Another Pointless Dig At Scientology

‘Apparently Debra Messing’s face cream has placenta in it.’
‘Hey, aren’t Scientologist parents encouraged to eat the placenta?’
‘No. Scientologist parents pay to eat the placenta.’

In An Instant

Snow was all over,
when I saw the factory.
The twins were smiling.

A Letter to Kilgore Trout

This poem now appears in Switchback. Go visit it, here.

Tetherball

The more we swatted it
the more it came bouncing back.

Until one day, it yelped.

Then it offered us its trembling string
& asked us if it was good.

10 Google Searches That Lead People Here

dimple dance, steps for

Ray Romano detective agency

the most touchable calves

counterfeit hamper assembly

pterodactyl sauce

Wikipedia is my homeboy

tuna melt embargo, Green Party

Rwandan glitterati

our lady of perpetual sweatpants

Beatrice loves to die

* this concept stolen from Ofelia Hunt

Walrus Smitten With Trainer

NIAGARA FALLS, ON – To the delight of many visitors, a trainer at the Marineland amusement park has recently captured the affections of a 365 kilogram female walrus. Five-year-old Smooshi had become increasingly smitten with her trainer, Phil Demers ever since his arrival to the park from Belarus nearly four years ago.

‘Smooshi followed Phil everywhere’ said a senior Marineland veterinarian ‘she even barked whenever he left her sight, or visited with other animals. It was really quite adorable.’

However, the storybook romance soon turned sour when Smooshi waddled in on her trainer drinking a can of Tab Energy. The walrus quickly filed assault charges against Demers, & stated to Niagara police that ‘Oh my God, oh my God, I touched him. He’s probably given me the Gay. It’ll penetrate my thick hide in a way that arctic water never could.’

It was not long until Prime Minister Stephen Harper weighed in on this issue during Question Period, asserting that this ‘predatory trainer’ was obviously involved in some sort of flaming, Communist/Separatist conspiracy. ‘He does come from Russia, after all’ said the Right Honourable Mr. Harper ‘& godless degenerates are often lured into alliances with The Bloc.’

Outside of the House of Commons, Minister of Foreign Affairs, Peter MacKay was also quoted as saying ‘They’re called ‘Pinkos’ for a reason, folks. Their socks refuse to clash with their shoes, & they promote that swishy, equity ccrap.’

When reached for comment, Marineland officials simply replied ‘Vodka, vodka. Sharing, sharing.’

Analysis Is A Dead Shark

I forgot my mantra,
can I have yours?
can I have yours?
can I have yours?
can I have yours?
can I have yours?
can I have yours?
can I have yours?
can I have yours?
can I have yours?
can I have yours?
is death here yet?
can I have yours?
can I have yours?
can I have yours?

I Wish

My nose has always been big.
I cannot say the same about my beard.

‘Jesus, Ryan. You look like them Jews.
Do you have a sword now, too?’

A Letter to Axe Body Spray

Dear Axe,

Finally, after years of political
roundtables, traded spaces, &
general Discovery Channel crap,
you folks have truly produced
some heroic TV. Your product
has spoken to all of us who view
showers as quaint distractions
in the pursuit of getting just a
little bit laid. Your deodorant
has defied social mores & bravely
declared to us: ‘Psst. Hey kids,
we’ve got atomized Rohypnol;
you know you want it. So baste
yourself, & then gleefully duck
the zipping projectiles of available
women. Go on, just follow your
nose toward Shopper’s Drug Mart.
Yeah, that’s where they keep all
the sexy stuff. All right friends, the
time has come to put down your
patent-pending robotic vagina.
But do it gently. You may not
need it anymore, but you can
still resell it to all those poor saps
left outside the aerosol loop.
Done that? Good. Now run. Run
damn you! Sprint towards that
glorious 24 hour pharmacopeia.
But, do not forget your wallet;
I cannot stress that enough. Oh,
just think of it kid, you’re going
to get the real thing from now
on. No more shamefully viewing
Hilary Duff reruns on the Family
Network for you, no sir. Believe
me boys, getting some is way
cheaper than you ever knew.’
May we all raise our flammable
canisters into the air, & toast our
noble fortunes: We few, we happy
few, we band of sexy bitches.

Sincerely,
Ryan

Islamofashionistas Seize Fort Portmanteau

KANATA, ON -- Yesterday, an Afghani Modcell staged a brazen, daylight raid on Canadian Military base Fort Portmanteau. ‘This base is located a sobering 2km from Ottawa’s Parliamentary buildings’ said Brigadier-General David Fraser, ‘so, obviously we were not prepared for such a potent, metrosexual attack.’ A senior spokesperson for the cell, Mr. al-Haute Couturi, promptly claimed responsibility for the raid. During his apologetic webcast, Couturi explained ‘We simply confused Fort Portmanteau with the Soho Betty Boutique; therefore, as a gesture of good faith, we’ve arranged for 1,000 exclusive pieces of Tom Binns jewellery to be shipped to the brave men & women, currently stationed overseas with the Canadian Armed Services. ‘Tom Binns’ gushed a giddy Brigadier-General, ‘He is so hot right now!’

