Oh! Lestra!

Suripoop!

Is this the oil that launched a thousand chips?
Make haste toward that tiled, enchanted room.
Prepare thy drawers perchance some foul thing slips,
Or thundrous peals from out thy cornhole boom.

Though nature’s oils sufficed from dawn of man
For culinary functions tried and true,
It seems that P&G technicians can
Replace them with an oleated goo.

And now Olestra has begun her reign.
The Dark Queen sits and cackles in the night,
Dispensing bouts of shooting rectal pain.
Her fudge erupts from sphincters once held tight.

Beware the chips that claim to be your friend.
The Hershey squirts will get you in the end. 

Truly and often have the poets confronted us with our own torn desires; we love what we despise, we crave what we cannot tolerate, we desperately need what we can never have. Fecklessly falling for fallacies, we cyclically succumb to snake oil salesmen. And always, the poets are there, taking notes.

viz. this, an epic verse-cycle dedicated to that peerless promoter of poopage, Olestra. This, my friends, is truly a work of art, this generation’s Sonnet 130. It is genius, not any ordinary talent, that could spin such a gossamer web of pure poetry on the subject of anal leakage.

Speak on, sweet lips that never told a lie…

Olean… Olean… Olean… Olean
I’m begging you, please leave my sphincter shut
Olean… Olean… Olean… Olean
Please don’t go and lubricate my gutYou’re found in products everywhere, with fatty taste beyond compare;
Of mouth-feel, so enticing, you’re the queen!
Each cake is tasty, but so brief, each chip is crisp as autumn leaf;
And I cannot eat just a few, Olean

You wake me up when I’m asleep; there’s nothing I can do to keep
From oozing when I’ve had too much Olean
And I can easily see now too, how you can easily flow right through,
But you don’t know what that means to me Olean
(chorus)
Well you’re in every kind of snack, but I could never turn my back
You’re the only fat for me Olean
I have to have this talk with you, my skinniness depends on you
Whatever you decide to do Olean
(chorus)

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May Day, Yay!

The Communist PARTAY!

That is all.

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is that a banana slug in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

pickup line algebra, yo

Here’s a charming roundup of the 30 strangest animal mating habits, courtesy of the generally neato Neatorama. Strangely, World of Warcraft-inspired pickup lines are nowhere to be found; but then, the list is limited to those species who actually do have sex.

You’ve got all the usual suspects here: your bonobos, your banana slugs, the old “exploding bee testicle” thing, but they also have a penis fencing video and a little something about snake orgies that puts some of those Zealia Bishop Yig-Mythos stories into perspective. Charming.

The annual red-garter mating balls are a big tourist attraction in Manitoba—and a source of many tales. One unsuspecting couple built a house on top of an empty snake pit one summer, only to find their property swarmed by thousands of red-sided garters returning to their traditional hibernation den in the fall. The couple quickly relocated their new house.

It is to be noted that a roundup like this often brings the realization that some humans are not all that far from those we call “beasts” if you really give it some thought.

Actually, “court” may be too strong a word: the male … basically follows her around until she gives in and lets him have her!

For those who walk on their hind legs, just a reminder: that is never going to work.

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hit me baby, one more time…with your accordion!

Looks like it’s Britney Day on the ol’ raincoaster blog. Yeah, might as well just go with it.

Rowan Lipkovits, the highly entertaining poet/singer/accordionist/comic from the Naughty Limerick Contest,  turned us on to his truly remarkable cover version of Britney‘s hit, Hit Me Baby, One More Time. And who among us would argue that the girl needs a good slap, eh? If her parents didn’t do it when she was younger, it’s about bloody time someone did.

Enjoy.

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