Kilmer 2010: Dishonourable Mention ("Oh, the Sex You'll Have!")

Oh, The Sex You’ll Have!

(with apologies to Dr. Seuss)

by Samantha Kuperberg, BC ‘10

Congratulations!

Today is your day.

You’re off to Great Sex!

You’re off and away!

With your brain in your head

And your dick in a box

You’ll do it on a boat

With a goat

And a fox!

You’ll have oodles and noodles and poodles of sex

In a fying car!

Atop a T-Rex!

On a large metal tanker

On a whitewashed fence

On a stack of bibles

In the biblical sense

You’ll try new positions

Like “Cat in the Hat”

Or “Yertle the Turtle”

If you’re into that.

A three-way, a four-way, a five-way or twelve

An orgy, a floorgy—you’re sure to excel!

Except when you don’t.

Because, sometimes, you won’t.

You may wear twenty condoms

But despite how you try

You can get an STD

Or worse—an STI!

There are bumps and lumps in store for you

Herpes, the clap, and syphilis, too!

And maybe a baby—you silly dunce:

Condoms are great—but not twenty at once!

You can get so confused

They said they were clean

And that you were sexy

And that they were 18

You can start to run down

At a break-necking pace

Headed, I fear, toward a most useless place:

The Waiting place.

Waiting for a train to go

Or a bus to come.

Waiting for a syphilis test

Or Babeland to open

Or a call back

From the clinic

With your syphilis test.

Everyone just waiting.

Waiting for the mail to come

Or a bus to go

Or those syphilis results...

They’d—they’d call if there was something wrong, right?

I mean, like, they wouldn’t wait this long if it was positive, right? Right?

Everyone just waiting.

No! That’s not you!

You’ll rush right back in

Once more you’ll ride high

Using two kinds of lube

’Cause you’re that kind of guy

You’ll use whips and chains

You’ll show them your stuff

It’s as if you’re Duffman

And your sex is Duff

And do give directions

If they’re planning to drive

You want them to come

But, also, arrive.

Oh, the sex you’ll have! There is fun to be done!

You’ll go straight past first, and score a home run!

And when you’re out there, with your bat and your ball,

You will have sexy sex—the sexiest of all.

Fame! You’ll be famous—not a bit, but the most

Remember your time with that fox and that goat?

You’ll be on display from sea to sea

With the whole wide world watching on TV

The late-night HBO special titled “Three’s Company”—

Except when they don’t.

Because, sometimes, they won’t.

I’m afraid that sometimes

You’ll play lonely games, too,

With a bottle of lotion

And a sock ... but no shoe.

All alone!

Though it’s quite unintentional

All of your ladies

Have become two-dimensional.

And when you’re alone, there’s a very good chance

You’ll meet things that scare you back into your pants.

But on you will go

Though your ego is scarred

On you will go

Though it’s long ... and it’s hard.

You’ll take it all in

You’ll fill up your cup

’Cause Philos don’t abstain—

They’re just hard up.

On you will go

You will hike through the night

With just your canteen

And your trusty fleshlight

And will you succeed? Yes! You will, indeed!

Ninety-eight metrick fucktons guaranteed.

Kid, you’ll hike the Appalachian trail!

So, be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Merman

Or Jacob Mohammed Siddhartha O’Sherman

You’re off to great sex! Today is your day!

Your maintain is waiting— Now go and get laid.

Kilmer 2010: Dishonourable Mention ("Love Song for the Transportation Security Administration")

Love Song for the Transportation Security Administration

by Joshua Schwartz

Softly, like the lingering touches of a dream-love,

Your not unwanted fingers slowly inch themselves past

My waistband, and haltingly down—

Down—

To the space reserved just for you (and, possibly, foreign weapon-grade material)

Your fingers move in fits and starts;

What are you searching for down there?

Is it my heart? Because that you already have.

I wore my sexiest pair of shapeless sweatpants for you—

No belts, no metal flies or buttons—

I don’t want anything to impede our love.

The other passengers in line look on impatiently, their breathing heavy.

They cannot wait to have their turn,

To have their rendez-vous with romance, their date with destiny.

