Thursday, May 31, 2018

All I Do Is Dick Around the Sun Goes Up the Moon Goes Down the Leaves Are Green the Leaves Are Brown and All I Do Is Dick Around

▲'s  most posted video on this blog by a factor of X. ▲'s the Egoslavian Bleggalgazing Anthem, has been since Day One, people can vouch, today High Egoslavian Bleggalgazing Day. Chris Elliott is 58 today.

I submitted the poem below to Boston Review's Annual Poetry Contest on High Egoslavian Bleggalgazing Day Eve, paid $20 to submit. I recognize BR's scam and am fine with it, I read their stuff but don't subscribe, please have $20.

Beyond considerations of competition versus my limitations as a whatever, the poem has no chance of winning (or losing but getting published). I do this every whenever, not often. I'll see a competition in APR or, like today, somewhere online, and think, doink! submit poem + High Egoslavian Bleggalgazing Day = Serendipity, I'm thinking doink! until I doink! (and get a bleggalgazing blogpost out of it on High Egoslavian Bleggalgazing Day). I submit.

I never received a personalized NO! on poems with washes until my last doink! when whoever it was said even if it they were the best poems of the batch (they weren't, but she liked them) the cost and hassle of printing even one made it not a fucking chance. I took that shit to heart and abandoned tablet for type for six months, the fuck is wrong with me. I have faith and hope I get a regularly formatted blindcopied mass-batched-email letterheaded NO! this time.

Thanks for reading this. If you are Kinding me and me not you, please let me know, and please let me know if there's someone you think I should be reading.

The two other Egoslavian Bleggalgazing Anthems ▼ Reminder: The Archers of Loaf is this shitty blog's official Theme Song. It's so fucking self-indulgent to think you'll like this song.


  1. I, of course, only read for the secret messages that only I can get because no one else around here knows how to properly tune a tinfoil hat.


  2. At a loss:

    Trying to think how I *Might* applaud the *Icky Mettle* of a pointed *poetic* indulgence that debases itself as mere decasyllabic *dicking around* when that, of course, is not what it thinks of itself but rather what it thinks others think (if they even do) of its wallowing in the inimitable wash of its own emerging meta curmudgeonly metier when I don't read poetry nor particularly know how.

    How'm I doing?

    1. You're fabulous, Jimbo. We're all fucken fabulous.

    2. In the immortal words of our lord and savior Ricky Bobby: I appreciate that. I'm not gonna' lie to you, it felt good.

    3. See why I don't read friends' galleys?

      This is my fourth favorite annual post.