The Wussy Boy Manifesto
by Eric Ott (Big Poppa E)

my name is big poppa e
and i am a wussy boy.

it’s taken me a long time to admit it…

i remember shouting in high school,
“no, dad, I’m not gay!
I’m just… sensitive.
i tried to like hot rods and jet planes
and football and budweiser poster girls,
but i never got the hang of it!
i don’t know what’s wrong with me…”

then, i saw him,
there on the silver screen,
bigger than life and unafraid
of earrings and hair dye
and rejoicing in the music
of the cure and morrissey and
siouxsie and the banshees,
talking loud and walking proud
my wussy boy icon:
duckie in pretty in pink.

and i realized i wasn’t alone.

and i looked around
and saw other wussy boys
living large and proud of who they were:
ralph macchio, wussy boy;
matthew broderick, wussy boy;
and lord god king
of the wussy boy movement,
john cusack in say anything,
unafraid to prove to the world
that sensitive guys much kick ass.

now i am no longer ashamed
of my wussiness, hell no,
I’m empowered by it.

when I’m at a stoplight and
some testosterone redneck
methamphetamine
jock fratboy asshole dumb fuck
pulls up beside me
blasting his trans am’s stereo
with power chord anthems to big tits
and date rape,
i no longer avoid his eyesight, hell no,
i just crank all 12 watts of my car stereo
and i rock out right into his face:
(devil sign and morrissey’s voice)
“i am human and i need to be loved
just like everybody else does!”

i am wussy boy, hear me roar
(meow).

bar fight? pshaw!
you think you can take me, huh?
just because i like poetry
better than sports illustrated?
well, allow me to caution you,
I’m not the average every day
run-of-the-mill wussy boy you
beat up in high school, punk,
i am wuss core!
(flash “wc” gang sign)

don’t make me get renaissance
on your ass because i will
write a poem about you,
a poem that tears your psyche
limb from limb,
that exposes your selfish insecurities,
that will wound you deeper
and more severely
than knives and chains and gats
and baseball bats
could ever hope to do…

you may see 65 inches of wussy boy
standing in front of you,
but my steel-toed soul is
ten foot tall and bullet proof!

bring the pain, punk,
beat the shit out of me,
show all the people in this bar
what a real man can do
to a shit-talking wussy boy like me

but you’d better remember
my bruises will fade
my cuts will heal,
my scars will shrink and disappear,
but my poem
about the pitiful, small, helpless
cock-man oppressor you really are
will last
forever.

______________________________________________________

First  of all, thanks to PQS who celebrates with me and (and possibly now even transcends) my love for poetry.  I wish you could have heard his rendition of this poem (he reads aloud to me often and it is pure heaven) … I am still smiling.

Since PQS calls me and not you, your next best bet is to see the poet himself, the simply fab Big Poppa E, perform this poem on HBO’s Def Poetry Slam:  CLICK HERE.

Then you can read his Wikipedia page and, of course, buy his book.

xo, Angela

A Lament For Phone Sex Operators in Tough Economic Times

By Pervert Q. Savant

The evening news
these the past few weeks
has surely brought
more troughs than peaks.
Spending’s down;
unemployment grows.
The country’s fortunes
Have hit new lows
And while Congress
spews purple prose,
There’s no money out there
for poor PSOs!

As I pen these words,
I see much amiss.
Our economy’s entered
a real deep abyss.
“This bailout’s a bust!”
fat Rush Limbaugh crows.
These damned banks won’t even tell us
Where all that money goes!”
The automakers too
Bewail their many woes.
But there’s not a dime out there
for poor PSOs!

“Our debt’s all ballooned!”
the fierce pundits all scream.
“The Chinese’ll own us,
Our lenders just scheme!”
But our great Wall Street moguls
are in soft repose.
They’re sipping champagne,
while their banks just foreclose.
And the worst thing about it
Is that no one really knows
who really got all that money
and then where it all goes.
But one thing’s for certain,
I think everyone knows
there ain’t a bit of it out there
for poor PSOs!

In the overall scheme of things
it just doesn’t seem right
to give out all that money
to millionaires – so uncontrite,
To the financing biggies –
Like poor AIG ,
and similar piggies,
who so soaked you and me.
But that’s the free market
It’s how it all goes
The tycoons get the money
While we get the hose.
And there’s not a dime out there
For poor PSOs.

So lower your rates, daughters!
Advertise to the max!
Give out those free minutes!
In your work be not lax!
For you’re on your own, honey
There’s no help from the Feds,
if you want to get money
for your food or your meds.
‘Cause the U.S. economy’s
in its death throes
And there’s certainly no money
For poor PSOs.

***

So do Phone Sex Operators need a Phone Sex bailout?  Why not?  If Larry Flynt and the Porn Industry can do it, so can we. 

Thanks you Pervert Savant, for the cutest poem ever!  And readers, while you’re here, learn more about my Savant Collection right here and read Pervert Savant’s ongoing series,  Lingerie on the Razor-Wire by clicking here.

To NORA

JIM

****

Who knew that Mr. Joyce was such a randy, dirty scamp?  And why didn’t my Lit. Prof (damn Jesuit Catholic wench) assign this collection of letters (yes, I have more … stay tuned)  instead of Dubliners and A Portrait of a Young Man as Artist … both of which put me to sleep more than once.  Or instead of Ulysses, which made absolutely no sense to me or my fellow classmates no matter how many times we were told it was "great literature."  If I were feeling better, I’d do some surfing to revisit all that stuff and perhaps revise my critical opinion.  Since I’m not feeling so hot (I have a cold … boo hoo, poor me), maybe Pervert Savant or Vanilla Savant will call and give me the lowdown in the next couple of days.

You can read more about Joyce at Wikipedia and then check out the very pretty James Joyce Centre.

OMG!  He was bonking the chambermaid.  And her last name was Barnacle. Which explain why he didn’t write odes and sonnets to her.  What rhymes with "barnacle," after all?

xo, Angela

PS:  as you might have gathered — because I feel like crap and also do not want to be hacking into your ear right at the critical point *wink, wink* — no worky-worky for me.  And unless you call Isabella, The Luscious One or Abby Licks or Mistress Rayne … no phone sex for you.  If you do call any of my phone sex buddies, take it from me:  you will have an absolutely-tutely divine experience.  If you don’t make the call and need a bit of visual stimuli, then here’s a bunch of dirty pictures.

Special Thanks and 128 kisses (no more, no less) to Sweat Shop Sissy, who seems to always have my back … and certainly my deepest affection.