Long have I admired you from afar, you:

With your brilliant blue shirt and imperial attitude—

You love playing hard to get, and it just makes me want you more.

Oh, grope me, grope me, Mr. TSA Man!

Make me a man with your invasive and unexpected touch.

I saw you giving me the once-over—now look me all over with your FULL BODY SCANNER.

I want you to see everything. I don’t want there to be secrets between us.

I am not hiding anything from you—just check.

You asked me to step over to the side, and I was thrilled.

I knew you wanted some special alone time with me

(Tho’ I saw some dogs around here, and I don’t think I’d be into that).

What excuse did you use to make this happen?

The only weapon I was carrying was one that I cannot remove, if you know what I mean.

When you told me, “I am going to put my hands down your pants,” I felt such a thrill.

Some people like courtship, but I like a man who cuts right to the chase.

I like a man who is bold, confident, and willing to touch hundreds of

Varieties of genitals daily without blinking an eye.

Oh, please tell me mine are your favorites.

And to those critics out there who think this is a

Gross violation of our civil liberties,

I only have this to say: It works. It’s effective.

He touched my genitals, and now I’m flying.

Oh, how I love you, Mr. TSA man.

You with your dextrous fingers and complete disregard for basic privacy.

I want to kick off my laceless shoes and walk calmy but quickly...

All over, just speaking in firm but not extraneously loud tones

Of our love. I know loving you is not duty-free, but I am willing

To live up to the responsibility.

————

Oh. Oh no.

They are moving me along. They are handing me back my things.

I thought we had reached that stage in the relationship

When I would leave my things with you: my belt, a change of clothes,

My toothpaste.

But no. And now you’re gone.

And all I can think is how to see you again.

How to feel your latex-clad fingers all over my body.

I know: I’ll bring a bottle of wine and pack it in my bag for us to share.

And when the guards come to take me away ... to you,

I’ll scream: No!

I’m not a terrorist. I’m just in love.

Kilmer 2010: Dishonourable Mention ("The Love Song of J. Alfred Pfaurock")

The Love Song of J. Alfred Pfaurock

by Miranda Elliot CC'10

for Steven J. Pfau(rock)

Trimalchio, lautissimus homo. Horologium in triclinio et bucinatorem habet subornatum, ut subinde sciat quantum de vita perdiderit!

Let us go then, you and pi,

3.14159...

Like a mathematician confounded at his desk;

Let us go, through somewhat-postered walk-abouts,

The crazed campouts

Of Red Bull nights in a dark, dank Butler room,

and brief Hamdel forays for food,

Exits only at 114th and 116th like the tedious bureaucracy

Of Columbia University,

To lead you to a soul-crushing question...

Oh, do not ask, “What are you doing after college?”

Practicality? Ha! I have fostered my love for knowledge.

In Art Hum, to the Met I would come and go,

Talking out of my ass about art I did not know.

The stacks of paper that beckon me to work,

The piles of paper that present themselves as work

Throw themselves on me, after hours and hours they linger,

Stood silently, mocking me, asking me to finger

The pages, let itself crash to the floor, a disaster,

For days and days, I passed her

Lying there, asking for one kiss, an article of the Spec, she

Proclaims, “Consent? It's sexy.”

And indeed, just give it time for career paths to materialize out of nowhere,

The thought of future perfect and the subjunctive potential;

It might be fine, it could be fine,

Without the 101 of networking know-how.

In Music Hum, to opera I would come and go,

Talking out of my ass about music I did not know.

And indeed, life finds its way to beg the question, “Who are you?” and, “Who are you?”

To submit cover letters anew,

With dangling modifiers and run-ons too.—

[They will say, “How her grammar grows so dim!”]

Does she wait tables on a whim?

Her pencil skirt high-waisted, connected precariously by a pin

[They will say, “But how her meter grows so dim!”]

Who are you,

With your fish unsalted

And your sauce on the side?

And I should speak my mind,

For dignity and sanity, which fleetingly wave their goodbyes.

For these people I serve, one and all,

Think me uneducated, judged so soon,

I have measured out my life with a sorbet spoon,

Presented over and over into the fall

From the summer for the moneyed,

So how should I proceed?