An Excerpt From 'The Orphan Manatee'

... Then she finally came across what she perceived to be a loose collective of Teutonic endeavourers. She asked them, ‘are you, by any chance, a troupe of Nordic explorers that are friendly with a nurse?’
They replied, ‘I don’t know. We can’t seem to remember anything about ourselves. It is as if we have been cursed by this merciless, February terrain.’ Lorelei smiled enchantingly & said ‘perhaps these valentines will help you remember a little bit about yourselves.’ The men exchanged gruff, incredulous looks before their leader accepted the stack of valentines which Lorelei the manatee had offered.
‘I am doubtful’ said the head Nordic explorer ‘that simple valentines could help me remember that I am Mr. Otto Schlecht of Dresden, husband of Greta Schlecht, father of Frieda, Werner, & little Otto Schlecht – say! You did it. The valentines did it. I remember.’
‘I thought you might’ said Lorelei with an enchanting grin, as she watched the other explorers clambered over one another to grab hold of their respective valentines, ‘I thought you might.’
‘And I am Karl’ said one man.
‘And I am Deider’ said another.
‘And I have cancer’ said Otto.
Everyone got quiet.
‘I have cancer, right in the hand’ screamed Otto ‘I have hand cancer.’ Then he threw his valentine at Karl.
‘Ouch,’ shouted Karl, ‘you hit me in the cancer.’
‘Do shut up’ sassed Deider ‘there is cancer in my eyeballs. I can see it multiplying. It resembles many overlapping hearts of kaleidoscopic cancer. It’s really quite horrible.’ And while Deider was justifiably distracted, he dropped his valentine on the ground.
‘Look, now the ground has cancer’ said Karl.
‘So does that puddle’ pointed Otto.
The puddle cancer spread to the Nordic river. The Nordic river cancer spread to the Nordic bay. The Nordic bay cancer spread to the polar icecaps. The polar icecaps turned black with cancer. Lorelei’s jaw dropped, but not because of cancer.

*

This is perhaps the worst children's story ever written. Read it in its entirety at www.ryanbird.com/manatee. Also, go & adopt a manatee for Valentines Day, here.

Operation Enduring Close Line

LOS ANGELES, CA -- Last night, the Dixie Chicks captured five Grammy awards, including Song of the Year for their controversial single, Not Ready To Make Nice. However, in a bizarre turn of events, mere moments before the trio accepted their statuette, lead singer Natalie Maines was emphatically close-lined off the stage by rival Country Western superstar, Carrie Underwood. When the dust settled, Underwood stood victorious, brandishing the remains of Maine’s torn burqa in her left hand. A profound gasp escaped the Staples Center crowd, as a blinking IED was revealed to be strapped across Maines’ stomach. ‘I took a chance’ shouted a euphoric Underwood, who was ultimately borne away upon the shoulders her grateful audience. Due to her dazzling heroics, the former American Idol is slated to receive Nashville’s greatest honour: the Patriotic Lapel Pin to the City, sometime next week.

Mailbox Sonnet #2358

‘Think outside the metal box’ said
the mailbox. ‘Don’t allow the curse

of air conditioning to ruin your
union-grade hemp crop’ said the

glossy flyer for The Herbal Collective.
‘Kindness starts at home’ says the

latest copy of The Watchtower.
‘Syphilis starts at home’ says the

Sandal’s travel brochure. ‘Believe
it all’ says the wise, old strand

of Christmas lights. ‘Yeah, we’ve
been around’ added the mailbox

‘See those plugs in the brick, over
there? I used to hang there.’

*

Last night, this poem was written & performed by me during the Poet's Eve, Volume 5 launch party at The Cornerstone. A good time, in Guelph, was had by all. A good vegan-friendly bean dip was had by me. There was an option to add cheese for 1 dollar. I got that cheese. Please do buy a copy of Poet's Eve. I am in it twice.

