Humor

I Left Her in the Care of 27 Clowns

To Sarah, who asked for a funny, witty poem,and got this one instead, poor woman.

She graced the Whitmore College of Fine Arts
As the athletic captain of its Cheerleading Squad.
Her tall, well-proportioned body was crowned
By a face that endlessly inspired students
And staff alike to create representational art
That tragically served mostly as masturbatory aides,
For so few of us could resist indulging ourselves
In her beauty, being artists and all.

Her one discernible flaw as a human
Was that she aspired to no better life
Than to be the groupie of an artist,
For she had been raised up depraved
In the walled compound of an Indiana cult
Of transplanted Portuguese finger-painters
To think women naturally fulfilled themselves
Only by their services to men.

I alone dared to depart from mere representations
Of her by creating conjectural interpretations
Of her vagina as the cauldrons of volcanoes
Orgasmically exploding in joy.

Naturally, she recognized in me
An important contemporary master
And wanted nothing more than to reward me
With the friendship of her upper thighs.

I teasingly held her off in order
To turn her kinky with mounting desire
Until one night we slaked our lusts
Using only a feather duster,
A toilet bowl plunger, two thorny roses,
A length of silk rope, an electric
Train transformer, a bible (King James),
A goat outfit, and to bring us to orgasm,
A compact car with 27 circus clowns.

It was all under-kill, of course,
But I did not want to alarm her
About what was in store for us next,
And it sufficed for our first time.

Yet nothing I could say
Could persuade her to use birth control
For the Portuguese fathers had preached
Lies that the pills would gradually
Alter her DNA, turning her at last
Into a polka dotted midget with a lust
To have her way with rabbits.

Of course, I had to dump her
For what artist can work in a studio
Strewn with diapers and the toys
Of a dozen demented children?

Nevertheless I ethically
Softened the impact
Of my abandonment
By leaving her in the care
Of the 27 clowns.

Humor, People, Teresums

“Do Virgins Prefer Male Strippers or Vibrators?”

TERESUMS: Hello?

PAUL: Out with it! Do virgins lust for cock more than vibrators, or vibrators more than cock?

TERESUMS:  Is this your idea of a pleasant conversation,  Paul?

PAUL: I’ve got to know.  I’ve got to know whether to get my new girlfriend’s mom a stripping male telegram or a dildo.  Die immediately or divulge the truth!

TERESUMS:  Your friend’s mom is a virgin? Paul, that makes no sense.

PAUL: She’s divorced. Hasn’t had her nookie accessorized in decades.  I figure it’s reverted to pristine virginity by now.

TERESUMS: You can’t get her a male telegram, Paul. That’s prostitution.  It’s illegal in America everywhere outside of Nevada and Washington, D.C.

PAUL: You’re wrong about that.  Dead wrong.  It’s not prostitution, it’s freedom of speech — speech delivered by ejaculation.  I looked it up, “To ejaculate” means “to exclaim” means “to speak”.  The Constitution guarantees the right to ejaculate all you want and even in public. Just try to prove me wrong!

TERESUMS: Paul, you’re as crazy as a moon rocket gone wrong and hellbent on taking a bath in the Mariana’s Trench.

PAUL: And just what’s wrong with my way of telling my girlfriend’s mother I’d do her too, if it wouldn’t be awkward?

TERESUMS: What?  That’s what you’re trying to tell her?   That she’s a piece of meat to you?

PAUL: She’ll be flattered someone still wants to lick her launch button, despite her being a virgin, you know.

TERESUMS: Unlikely!

PAUL: Likely!

TERESUMS: Unlikely!

PAUL: Likey!

TERESUMS: Goodbye, Paul.

Becky, Don, Humor, People

Winter Waits on No Man, Don

DON: Hello?

PAUL: Don, they need us.  They need us bad!

DON:  What?  Who?  Paul!  It’s two-twenty in the holy morning!

PAUL: Time is of the essence, Don.  Of the essence!  Winter waits on no man nor woman nor child.

Continue reading “Winter Waits on No Man, Don”

Humor, Poetry, Sex

The Thoughts That Bring Humble Tears to My Eyes

Dedicated to all the tragic women
who know me and whose bodies
Thus ache for mine…

 

I am of course a sensitive man,
Far from callous towards the needs
Of womenfolk. Far from a brute
To their legitimate desires.