And I have known the 10% tips already, expect it all,

Rich white people who fix my predetermined worth,

And when predetermined, presented on a bill, When I am scribbled drunkenly infinitesimally small,

Then how should I not hate you still,

To spit in your halibut and joke with the busboy about your relative girth?

And how should I then proceed? And how should I begin?

*********

Shall I say, I leave nightly after ten o'clock onto commuter trains,

And dream of nine-to-five paperwork tedium, of bored men in starched shirts, crouching in their cubicles?...

I should have been a fisticorn,

Fisting across the plains of distant galaxies.

**********

And the morning I never see, until the afternoon I wake!

Next to some girl, or boy,

Either way some pretty toy,

With whom love, or rather lust, I make,

Should I, in my somewhat disrobed state,

Ask if I am your only mate?

So naked, so nude, under these sheets we currently share,

Though my heart gets hurt and and bruised and wrecked again,

I am an honest girl—and here's the honest girly truth;

My glory years have come and gone,

I have run a successful clothes check at an underwear party twice,

And in short, I am no longer that cool.

And are the condescending comments worth it after all,

After the Cicero, the Chaucer and the Butler

Have been reshelved, among the rest of past literary

Obsessions, is it worthwhile

To swallow their bullshit with a smile?

To compartmentalize my life before the fall?

“So tell me,” he said, “were there no jobs in your intended field?”

To tell him, “I'll be right back with your foie gras, And, oh, this is my intended field.”—

If he, swirling California Cab in his glass,

Should say: “That is not what I meant at all. That is not it, at all.”

**********

No! I am no alumni success, nor was meant to be;

Am loyal and mistrusting, but serviceably new,

To critique surroundings intensely, while working a job or two,

Serve the rich; and watch the wine director act like a tool,

Smile pleasantly, “Certainly, sir; thank you very much,”

Polite, watchful, and careful

Full of shit, and such and such

And yes, completely disingenuous,

And, always, the educated Fool.

Such an alum, such an alum,

Hey, alum, you look so glum!

Shall I pay for student loans? Can I budget a bit of fun?

I shall invite her to drinks, and pay for every one,

And groan silently to myself when leaving before the drink is done.

I do not think that she will decide to go home with me.

I have seen them driving home in fancy cars,

To houses of brick or steel or stone,

Meanwhile our first guests have not yet shown.

We have waited around all night,

Till two a.m., for a table to stop eating,

Until I may return to an apartment where I can barely afford the heating.

Kilmer 2010: Dishonourable Mention ("How I Got Rich off of Cheese Derivatives")

How I Got Rich off of Cheese Derivatives

or: They May Say it's Unnatural, but You Were Born This Way, Honey!

or: Velveeta is My Flava Fave and You Can, Too.

by Lucy Sun CC'11

In 2002, the FDA determined that Velveeta could no longer call itself “cheese” on its packaging because this was not, in fact, accurate. Velveeta is now packaged and sold in the U.S. as a “Pasteurized Prepared Cheese Product.” Enough exposition! And now, poem.

Velveeta, light of my life, fire of my loins.

Even if it cost me all of my coins,

I would still spring you from the whorehouse that is the grocery store.

Because, baby, baby, baby, oh, I want more.

Vel. Veet. Ta. They say you are not cheese,

Nothing but pre-processed sin.

But my love for you is 100% real, bitch please,

And also from Wisconsin.

Damn Velveeta, you a classy broad

I miss you when I go abroad

Wish I could make some Velveeta fondue

Oh baby, I wish you would do...me.

Velveeta, stop teasing. Let me open up your package, quick.

To find a long, hard, orange brick.

Although you can only get hard if you’re really cold,

I don’t mind fitting to your kinky mold.

I’m just gonna need a bigger fridge.

Velveeta, when I graduate from college,

I’ll take your bricks and build a house out of you.

We’ll move to Alaska, where I’ll live, nay, BE, inside of you.

In the imagery used so far, you possess both man and lady parts.

Because, Velveeta, you’re MORE than a woman. You’re a work of art.

Oh Velveeta, the things I want to do you to you. I’m scheming,

To lay you down on a bed of macaroni that’s steaming

And heat you up until you’re creaming.

