who are giving you…
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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… Continue reading A Waist Is Born
A Stupid Butterfly Poem Clipped between pane and screen, two monarch wings form wicked angles, dusted with the world that passed since they last beat beat beat beat beat beat beat beat. Against the brittle, grating mesh. Against the July-baked glass. How was this wind-buoyed wisp caged, walled, black legs… Continue reading A Stupid Butterfly Poem