Mommy Wants Vodka

…Or A Mail-Order Bride

Even Better Than The Real Thing


Daver and I happened to be sitting out on our back porch one night, mildly discussing our past relationships. Mainly, it was a back and forth game of virtual tennis, but instead of balls (hehe. BALLS!!) we hurled insults. Basically, it was like playing ‘War’ but without the cards:

Actual example:

‘Dude, you dated Sabrina. Why won’t she update her blog? Email her and have her update her blog.’

‘No. Besides you dated Nat.’

‘Right, but Nat didn’t have an entire section of his website devoted to sappy poemes about me. Didja hear the fancy way I said poemes?’

‘But it’s Nat.’

‘Dude, I so win’

‘No, you don’t. Nat trumps Sabrina.’

‘…ad nauseum

During this discussion, Dave made mention of sappy love poetry he’d written, and I was forced to reveal that although I had ‘Å“whored around’ I had never had a crappy emo poeme written for me.


The Daver saw his opportunity to shine, and went a-running with it. So now, at the tender age if 25 I am in possession of my first ever crappy, sappy and lame emo poeme, reprinted here just as the author had intended it.

Becky’s Crappy Sappy Emo Poeme (I named this bad boy; Dave would probably have named it something emo-like and crappy like ‘Velvet Turbulence’).

‘Burning like tear-trails,
desire unrequited-
with a glance, your flame
flares searingly through
my veins.
Blood boiling,
then cooling,
then freezing my icy heart.’

So I retorted with this beauty:

It Tastes Like Battery Acid, You Bastard!

‘you sweet and sensuous velvet sparkly
caresses my mouth,
i yearn,
i burn,
for more.
i need you,
like i need air,
without remorse.
i listen not to others,
who complain about your taste.
as they have no more taste-buds.
you taste like angels,
and faeries,
and all that is good with the world.
like the guy at the 7-11 who provides you to me.

As I handed my prized poeme off to The Daver for inspection, expectantly waiting for the ‘Wow! You’re an amazing poet!’ compliments to start flying my way, I was sorely disappointed. For all of my .56 seconds of effort (most of those .01 seconds were spent trying to figure out how to spell angel and caress) I got a measly:

‘Becky, this poem isn’t about me. It’s about Diet Coke.’

Touche, The Daver, touche.

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