If you were a sentient being,

I’m sure that you’d be screaming.

Because I am good in bed.

You’d also be screaming because you’d be cooking on a stovetop on medium heat.

...but isn’t it nice?

And if anyone asks me

If I’d rather give up oral sex or cheese

I’ll consider the question moot—

I’ll have my Velveeta and eat it , too!

WILL: Damn Honeybee, you a crazy chick!

LUCY: Shut the fuck up and suck my dick!

And when you come back,

You better come back with a sandwich.

WILL: Velveeta, you make a great sandwich,

And I’ll always have it ready for my favorite bitch.

LUCY: [takes a bite] What!

Kilmer 2010: Dishonourable Mention ("The Lion")

The Lion

by Josh Raab, CC '12

(careful: he "ejaculates" [l. 97] - Ed.)

The Lion

Once upon a midnight crappy, while I lay abed unhappy,

Struggling through some dull, pedantic treatise on the days of yore,

While I thought, “Well this is boring,” suddenly there came a roaring,

As of someone harshly snoring, snoring near my bedroom door—

“Tis my bastard neighbor’s snoring crashing through my bedroom door!

...Allergies must be hardcore!”

I recall, when I was younger, then for knowledge I’d a hunger,

So Columbia beckoned from the Hudson’s bleak and ominous shore;

Merrily I’d set to browsing through the courses and the housing

Options, every one arousing hopes for wonders yet in store,

And above those myriad matchless wonders college held in store

Reigned that paragon: the Core.

And each page’s breathless turning filled me with the thrill of learning—

Or had once. No longer did I thirst relentless after lore;

Now, that precious source of gladness lost, I felt my solemn sadness

Burst abruptly into madness, triggered by that thunderous snore:

“Fuck my asshole neighbor!” thought I, raging at his thunderous snore.

“He’s a douchebag to the core.”

Whence I shouted, red with fury, “I’ll be hangman, judge, and jury!

You will pay for all the anguish you have caused me! This means war!”

With hostility unbounded, if perhaps a bit ill-founded,

I arose and firmly pounded at my neighbor’s bedroom door;

But however hard I pounded at that asshole’s bedroom door—

Silence from that chamber’s core.

In that vacant hallway waiting, long I held my breath, debating

What misfortune had befallen him that dwelt beyond that door:

“Is he sick? Or in a coma? Was he kidnapped by the Roma?

Has his spirit found a home along the Acheronian shore?

Does his douchey spirit rest along the Acheronian shore?!”

I exulted from my core.

“But if he’s not here,” I wondered, “Whose Samsonian snoring thundered—

What pernicious demon’s roaring was it that I heard before?”

By this awful question hounded, I returned to bed, confounded—

When a deafening bellow sounded, blasting down my bedroom door!

“What the fuck? Whose fucking bellow’s blasting down my bedroom door?

...whoa. Is that a manticore?”

For, as I had now discovered, some fantastic creature hovered

Just beyond the threshold of my newly shattered bedroom door:

Frame of lion, wings of fallen angel, facial hair of Stalin,

Noble head of President Bollinger—and what a look he bore!

What a knowing, stern, demanding, grim and ominous look he bore!

“No! I swear, I love the Core!”

This I cried, and upward lurching, through my books I started searching:

“Here’s Herodotus! Thucydides! I’m sure I have some more!—

But thou regal, handsome lion, of the Western canon scion,

Tell me, in what name should my unbridled adoration pour?

Dude, just say the name, and watch this servile adoration pour!”

Quoth the lion, “Still-the-Core.”

I could not suppress a chortle: ha! What being, god or mortal—

Hermit—or heresiarch—or slave—or hierophant of yore!—

Who, but I, could boast of hearing such a ludicrous, endearing

Moniker? No longer fearing him, I said, “You’ve quite the roar!

Quite the cuddwy widdwle wion, yes you are, with quite the roar—

Cute and fuzzy Still-the-Core!”

Not a word he spoke rebuking; rather, he just started puking

Ink as black as Hades’ nether regions on my tiled floor;

“Hey! Come on, man! Who’s been feeding you?” I cried, my grin receding—

“Leave me to my crappy reading! I was nearly done before!

