An Assful of Secrets (pt. vi) [up-dated]

When I woke up, I was strapped to a zebra-patterned reclining chair in a tiger-striped rumpus room with leopard-skin carpeting. Kaye Grogan stood in front of me, dressed in a robe patterned after some cat the species of which I couldn’t immediately identify.

“What’s that, ocelot?” I said, pointing with my nose. “Jaguarundi?” My head felt like a moonwalk with bikers jumping around in it. Kaye’s goons were standing by the door. The big one cracked his knuckles.

“Silence!” Kaye shrieked with big eyes. “I wobba-wobba-wobba! I wibba-wobba-wobba!” She shuddered and took a big huff from a flag-patterned rag. “I will not stand for impertinence!” The goons tried to hide it, but they were snickering.

“Madame,” I said oleaginously, “I would very much like to hear your poems. Perhaps we might introduce ourselves. My name is…” I fumbled for a name. “Amso Notgay. I am a patriot with true disdain for the liberal agenda.”

Kaye brightened. She didn’t know who I was after all, but apparently kidnapped people from the airport just to have an audience.

Her robe was gapping in the front, and it was unpleasant to see a certain thing that I was seeing.

“Well, Mr. Notgay. I am gaaaah wobble-wobble. Wooo yurkle-yunkle-blah!” She raised the rag to her face again. “Silence! I will not tolerate…”

“Read the poem!” the smaller guard called out.

“Ahem,” she cleared her throat. “Sorry,” she said congenially, to me.

So Un-American

For what gives you the right to suppress my religion?

I have the right to worship God and scorn radical division.

For what gives you the right to try and silence my voice?

To serve God and my country, should be my fundamental choice.

For what gives you the right to hide behind groups who practice hate?

You hide behind pretty words that will one day seal your fate.

“That has a good meter.” I said. “Liberals are always hiding behind pretty words.”

For you lie in wait with the enemy to tear down what is good.

And you do everything evil… giving no thought to doing things you should.

And what gives you the right to halt prayers in school?

“You have no right at all,” I said, “You foolish, foolish fool!”

Kaye wagged her index finger, mock-chidingly.

You try to take away holidays and support liberal judges who misrule.

And what gives you the right to burn and stomp the American flag?

“Anyone who does that — why, they’re a flaming fag!”

“That’s not bad,” Kaye said, continuing.

While you think nothing of the sacrifices and the high price tag.

For what gives you the right to anoint killing little babies in the womb?

“You do not have the right at all, for killing babies will spell your ultimate and final doom!”

Her robe was seriously gapping. I reflexively felt around with my tongue for the hollow molar with the cyanide in it.

You wait to block pathways of righteousness…all the while weaving your deception, from a big loom.

“And you had better watch out, for someday you will be in a big tomb!”

Kaye picked up the freestyle. “And your flower of evil will then be dead and not in bloom!”

“And God’s judgement will come like, ‘Zoom!'”

“And you will be the bride and Satan will be the groom!”

“For your kind of anti-American thinking belongs in the bathroom!”

Kaye paused and spread her arms declamatorily.

So what does give you the right to be so un-American?

My hands were strapped to the chair, but I applauded by thumping my fingers against the armrests.

“Bravo, madame! That was quite a tour de force — as the nasty French might say.”

“Well, it’s just something I thought up in my spare time,” she said. “I have another if you’d like to hear it.”


[Poem (C)2004 by Kaye Grogan]


Comments: 10


She shuddered and took a big huff from a flag-pattered rag.

How BLUE VELVET of you…


OMG! That’s a real poem! I thought you were taking the piss!


I’ve actually never seen Blue Velvet (I know, I ought to). What’s the reference?


I’ve actually never seen Blue Velvet (I know, I ought to). What’s the reference?

Dennis Hopper, playing (of course) the psychotic villain, is always huffing from a gas mask filled with (most likely) nitrous oxide.


And what gives YOU the right to force my child to pray at school?

Sorry, Kaye, but I don’t want him to grow up to be a Biblethumpin’ fool.


I see the Vogons have nothing on Ms. Grogan.


Love, Love, LOVE the story, the Pete M., the everything! I heart Sadly, No!!


Pete M. is back! I’m, like, dancing out here in Arkansas!

Ogden, Stills, Nash, and Young

So Fucking Lame
For what gives you the right to write crappy verse?

I’d say you write like you’re retarded, but actually you write worse.

For what gives you the right to compose these trite rhymes?

I guess, as Prince said, it’s the sign o’ the times.

For what gives you the right to ignore scanscion and meter?

Your poems read like something that Ogden Nash, on a bad day, pulled out of his ass, or banged out with his peter.

What gives you the right to be so fucking dumb?
You write poems about as well as my asshole chews gum.


So that’s where the euphamism “Grogan” comes from. I’d always wondered.


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