Dear The Hershey Company,

Has anybody in your chocolate empire ever actually eaten a Kit-Kat bar? I only ask because your latest ads make some egregious errors in regards to the product in question. First of all, you cannot make music snapping and breaking Kit-Kats as they do not produce a delightful pop sound. Until you make your candy out of those short-lived biodegradable Sun Chips bags, the wafers will merely produce a dull crisp sound. 

I’m willing to let that slide, though—a phrase that your child slaves wish they heard instead of being struck by one of your slave drivers. A little artistic license to sell your product is perfectly reasonable. HOWEVER, I will not tolerate this notion that people eat their Kit-Kats by first breaking them in half. This is not how your product works. It is to be snapped along the perforated lines and then eaten as individual sticks. Not half-sticks, full-on sticks. Sure, some people probably do break them in half first, but they are fools, and their stupidity is not to be promoted on the television. Not in my America!

I clicked on a Buzzfeed link

I clicked on a Buzzfeed link. It felt so bizarre that I felt compelled to write a poem about it. This is in its initial form, so lucky you! You get to see it before I mangle it! (Or, more likely, forget about it for a while, then resurrect it in an almost completely unrecognizable form.)

I clicked on a Buzzfeed link.

It wouldn’t be fair to call it an article. 
Articles have    depth
                         research
         fucking paragraphs.

This was a list, of sorts,
only it wasn’t
made up of words.

It had videos
behaving like looping .GIF files
but with sound.

Each video headlined
with what looked like words
but had no inherent meaning
to me and my English degree.

This was a list of things
ruined by white people,
yet the genocide of the American Indians
is ranked five spots below
Cigarillos.

Vigilantazmo

The door crumbles into a pile of dust, shards, and slivers waiting to implant into the next fool who dares walk through this studio apartment barefooted.

“Oh shit,” Roger—a hired goon tasked with guarding the teenaged ransom victim tied-up and passed out on the sofa bed—says as he spots the crimson-caped wonder—Vigilantazmo. He sets his piece down on the ground and holds up his empty hands. “Look, Mr. Vigilantazmo, I don’t want any trouble here! I’m just a grunt! I’ll do anything you want, just don’t hurt me.” He closes his eyes and braces for pain.

Vigilantazmo lets out a deep belly laugh as he paces toward the Ikea nightstand. “Anything, huh? Then tell me, does this place belong to you?” the super hero asks, stroking the piece of furniture.
Roger opens his eyes and answers, “Ye-ye-yessir.”

“So that means that you own all this furniture,” Vigilantazmo lifts the nightstand up to his eye level and reads the bottom, “including Hemnes here?”

“Look, j-ju-just take the girl! Just don’t hurt me!” Roger pleads, tears mixing with sweat to form a nice face broth.

“I’m not interested in the girl, scum.” Vigilantazmo takes a few practice swings with the nightstand, as if he was next at-bat. “You appear to have been gentle to this child. If only you had been this kind to Mr. Larry Stevens over on Third Avenue.”

Roger scratches his head, soaking up little bits of blood into his finger nails. “I-I-I think y-you have the wrong guy. I don’t know a Larry Stevens.”

“HA! Of course you don’t, slime!” Vigilantazmo walks over to Roger and holds the Hemnes up to his face. A yellow stain forms on the carpet beneath Roger. “He runs, rather, he ran a furniture shop. He did pretty well until greedy pieces of human garbage like yourself started buying your furniture from foreign INVADERS like Ikea.”

“It’s the best I could afford.”

“Don’t try to justify yourself to me. You know, when I discovered that I was all-powerful, capable of doing most anything while possessing but one weakness, you know what I swore an oath to do?” Vigilantazmo pauses, looking up at the ceiling waiting for Roger to shake his head no. “I swore on my adoptive mother’s grave that I will never refrigerate my tomatoes, and to stop FILTH like you from littering the streets again!” He wrenches the nightstand back and strikes Roger across the face, breaking off one of the table legs in the process. He quips, “That’s why you always buy American,” before kicking Roger in the stomach a few times. “Now stay put. I’m not done with you yet.”