I had nearly finished all my crappy nightly work before!”

Then he queried: “Still-the-Core?”

“Yeah, it’s Global Core... whatever! Oh, you said your name, how clever—

What, are you a Pokemon? Get out of here! Or fix my door!”

Then, methought, I heard a purring—strange and low, but reassuring—

And my fury not enduring such a blow, I calmed, and more:

I imagined he possessed that single phrase, and nothing more,

And I pitied Still-the-Core.

And this gray, morose emotion brought to mind that lost devotion

Toward those educational pursuits I’d used to once adore:

Why was study now abhorrent? What repugnancy could warrant

Such ennui, whose torpid torrent drowned my desperate thirst for lore—

Drowned that beautiful, fulfilling, noble, desperate thirst for lore?

Could I learn from Still-the-Core?

Thus I pondered as I silently observed the lion’s violent

Vomiting—which, by the way, had covered my entire floor—

But that inky inundation carried no such revelation—

Just as western civilization not a single answer bore!

All that time and paper spent, and not a single answer bore!

Yet I studied still the Core!

Here the lights began to flicker, and the ink came faster, thicker,

Conjuring a sable lake where just was made a sunless shore;

With this hellish deluge rising, “Thou,” I cried, “hast no disguising!

Nor canst hinder my surmising why thou bless and curse my door:

Heaven’s mercy sends a flood to wash this bullshit out my door!”

Quoth the lion, “Still-the-Core.”

“Seer!” I countered, “Brazen mystic! Disregard thy agonistic

Tendencies, and truthfully supply the guidance I implore!

By thy mane with wisdom hoary—in this ancient dormitory—

Tell of that elusive quarry I so long have quested for!

Tell that end to Hums and gyms that I so long have quested for!”

Quoth the lion, “Still-the-Core.”

“Seer!” I countered, “Brazen mystic! Disregard thy agonistic

Tendencies! Stop trolling me! Don’t be a sacred knowledge whore!

By that blood that beats within you, tell this beast of bone and sinew—

Shall that tyranny continue o’er his books forevermore?

Shall my studies burdensome and shackled be forevermore?”

Quoth the lion, “Still-the-Core.”

“Cease thy Stygian oaths defying!”—I ejaculated—“Lying

Spawn of Mephistopheles, and of the Babylonian whore!

...Thine is but a false intrusion!—thou art merely some illusion—

And thy ebony effusion just some shitty metaphor!

But...” I scarcely whispered, “Even were thou dream, or metaphor...”

Quoth the lion, “Still-the-Core.”

And the lion, purring, mewing, still is spewing, still is spewing

Lightless, loveless vomit, filling, flooding all my tiled floor;

Let no further hapless child by this demon be beguiled—

Let this serpent of my tiled Aidenn haunt alone my door;

But ‘tis wishful thinking: only briefly stays he at my door...

I am lost; but still the Core!

I Won't Cut your Fabric...

Bonjour

I have been absent from home and my computer and my bed and my husband for the past week. Have been having a wonderful time in Quebec City, Canada, for the past week. I fly out this afternoon and should arrive home around 9 pm tonight, so don't look for me too early in the morning. It has been crazy here, not much time for computer...I didn't bring mine with me and sharing a community computer with 30 others has not worked for me. So, in the last minutes before the taxi arrives, the computer is free - thus a few words with no photos. I'm afraid my Louisiana photos won't transmit from Canada!

Folks in our group were from all over the US. Great fun making so many new friends. Anyway....I was asked the question this morning if I set up web sites for others. And my response was I cut my own fabric, but I won't cut yours!

I promise lots of photos when I get home, but they'll be published in English only! French is a beautiful language and the language of choice for 80% of the Quebec population, but I only learned two new words this week - Hello and (since the cab is waiting for me) Goodbye

Salut

Kilmer 2009: Winner

Balloon Boy By Philip Glass
by Edward A. Rueda, CC'05

Audio




(Audio begins before video. For clearer audio, please use the link above.)


First Runner-Up
Second Runner-Up
Dishonorable Mention
Dishonorable Mention
Dishonorable Mention
Dishonorable Mention
Dishonorable Mention