This Week for Happy Hour: T'is Nobler in the Minds of Drunks

Today, August 18th, is Bad Poetry Day!  “Yeah!” you begin to scream before interrupting yourself with logic.  “Celebrate bad poetry?” you ask, your mind a scrambled mess of halting eagerness and pre-abandoned doubt.

Yes, I tell you.  Celebrate it in all its foul, blinding glory.  Bad poetry is an art form in and of itself, beyond being funny and fun in its own right.  Bad poetry might be wonderful because it intends to be bad, or it might be wonderful because its intent is just the opposite.  Either way, truly bad poetry is a thing to behold.  Not convinced?  Let me explain.

Bad poetry is the life of George Costanza. 

Bad poetry is the movie Showgirls. 

Bad poetry is that first-person poem where the teenage girl is a slut.

Bad poetry is Larry the Cable Guy.

Bad poetry is when soccer players try to punch each other.

Bad poetry is when Charles Barkley plays golf.

Bad poetry is the confidence of hairy European men in speedos.

Bad poetry is the lyrics of any Black Eyed Peas song.

Bad poetry is when Miss America speaks.

Bad poetry is that special something where genius and disaster become mangled and intertwined; where you can’t tell whether you should be impressed or disgusted, or for what reason.  It’s so bad that it’s interesting, and you can’t look away or stop thinking about it.  Here are a few genres to peruse:

The offensive yet undeniably clever haiku:

I saw a rainbow

On the day my grandma died;

Fucking lesbian.

The nerdy science pun limerick:

There once was a girl named Irene,

who lived on distilled kerosene.

But she started absorbin'

A new hydrocarbon,

And since then has never benzene!

Another kinda mean haiku:

Ever want a wife?
But you are fat and smelly?
Too bad I got her!

Twist on a trite tradition:

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

Get in the van.

You get the idea.  So come on in and celebrate the best of the worst at Rhino Bar – the perfect place for celebrating bad poetry.  The place is a dive bar with brilliance between the cracks, the perennial Cheers on steroids.  Party tonight, drink cheaply tomorrow for Happy Hour, daytime revelry on Saturday!  Show us your worst poetry in motion, we dare you.

Breaking News: Incidentally, there was some really bad poetry this morning in China: the Georgetown Hoyas Basketball Team played the Chinese National Team and bada-bing, bada-boom, it’s a Kung Fu Street Brawl on the court and kind of a metaphor for the state of international finance at the moment.  See below:

Play that Harlem Globetrotters Music.

 

There’s some bad poetry for you.  Yikes.  Somehow, I bet Hulk Hogan won.  [John Cena is a dork who clearly does not drink beer and is not a real American.  My guess?  A Chinese spy.]  Anyone want to give me odds whether the Asian Potstickers are still on the menu by next week?  Eh.

Also, for those of you who know Adam Johnson, he’s moving up to Boston in a week in a half with his wife, who is going graduate school up there.  He’s having his unofficial send-off at Rhino on Saturday afternoon.  Come buy the man a beer and send him off proper!

Cheers!

Finn

From my future-predicting source for NFL picks: there is no NFL pick this weekend.  Let's face it, there's not much sense in betting on preseason games anyway.  But in order to prove my connection to the spirit world and my abilities to predict future events, I offer you this video, which shows evidence of human-to-cat reincarnation.  If Bob Barker wasn't still alive, I'd have assumed it was him.  Cat's a pervert!  Enjoy: