Here is a poem I went to the liberty of penning whilst on an arduous 7+ hour flight from London to Vancouver. It is entitled ‘Air Crusade of Righteous Indignation (Full Upright Position)’.
I swallowed my spit and I rubbed at my eyes,
I kept my rage inside, where it grew instead of died.
I longed to reduce you to catarrh and paste,
The gas-mark of my raging grill could have
scorched the whiskers from your inconsiderate face.
With frantic eyes, manic grin,
I longed to tear beard from your chin,
The look splattered on your face; agog,
Your tongue; with the cat, in your throat; a frog,
At the very best, this will suffice for a blog.
My poetry is sometimes quite prognosticative. Either that or this was a self-fulfilling prophecy. I also created one which was slightly shorter and direct:
Oh! reclining Denthead,
how you love your EZ chair,
PRICK!
I’m unsure as to whether these illustrate what actually happened or just provide an insight into how inconvenienced and frustrated I felt, regardless, there was a tool in the seat in front of me who’s seat was essentially in my lap. Inconsiderate fucker. I did however watch Armando Ianucci’s ‘In the Loop’ (good film) and bred myself a Gold Chocobo (arse-whoop).
Here is yet another, more freeform and whimsical, effort. Please read it as though you are Tim Key, if you are unfamiliar with Tim Key, please familiarise yourself with Tim Key before reading this, my Tim Key style effort of a poem:
"Is your hair-band metal?" quipped the inquisitive man.
In honesty, he was less inquisitive, and more of
a frisky sort of guy,
Seeing as he was a security guard at the airport.
I doubt he was interested in my hair-band,
in fashiological terms.
I also wrote some horrific homebrew jokes, which I was going to send to Adam & Joe but their show is on holiday for a bit I think so I will put them here instead:
**Disclaimer**
These jokes are purposefully awful.
Q: Where does Osama bin Laden keep his seasonings?
A: In a spice Iraq.
Q: Where do you cook ja stir fry?
A: In ja pan.
Q: What does the chocolate obsessed craftsman do after Mars-sanding and Snicker-filing?
A: Aero-planing.
Puns in the past are past puns, puns in the future are future puns, but this one is a current pun.
I could have been the best croquet player in the world ever but I suffer from hoop-wrist (hubris) (the best jokes have to be explained).
I think pooing is a little game because I play it with a toylette.
My injury burst into flame and was healed by the curative wind.
It rose like a knee-fix from the ashes.
What's the difference between a plane and a drunken bum?
One has toilets at the rear and the other rears at toilets.
Why didn't the bear wipe his arse?
He was suffering from paw-shitty of ambition.
What is the similarity between Dracula and Sigmund Freud?
Neither were satisfied with just Igor/Ego.
I am ashamed.