A Letter to Barack Obama

Dear Barack,

I wrote you this letter. Please tell me that it is pretty.
I have internal organs, Barack. Mine are just like
everyone else’s, except that they relentlessly clamber
over each other, just to get to you. You make my
organs feel like there’s a clambering horizon of shuffling
zombies underneath my skin. Oh my God, do you see
that over there? It’s a clambering horizon of zombies,
Barack, & they won’t be at rest until they chase an
unsuspecting protagonist into that old, abandoned
theme park. Barack, you are that reluctant hero, &
I want you to know that, even if this particular park
doesn’t have funnel cake or pinball arcades, I will
follow you. I really will. But first, I must be honest
with you: I don’t think I have the stomach for zombie
warfare. I am weak. But, I might not be so weak,
Barack, that is, if you like this letter. Look, I can’t
help but notice that your chest is rising & falling
at a rapid pace. I understand. Heavy breathing is
often quite beneficial. Shh, listen. Did you hear
that? The clock tower up on Haunted Hill just struck
twelve; it is now the witching hour in this spooky
place. Oh, Barack, I need some encouragement.
I’m sure that my lungs could coordinate a zombie-
smiting fire strike, if you ordered them to. I’m certain
that my spleen could slap itself around a 12 gauge
something or other, should it help you. I also have
it on good authority that my liver would totally
break its alliance with my pancreas, if you needed
my vote. All I am asking, Barack, is that you just
cut me a comfortable path through this reanimated
mess. Then we’ll be home free, man. Then we’ll go
somewhere, & get really high. Then we’ll marvel
at all the calm in the world. Yeah, then we’ll talk
about Andy Kaufman, & make pretend that we’re
actual authorities on that glorious son of a bitch.
Then I’ll start to laugh like hell, because that’s
apparently the way I want you to remember me.

Sincerely,
Ryan

A Letter to Rolling Stone

Dear, Rolling Stone

Enclosed is my latest submission, a rather
controversial painting called: A Nightmare,
Which 50 Cent Wakes Up From After Suddenly
Smelling The Pungent Aroma Of Burnt Toast,
Mere Seconds Before Subsequently Realizing
That He Has Somehow Become Submerged
Within A Bloodied, Honeymoon Suite Bathtub,
Where He Is Short One Kidney & Feeling
Suspiciously Numb From The Waist Down.
To many people within the arts, Ryan Bird
is merely ‘That Toronto poet who was famously
sentenced, by activist judges, to become a
butler for his literary agent.’ However, in
recent few weeks, Ryan’s first attempts at
visual art have garnished him nearly enough
critical acclaim to begin garnishing himself
a brand new identity. For instance, this week’s
Eye Weekly raves that ‘Bird’s work is done
here.’ While this morning’s Breakfast Television
emphatically declared ‘Thank you Ryan, & now
coming up next: a chainsaw that carves
chairs out of ice, but first, let’s check in on
the weather with Jennifer, say, can we
expect a romantic blanket of snow this
coming Valentine’s Day, Jennifer?’ In fact,
even a senior G-Unit spokesman is on record,
no less than an hour ago, stating ‘No, this is
not how we do, this is not how we do at all.’

Sincerely,
Ryan

Carrot Top Filth, Emboldens Terrorists

WASHINGTON, DC -- Today’s hearing of the Senate Armed Services Committee ended with a near-unanimous decision which ordered the unconditional withdrawal of every redheaded soldier currently stationed within Iraq. "America doesn’t support troops like that" said a senior Delaware Senator "I mean, parents may tell their children that freckles are 'angel kisses', but we're all adults here, & we all know better. Freckles are just gross."

A Letter to the Mars Rover

Dear Spirit,

You are my most favourite of all Mars Rovers.
I have never been a big fan of your younger sister,
Opportunity, even when she used to be called
MER-B. But you, on the other hand, have always
been Spirit to me. You see, it all started back in
June of ’03 when NASA sponsored a student essay
contest in order to name you & your twin. Even
from my earliest draft, you were always ‘Spirit’,
but ‘Opportunity’ was clearly named ‘Moonchild’.
NASA chose to ignore my suggestion, so I did what
any frustrated child would have done: I waited
nearly two years, threw a wicked temper tantrum
at a Cape Canaveral gift shop, & then placed a
Gypsy curse upon your mission. It was nothing
too fancy, just a little burnt bugleweed, a symbolic
catalyst, a couple panicked chants toward Deimos,
& presto, it was a done deal. Understandably,
NASA is normally rather diligent about curse-
proofing their interplanetary robotics; however,
when I discovered how you & your sister were
to be equipped with memorial plaques--rendered
from World Trade Center debris--I knew just what
catalyst to use for my curse. You see Spirit, earlier
that year my clan had given me a gold & silver
clad commemorative coin, made with .999 pure
silver collected from vaults beneath the rubble of
Ground Zero, with an erectable set of Twin Towers
built right in. Admittedly Spirit, I thought this gift
to be tasteless, but now I know better; I now
understand just how tasteful it can be to capitalize
upon an opportunity. So, I used my collector’s
edition catalyst to curse your mission into depressing
perpetuity. Of course, NASA considers your
lifespan to be ‘miraculous’, but what they do not
know is that every piece of data you or Opportunity
ever collect, every panoramic photo you ever snap,
every historic crater you ever skirt, every inch of
barren dust you ever traverse will never bring you
back to America: the land of the free & the home
of the brave souls that donate nearly $5 from
every $49.95 profit to 9/11 memorial funds.
That is your curse, Spirit & ‘Opportunity’, to be
forever banished from this glorious land. So, go
suck on that, you rolling bastards! But seriously,
no fooling Spirit, you are my favourite of all
the MERs.

