The Temper and The Tongue

The Temper and the Tongue, the pain and the brain

One must know who he is and what he is made of, otherwise he is destined for failure or worse (eternal dissatisfaction and then maybe suicide). It would be ridiculous of me if I fancy I am as smart as Wittgenstein in mathematical logic or as astute as Obama in seizing up the tenor of his times and capitalizing on it. 

What I have is pride/ego (the two may be different in others but are the same in me. Pride is the front I present to others; Ego is my telling myself that I am more sensitive, creative, philosophical, and logical in thinking than most humans, not counting the belief I have a far richer and more dynamic connection with women) and the ability to traffic on it for self-improvement.  

She called and said she was following my blog

And she was very concerned if I was in a mental fog

I seemed so violent so profane so angry

"What's wrong with you, honey, can you tell me?"

I shot her a reply, saying there was more of me than meet the eye

I was just an exhibitionist and wanted to cry

For attention since I had nobody to talk to

"Really? I never had that impression about you.

You seemed all cocksure, strong, and confident."

Strong, my ass! If I were, I would not say things that were redundant

She laughed that crazy, spine-tingling laugh of hers

"You're real funny, strange, and indeed perverse

But I love you all the same, you already know that, right?"

You make me all shudder, my heart flutter, want to take off my clothes and fight

With you naked in bed, on the floor in the kitchen or maybe in the closet

Where it's dark with no lights on and we both can play the clarinet and trumpet."

I don't know about you, but I like what has been written so far in this post. It contains the usual suspects of condemnation of others and self-glorification, and then a very short story in verse inducing heart-rending cries of anguish and jealousy from several female readers who relied on self-projecting stock phrases of insult. I was beyond annoyance and regurgitation when I read those infantile, sophomoric, inarticulate, constipating lines written in English. I wondered where these women went to school, though, and who were their teachers of English, some low-caste ex-slaves in the "Dark Continent"? I am sitting in a Boeing Dreamliner 787 on my way to Islands of Paradise where blue sky, clear warm azure tropical waters, and constant fresh breezes rule supreme, and where half-naked female natives mingle gladly with male tourists. I will have a chance to try my homemade French language, French bread, and French kisses with some smiling, sexy, brown ladies. Oh la la, I can't hardly wait.