Yahoo! Search Poetry

I wrote you a poem based on the search term “Satan’s Asshole” using Yahoo! Search and the recommended search terms Yahoo! provided.

Satan’s Asshole: Best Gas Grills

Satan’s Asshole: Affordable Cigar Humidors

Satan’s Asshole: Huge Deals on Bose Speakers

Satan’s Asshole: Order your fire extinguisher now!

Satan’s Asshole: Great Swimsuit Styles

Satan’s Asshole: Gift baskets for every occasion

Send your letters to the editors to



A Terrible King

Once upon a time, there was a terrible King. This terrible King would amuse his friends by torturing peasants he brought in to his court from the countryside.

His favorite form of torture was fooling peasants into torturing themselves.  The King and his court especially loved these sorts of games.

One day he brought in a man from the countryside with grand ambitions for wealth. Knowing this, the terrible King said to him, “I will give you 1/4th of my Kingdom if you allow us to cut off your hands.”

Said the peasant, “but without my hands, how will I work the land, feed myself, clothe myself?”

Said the King, “Fool! When you are rich like I, you’ll have servants to work the land, and to feed you and clothe you.”

“Ah yes, I see.” said the peasant. “Go ahead then,”

And so they cut off his hands.

Said the King, “ah, you’re now a wealthy man indeed!  But you could increase your wealth still!”

Said the peasant, “please King, tell me how?”

Said the King, “Ah, but if you will only allow us to remove your eyes and eat them, I will give you a full half of my kingdom!”

“But without my eyes, how shall I see where to go?” asked the peasant.

“Fool!” said the King. “When you are rich like me, you have servants who can see for you! My own eyes are dim and weak, and I have my servants describe to me what they can see and I cannot.’

Considering owning half the kingdom, the peasant king rolled the idea of doubling his wealth back and forth in his mind.

“Ah yes, well then.’ said the peasant. “Let’s go ahead with it.’

As soon as the peasant had agreed, a mystical looking device, gilded with gold, was brought out into the court.

“Just look into this device,” said the King, “and you shall soon be a very rich man indeed!”

The peasant leaned over the box, looked in, and the device snatched out his eyes.

“It is a great honor to be your equal, your honor.” said the peasant.

“Ah yes then!” said the King, “Dress this man in my finest robes! A man whose wealth equals my own, should look the part!”

Servants dressed the man in a robe made of rags, and placed on his head, a crown made of tin.

“If only you could see these fine accouterments…” said the King.

“Ah, yes, “said the peasant, “they seem to be quite nice.”

Said the King, “You are now a very wealthy man!  You are my equal, owning half of what was once my kingdom! But how would you like to increase this wealth still?”

Ever greedy, and thinking about how he could soon be even more rich than the King himself, the peasant said, “I would like that very much.”

“Ah yes, well, “said the King, “I have never tasted human tongue.  If you let me eat your tongue, I will give you 3/4ths of my kingdom.”

“But how will I call to my servants/” said the man.

“Simple,” said the King, “Once, I fell ill and lost my voice, so the court wizard created a device that allows me to project my thoughts to my servants, directly into their heads.”

The peasant man had never heard of such a thing, but did not want to seem a fool, so he said, “Ah yes,  let’s go ahead with it then.”

Another gilded wooden box was brought out to the court, with many mechanical devices within it.

“Just lean forwards into this device,” said the King.

And so the peasant man did. And the device cut out the peasant man’s tongue.

“Just to prove to you how well this thought transfer device works, imagine now the most glorious feast.’

“Ah yes, I see it now” the peasant attempted to say, but could not, as he had no tongue.

The King’s servants brought before the peasant a platter of hot garbage and cold cow feces.  The peasant ate all that was served to him, but could not taste, and continued to believe that this was a glorious feast of roasted meats, cheeses, fruits, and other delicious foods.

The King and his court did all they could to avoid laughing at the peasant as he ate garbage and feces.

“Ah! You are such a wealthy man now!’ said the King. “More wealthy than I!”

The peasant smiled, stupidly.

“I have long been King, but I have never eaten human ears before, and it’s such a taboo.  Surely you can help me sate this desire?”

The peasant jerked his head up and nodded, excited to rule the entire kingdom.

After his ears were removed, he was placed in a dungeon, where he had no hands with which to feel, no eyes to see, no tongue to speak, and no ears to hear. He thought he was a great and wealthy ruler of the kingdom, and died thinking so.

Send your letters to the editors to

This Was An Important Scene In a Film That Was Never Made.

It would seem in light of our treatment by our captors, that we have lost our humanity.

