The writing had run to, at one point, 4 pages. all about me trying to psychologically cope with the post. Not doing that. A couple people here have privately bolstered me, and I'm ready to come forward. It won't take four pages.
A [STRIKE]friend[/STRIKE], er, former friend, discovered in conversation that I was writing poetry and enjoying it. I should mention, he's a classic meathead. "I am Mister Macho, wonderful in bed. Muscles in my t-shirt, nothing in my head." That guy. I'm not the least macho guy I know. Hell, I taught him how to crush a beer can on his head without knocking himself goofy. (I'll share the secret with my friends: Slightly dent the sides of the can surreptitiously before you go for the slam, and when you slam make sure the bottom of the can sits flat on the forehead. Aim higher, lest you want to roll down one of your eyebrows. Also, wipe your forehead beforehand, as sweat tends to make the can slip off. Don't hesitate to give it a slam. Two-hits are pathetic. Practice this, and you too can look like a moron. Oh, and make sure you have the bottom of the can going to skull rather than the top. Saw a guy need stitches because the mouth of the can sliced his empty head.)
Mister Meathead is just over 30, and he plays in a beer league football team. He's that guy. He threw a word at me. I won't say what the word is, but I've seen hellacious fights, and his statement would get that kind of party started. I'm used to being called names, but his stunned me. First, I considered him a buddy, second, I'm a fairly macho guy. If a guy wants to step outside to have a fight, I tend to ask a question. "Why should we go outside? I can kick your ass indoors as easily as outdoors." It's gotten me out of many fights. Into a few fights too, but that's neither here nor there. The thing is, this guy knows that I'm not much for fighting anymore. Possibly starting a heart attack, or having my heartrate go high enough that I pass out, it's not worth the risk to knock down a meathead. So, it was a cheapshot that he knew I really couldn't answer in a meathead way.
His assumption didn't offend me, but the method he used to make it did. You can ask me if I'm an Oompa Loompa and I won't be angry. Assuming I'm an Oompa Loompa and calling me a little orange sing-song bastard, you're crossing lines.
So, being the guy I am, I told him to get lost, and that if he ever set foot back on my property, I would risk it. Would I throw hands? Probably. He'd kill me, but I'd throw 'em anyway. On a somewhat irrelevant side, before he starts questioning my sexual preferences, he really should have a long talk with his sister. She knows.
I have no problem with gay people. Hell, the thought has crossed my mind at times. At the same time, I've had friends who were essentially run out of this little town because of their preferences. It's a sickness here, homophobia. To be brutally honest, you go crave whomever you crave. I predominantly crave women. Actually, I crave coffee, chicken, and women, but not all for the same end goal.
I've done the highest honor for Mister Meathead that I can do. I wrote a poem. It's kind of irrelevant, since I'm not sure he's that good at reading, and there are a couple big words that aren't easy to explain via pictures. I can't do everything.
Enjoy "I just write poetry." (By the way, if you're a football player, I offer two pieces of advice. Either click the little x in the upper right corner, or just know that if you haven't thrown an insult at me, this isn't written for you.)
The word you used to describe me
indicates your intelligence
relying on a word like that
leaves a person little defense
That term you used interests me
as it assumes a thing untrue
you said it to insult my life
but it fits me as well as you
I play with words tones and sounds
you hike the ball and break some bones
you made your name with tackling
and I work with homophones
You play football every week
while I just write poetry
but when I've finished a poem
men do not shower with me