On Becoming a Poet

I still haven't paid that traffic ticket. For some unaccountable reason, I'm having absolutely NO guilt feelings about it. NONE. I might feel a little regret if I'm ever caught speeding in Arizona again and have to spend the night with Sheriff Araipahoho or whatever the heck that bigot's name is. Remember him? He's the pot-bellied jackass Sheriff of Maricopa County that delights in housing inmates in tents and making them wear pink underwear. What goes around, comes around, Sheriff. I can't wait to see you in your own pink underwear and I hope it's August when they haul you into your little tent in the Arizona desert.

Since I titled this blog "On Becoming a Poet", I feel duty bound to at least try, so, here's the beginning of my sappy poem:

"I used to count the days when last I saw you,
Now I can't remember how many years since then,
I'm better now, and I've worked it through,
But I'm a liar, it's been almost exactly ten."

Right now, I can't think of a single person, place or thing to insult, aggravate, or offend. I'm having a slow day.

I usually pull Barack Obama out of my hat and irritate everyone with my steadfast loyalty. It never fails to irk nearly everyone I know. I'm just not feeling the love right now.

I do have some important thoughts and opinions. Give me a day or two to warm up.

Later.