They tell us over and over that we are dogs.  They kick us, like dogs. They shoot us like dogs. And up until now, we have been all too willing to play the role of a dog. We cower and lick their boots, in the hopes that they will spare us their abuse.  But I have news for you, they aren’t going to spare any of us, we’re all going to be killed and thrown in a ditch. Continue reading

Steven Handscomb’s Startup Proposal

It’s friday afternoon or morning. I can’t tell because I only work two days, five times a month.

I’m on my daily three hour jog around the Eastern Prom trail. My knees don’t hurt this time, because I had kale and Greek yogurt at my last lunch.

In a fit of caprice, I find myself gliding down the newly constructed Bayside trail on the well-oiled engine of my perfect knees. On Anderson Street, I spot a new brewery that opened up this morning. My knees and their caprice instinctively carry me towards it. The sign reads “Five Guys Diners and Dives” and I laugh, even though no one is there to hear me. I decide to go inside to sample one of their ales, or lagers. I can’t recall which is the good one.

But inside, instead of seeing a group of motivated young bearded men serving well-hopped alcohol, I see only my friends and family, sitting at a hand-crafted wooden table. Everyone is on only one side of the table, like in the famous painting. But this isn’t necessary, because I know what the backs of my friends and family look like. They frame the astonishing and disorienting visage of Steven Handscomb, who is seated immaculately at the center of the far side of the table.
“Have a seat on your side of the table,” He requests. There is plenty of room to slide from side to side on one of our locally-sourced rolling chairs.” Without hesitation, I take a seat at the table opposite of my friends, family, and the most enigmatic wood sprite in the great state of Portland, Maine, Steven Handscomb. Glasses and mountains of bagels crowd the table suddenly. I say ‘suddenly’ only to denote an amount of time that cannot be measured by celestial durations.
Steven Handscomb officiates what will be the most important ceremony of this trimester. The sweat that I earned on my jog beads up around the erect hairs of my neck. Steven continues to proclaim his wishes.

“Drink of this wine and Moxie cocktail. This is my blood. Take these bagels from a restaurant called 158. They are my butt. Eat of my butt; drink of blood: and you shall find eternal relief from dry rot in your terrible apartments. Only through the Lord, my Aunt, may you find this immanent spirit.”

Globbing the contents of my plate and goblet hard, I look up only to focus on the next words that come from Handscomb’s mouth. “I got a start-up idea,” he exclaims with thunderous vivacity. “I want to sell you German-engineered, hand baked Toblerones for $400 dollars. Not these new mass produced toblerones with less chocolate that you see at generic stores, but artisanal, hand-chopped, hyper-local, artisanal Toblerone chocolate mountains.”

Everyone seated, including your truly, closes their mouths out of politeness: drooling is an abomination to Steven Handscomb, I deduce intuitively.

Can We Boycott Our Way To Power?

I think that if you could find a nonprofit, or a broad coalition of nonprofits, with a large base of support, a boycott could be a really good short term strategy that will be able to force concessions on a few items here and there.

But I think there are a lot of opportunities for a boycott to fail to create the deeper systemic change we are hoping for, and I think that in the future it will be necessary to pursue other strategies that are more involved than changing purchasing habits. Continue reading

A Tale of Steven Handscomb

It’s a normal night here at the Empire Dine and Dance.  I’ve never seen this man before, but he emerges.  A Hall and Oates song starts playing, but I couldn’t tell you the name of it, or what the hook is until it gets to the chords.  The man is standing there with a bottle of brown liquor held tightly to his lips and tilted far above his head.  He is jerking quickly back and forth.  Not dancing, but… jerking.

Suddenly, I realize that the song is coming out of his butt.  His name is Steven Handscomb.

How do I know that?

I also know that he manages a moving company.  Where did he get that bottle?  I look at the bartender, who doesn’t seem to care.  He is gazing at Handscomb serenely.  He has only the slightest smile hung from his approving face.

As Steven jerks back and forth, he moves his stiffly-straight legs across the floor, like a spirograph pen skittering on top of a card table.  We are now halfway through the song, and I recognize its chorus.  A bird rubs its back on the window from outside.

I don’t come to the Empire Dine and Dance regularly, but I come here often enough to know that this slowly descending disco ball is new.  A middle aged woman in the corner is showered with Nickelodeon slime.  After a moment, she laughs with a shocked expression holding her lips apart.  The spring equinox will come in 54 days, I recall.

The song ends, and by this time, Steven Handscomb has grown a mustache.  We’ve all grown mustaches.  As I fumble through my purse, looking for a razor, I notice that Steven Hanscomb is missing.  He is gone like the winter, and gone like his song.  But he has made my dreams.

Come true.