And so I am pained sometimes,
At night when in bed alone,
So pained I can all but hear
Their whispering hearts moan,
Soft as tender moss in a wind,
And tragically yearn for me.
Moan and yearn for me.

Me, a man of awesome proportions
Down there — Simply awesome
Down there.

Simply awesome.

Fully three astounding inches
Of power-packed, thrusting,
Lust-inducing love rocket,
And fully rampant at times
With compassion for the babes
Out there.

Alas! In my sensitive soul
I must hear their skin cry out
Bitter in their nights —
Aghast that I am celibate!

Disbelieving, shaking their heads
Even as they sleep,
I can feel them out there —
I know the women roll in bed,
Tossing, turning, denying it’s so,
Dreaming, dreaming on
In anguished disbelief.

Thus, once again I must fall asleep,
Tonight once again I must fall asleep,
With these troubled thoughts that bring
Humble tears to my compassionate eyes.

Humor, Teresums

Paul: At Last Pouring on the Charm Like a Rutting Bull Elk

TERESUMS: Hello? If that’s you again, Paul, shove it! Shove it right now!

PAUL: Hello there, Sweetness!  Have you cum today?  I’ll bet you’ve been routing around down there all morning like an excited monkey in a banana market. Well, have at her, Teresums — the gods know yours are not seeing any other action these days.

TERESUMS: Have I cum yet? What’s up, Paul? Is this your depraved idea of small talk? You’re trying to charm me, aren’t you?  For once, you are really trying to charm me, you insufferable donk!

PAUL: That’s what I get?  After all the hours I lay awake last night mulling over your words to me about “becoming a better man” — that’s what I get?

TERESUMS: Now you’ve made me sorry, Paul.  I should not have gone off on you. I should support your efforts.  It’s really noble of you, Paul.  Noble and admirable.

PAUL: Bless you, Teresums!  Bless you for having faith in me.  Just don’t hide anything.  Sharp focus on the pics.  I want close-ups of your tits and ass.  You can leave the face out.  Might frighten me while I’m wanking, you know.

TERESUMS: PAUL!  You flying scourge!  You’ve been trying to sweet-talk me into emailing you nude selfies all along.  You…you…you are the most lowest, treasonous piece of weaponized evil ever to crawl out of one of my nightmares.  Ever!

PAUL: I’m glad we had this warm and frank discussion.  I feel much closer to you now.  Can’t wait to get the pics.  Why don’t you run off right away and take them for me.  Take a dozen or more.  At least a dozen or more.  No faces, though, or its death by tomorrow’s dawn!

TERESUMS: Paul, I am so going to…Paul?  PAUL!  You hung up, you twikle-squirt!  Well, you can dream all you want, Paul Sunstone.  You can dream until the gods turn into clay pots, but I will never — never even so much as photoshop my face onto a porn star’s body for you.  Oh! How I wish you could hear that!  I must remember to tell it to you the blissful day I finally cream your spinach.

Creative Thinking, Creativity, Ideas, Irony

Anaïs Nin Shamelessly Stole My Idea! Death to Her Corpse! Death to It!

(About a 5 minute read)

Certainly, it will come as no shock to long term readers of Café Philos that I, Paul Sunstone (Paul Sunstone  <—- That’s me!), have only ever had one original idea in my whole life that most people might readily admit was “sensible”.

Indeed, most of my other original ideas have typically been described by my loyal readers using the language of train wrecks, natural catastrophes, and vibrator malfunctions.

Continue reading “Anaïs Nin Shamelessly Stole My Idea! Death to Her Corpse! Death to It!”

Humor, Teresums

“Paul, You Have No Right”

TERESUMS: Hello?

PAUL: Drag your galloping hand out of your groin and pay attention! I need facts to finish up a post — a sure-to-be-Nobel-Prize-winning-post.  Investigative journalism at its finest.  “Exposé, India’s Gods: The Slave Farms Where the Gods Were Inbred to Have Six Arms Revealed At Last!” Now don’t leave anything out!  Everything you know about the farms.  Everything!  30 seconds or else death!

Continue reading ““Paul, You Have No Right””