[Last Barman poem]
I am the last barman poet / I see America drinking the fabulous cocktails I make / Americans getting stinky on something I stir or shake / The sex on the beach / The schnapps made from peach / The velvet hammer / The Alabama slammer. / I make things with juice and froth / The pink squirrel / The three-toed sloth. / I make drinks so sweet and snazzy / The iced tea / The kamakazi / The orgasm / The death spasm / The Singapore sling / The dingaling. / America you’ve just been devoted to every flavor I got / But if you want to got loaded / Why don’t you just order a shot? / Bar is open.
Vanilla Ice banged grandma? That’s fucking awesome!
Feelings are like kids. You don’t want them driving the car, but you don’t want to stuff them in the trunk, either.
Here you go. Sunny-side eggs, sausage with bacon, home fries, homemade biscuits and country gravy. Can I get you anything else?
No, thanks. Just an angiogram.
Can I ask you a personal question?
Daddy, look at that big ugly alligator
Buford T. Justice:
That reminds me; I gotta call yo’ mama tonight.
I’m in love with your son.
Not that one.
[points to Peter]
[points to Jack]
[after he realises that the key is stolen]