Becoming Nipsey Russell

All Nipsy stills graciously stolen from: http://www.allstarpics.net/pic-gallery/nipsey-russell-pics.htm. Even the (obviously) photoshopped one.

A few nights ago I was left with about an hour to kill at work, with absolutely nothing to do. (I had to cover the store’s Service Desk for a few breaks, on a Wednesday night (i.e. the slowest day of the week). Meaning no crazy, candy cane returning ladies, no stripping hobos, and, sadly, no Chewbacca). Now my mother hated letting anything go to waste; especially time. As her only blog-writing, non-necrophile son, I just had to find some way to make her proud. Leaving me with only one realistic option: write haikus about my lunch.

For the record, I had the same lunch that I have everyday: a packet of tuna and some vanilla yogurt. A noticeably volatile combination of flavors; also the topic of the first few haikus. Also, I studied English literature in college, not ancient Japanese writing styles, so the only working rule I was following was the common one: 5-7-5 syllables. I’ll leave the discussion of on‘s to the Japan-ophiles.

I actively avoided learning anything more from haiku’s wiki, because sometimes playing a culturally insensitive game is all that you’re after.

Gracious sea chicken.
Adrift in white liquid snow.
My hunger ceases.

Unruly stomach.
“Calm!,” my vanilla spoon cries.
We all leave content.

Vanilla aroma.
Silences my trembling gut.
One oz. of heaven.

(Merciful Fate gets a nod here, as they generally do after every lunch.)

Do not break the oath.
No sugar in my system.
Low carb vanilla.

“Clean slate,” says my spoon.
As it drips inside my mouth.
Vanquish the tuna.

—WARNING!—

The following were written at work the next day, when the inspiration was more “I woke up with a really low blood sugar and against all my friends’ advice still decided to go to work” than yogurt. My apologies.

The rainy day blues.
Might be good or bad: pick one.
I have circled “bad.”

Mad about my laugh.
“Sorry Sir,” I lie-no guilt.
Grown men should not cry.

Beaten down and drained.
Chobani don’t fail me now.
Sometimes gamblers lose.

One for you at home! This one is the dollup of whipped cream on top of the yogurt, one you can modify to torture your own “friends.”

Yogurt in my car.
After having a beach day.
Check and mate Sara.

—OR—

Checkmate Jennifer.

Just throw any two- or three-syllable victim name into the line! And start an instant pissing contest about who’s day was better.

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