I should've learned french

I should've learned french before going to a restaurant.
What I ordered there was food that I sure didn't want.
I made the mistake of ordering cerveau and escargot.
When I learned that it was brains and snails, I said that it had to go.
When I refused to eat it, the chef threw me out a window and I got a shard of it in my ass.
I went to a proctologist and he asked me five hundred bucks to remove that piece of glass.
I refused to pay it and I got thrown through a window again.
Now I have two shards of glass in my butt, I can never win.
I can no longer sit down, I have to be suspended by a winch.
If you decide to eat at that restaurant, you'd better learn french.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is a fictional poem.

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When I asked a man with a nutcracker to crack my nuts, he misunderstood what I said.
That dumbass kicked me in my crotch and when I recover, he's as good as dead.
When I get riled, I'm like a time bomb that's ticking.
Anybody who kicks a man in the balls deserves an ass kicking.
That moron just walked through the door but he's crawling as he's leavin'.
I shot him in the nuts with my slingshot and now that S.O.B. and I are even.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is a fictional poem but would be painful if it was real.

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Free tooth extractions

Don't go to a dentist, you can have your rotten teeth removed for free.
All you have to do is find and cuss out MR. T.
He knocked out all of my teeth with only one punch.
But now I'm starving, I can't even eat my lunch.

Call MR. T a sissy and you won't have to live with toothaches anymore.
He'll remove them for free but dentures are something you'll have to pay for.
Dentures cost five hundred bucks, it's a situation that makes me brood.
Until we can pay that amount, you and I will have to eat baby food.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is a fictional poem.

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There once was a reverend named Frank who saw many marriages tank before you rush into bed he suggested a"license to wed;for marriages;said he,is not you and me;so before you say ''i do'' whatever muslim,christian,or jew put aside your lust,and develop you trust or the only one to get screwed will be you!

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Blue is the sound of pity
Blue is the smell of fear
Blue is the taste of bland
Blue is the feel of sadness

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Hidden Stranger

Terribly afraid of you
You don't even know
Hidden stranger where are you?

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Nail polish hates me

Nail polish hates me,
it really doesn't like me!

Whenever I put it on,
it smears or comes off quickly!

My sister tries to put it on,
and only one nail stayed painted!

Why does nail polish hate me?
I deserve to have pretty hands, too!

Yes, nail polish hates me,
what can I do?

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Really.... Nail polish hates me!

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Universal Lacking

I wanted to dress this nonsense up in a sort of semi-detached and metaphorical prose, but it just is not working and I’m sick of writing poetry about myself.

Deal with it, internet.

I’ve realized that I’m going to spend a vast majority of life dealing with depression. It’s always going to be looming just over my shoulder, though I will be able to help myself cope with it through medication, therapy; whatever. I’m glad to know that, now. I’m happy to have found a medication that is doing something right for me - it is literally the only positive step I’ve taken in dealing with the problem since I first realized it was even there.

But the feelings keep changing me as I get older, and I don’t know how to control that. I’ve been told in the past that my personality has been “deadened” over time, either by certain, specific events or just by way of spiritual erosion. I really couldn’t tell you, because at that point I hadn’t really thought about it. I was still just me, not trying to project anything outwardly. I was always unhappy about something and over the course of my life, I have done my best to try to keep it to myself and to try to overcome it gradually. Thankfully, I have led a good life, full of good people and good experiences, along with all of the usual lows that life has and will present to every person that has ever and will ever draw breath.

Despite knowing that, and repeating it to myself silently at least once or twice a week for the past four years or so, I still cannot seem to find contentment in life. There’s always something missing. I’ll never know what, as the absence of it still lingers even when I’m in a happy relationship.

At this point, I have to assume that it is simply my “condition”, or however you wish to refer to it, influencing me. It doesn’t seem right or even logical to me, but isn’t that what the Depression wants me to believe?

Anyway, at this point, you all must have assumed that my Depression leaves a very distinct psychic-odor about my person: one that women are able to pick up on and trace for up to six square miles. This psychic stink constantly sounds AND smells like an aging homeless man screaming in Pig-Latin. As all women are only psychically-empowered by the effects of any and all intoxicants, this unfortunate effect is amplified at bars, parties, concerts, etc.

This is the only logical conclusion, as there is a universal lacking within me that all women are able to instantly recognize. It is an exchange that requires no words and no interaction - attempting to connect with another human being actually provokes the effect and makes it more potent.

God willing, moving forward, I WILL discover a cure for this psychic-stink (a psychic antiperspirant?). Either that, or I will plan to remove the part of the female mind that is able to sense my unhappiness, en mass.

With lasers.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This was kind of therapeutic. I might try to do more like it.

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Some little bastards Tped my house and my yard.
I put them over my knees and spanked them hard.
They ran home and told their moms and pops.
Thirty minutes later I was arrested by some cops.

I spent Halloween night behind bars.
Those kids returned and egged my car.
They also left a flaming bag of poop at my door.
They vandalised my house but at least their butts were sore.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is a fictional poem.

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