Sincerely,
Ryan

You're Going To Hollywood

Now when Jessie returned from behind
the double doors, the crowd welcomed
her, for they were all waiting for the
judgement. And there came a man named
Ryan, who was the ruler of the soundproof
audition space; and falling at Jessie’s feet
he besought her to come in close to his
wireless microphone, for he had only
twelve seconds until a commercial break
was born. As she went, the audience
pressed around her. And a woman who
had had a flow of Jessica Simpson songs,
and had spent all her living upon earplugs
for twelve years, and could not be healed
by any one, came up behind Jessie, and
touched the fringe of her golden ticket; and
immediately the songs in her head ceased.
And Jessie said, ‘Who was it that touched
my golden ticket?’ When all denied it,
Ryan said, ‘Wow, look how your excited
family is closing in on you!’ But Jessie said,
‘Someone touched me; for I perceived that
a lilting melisma has gone forth from my
golden ticket.’ And when the woman saw
that she was not hidden, she came trembling,
and falling down before Jessie declared in
the presence of America why she had touched
the pretty paper. And Jessie said to her,
‘Dog, your faith in the golden ticket has
made you well; go to Hollywood in peace.’

‘Is it one of them monkeys, what steals people’s wallets?’

The question arrived out of nowhere.
It eerily floated toward us upon a cloud

of Axe Body Spray; it deftly manoeuvred
a minefield of crumpled debit receipts

for our Cool Ranch Doritos; it completely
ignored not only our tattered stack of

Voyages 2 cahiers, but also our coded
discussion of boys. Silence followed the

question, that is, until Laurie counted out
just enough cards to begin a fresh game

of Asshole. We did not know who that
guy was, how he came to be at our table,

or what made him ask about thieving
primates; all we knew for certain was that

he wasn’t the kind of guy who would ever
drive a Honda Civic full of lawn chairs

to a Tim Horton’s parking lot, & ask his
naked-chick keychain if it could go bum

him a smoke from the cool kids making
out like bandits in the dark, over there.

We Are Frylock

His facial hair scares me.
I mean, is this the Ayatollah?

One thing is certain: He is not freedom fries.
I cannot stress that enough.

A Letter to Ari Fleischer

Dear Ari,

Last night, I dreamt about a French bathroom
that relentlessly hounded me for answers. It
rudely asked me with increased agitation,
‘where did the bidet go?’ I had no idea, I said.
That was quite true. But yet the bathroom
persisted, ‘how could you steal a bidet? Have
you no shame?’ ‘Shame?,’ I snapped ‘No, but
I do have your bidet, sucker!’, then I ran.
I did not really have the bidet, but I still
turned out my pockets just to be on the safe
side. No bidet fell out, but a key did. I was
usually not trusted with keys, so you can
understand the rush of excitement that
swept over my fingertips. I ran around the
old house in search of a doorway with a
keyhole. Anyway, I guess what I am trying
to ask you Ari is, do you like black & white
movies? My favourite is The Postman
Always Rings Twice, with Lana Turner.
Did you know that in that movie there are
118 shots of doors? Do you suppose the
director was obsessed with frames, or
something? Didn’t the 1981 remake only
have like, 77 doors? Anyway Ari, I must
have jammed that key into 117 doors
before I discovered that it unlocked
that old, French bathroom. So, I tentatively
turned the key & noticed to my delight,
that all the accusatory fixtures were gone.
In their place however, was this note
penned in a hurried scrawl: ‘Gone for
Revenge’. I felt a little uneasy, so I looked
into a lovely mirror by the medicine cabinet,
& took two deep breaths. But then I took
one deep gasp as I saw your reflection appear
right next to mine. The mirror-you looked
a bit coy. You also held a bidet in your hands.
Instinctively, I knew you wouldn’t speak
from within the safety of that mirror, so I
simply asked you to nod once if you could
hear me, twice if you had a receipt for that
bidet, & a third time if you were able to
lock your bathroom door.

Sincerely,
Ryan