Vigilantazmo walks back to where the door once stood and picks up one of the shards of oak. “It’s time to drain that pathetic throat of yours of all its blood. There will be justice for Larry Stevens!”

Roger blindly reaches around the ground until he feels that familiar coldness of his handgun. “It doesn’t have to be this way,” Roger croaks from his broken jaw.

“USA!” Vigilantazmo screams as he runs toward Roger, carrying the wood shard like a primitive spear.

Roger aimed the gun toward Vigilantazmo and squeezed the trigger. Boom. Headshot. The hero fell straight to the ground as his brains spilled onto the carpet, ruining any chance Roger had at getting his deposit back.

“OH MY GOD!” the ransom victim attempts to scream through her gagged mouth.


“I guess his only weakness,” Roger smirks his swollen face, “was a bullet to the head.”

Another day at Starbucks...

As many of you may know, I started working at Starbucks a month-and-some-change ago. The change in scenery and such doesn't seem to have affected my snark-levels. Anyway, here's something I wrote in regards to annoying customers:

We’re closed

Oh—
  I didn’t realize it was you:
THE MOST IMPORTANT PERSON IN HUMAN HISTORY.

No wonder you drove on past that menu board—
  the one that says in red:
  THE STORE IS NOW CLOSED.

You are clearly too important
  (and too wealthy)
for us to ignore.

What can I get started for you?

All For A Little Money

I woke up too early this morning. 

My right eye too blurry. 

Why do I do this shit? 

For money?

I am an artist! I don't need money!

Oh wait. 

I see Sallie Mae over in the corner with a lead pipe.

Maybe I should just suck it up

 and keep on going for a while. 

Do I Want My MTV?

People bemoan the downfall of MTV, but they fail to notice its inherent problem: 

If MTV was still Music Television and not the Mindless Teen Void, it would still suck ass. 

How much ass? All of the ass. 
And then some. 
It would suck so much ass that the world would owe MTV ass to suck. 

Don’t get me wrong, I would love to see more of my favorite bands on TV, but that just isn’t going to happen. Judas Priest won’t educate us on the merits of breaking the law, nor will Iron Maiden run to hills. 

What we will get is corporate bullshit. Coming up, the latest from Nickelback, followed by Green Day’s new hit “Remember When We Were a Punk Band?” But first, here is “Sexploitation” by Jailbait Blond. She didn’t write, hell, she didn’t even really sing it, but fuck it. You’ll buy it!

MTV is dead, and we should be thankful. 

We live in a time where we get to be our own VJs.

Dear Mr. Taco Time,

How can you sleep at night knowing that you deceive your customers on a daily basis? That’s right, I know the secret behind your “Mexi-Fries.” They’re not fries at all, but rather Mexi-LIES—tater tots in disguise! I bet you thought nobody would ever find out, but guess again, bucko! Not only do I know, but everyone who is either Mexican or has Mexican heritage knows. What, did you believe they would actually think that those were French fries, and  not reanimated potato refuse?

Perhaps this is even more sinister than it appears. Perhaps the vaguely racist sentiments expressed are intentional. French fries are sliced from whole potatoes, while tater tots are glued together from the scraps that remain. Are you trying to imply that Mexicans are the scraps not good enough to be a part of French society? HMM? 

But maybe your racism was unintentional. We can fix that. Let’s change the name. I suggest Taco-Tots. It has the “Three-A”s that people crave: alliteration, accuracy, and “allure.” What do I mean by allure? Not sure, really. I put it in there because people like groups of threes and I couldn’t think of a more relevant “A”. Well, it looks like I’m just about out of the 250 word limit that you FASCISTS imposed on me, so I guess I’ll leave you with this question: from what animal are the meat-flavored crispy burritos derived? Is it PEOPLE?!