This fuckin' year, man. Even as shit's not really that bad, shit just feels like it's spiraling down into the toilet of our abyssal politics. You can't turn around without some jagoff screeching about "wokeism" or "groomers" or whatever nonsense word or phrase they've come up with to mean "People who make me mad for completely irrational reasons that I probably got from some stupid video." And every single time we allow ourselves to be even slightly giddy heading down Hope Street, we know that around every corner is Despair, and that motherfucker's carrying a machete.
We approach 2023 with the prospect that Donald Trump will finally be rooted out from the Republican Party, yet we know that the disease that he unleashed on our nation will not be cured and, in fact, its symptoms will be fostered by the craven DeSantises and Greenes and Noems. We are thrilled that Democrats held the Senate, even expanding their majority, but we know that, come January, the Republican-led House is gonna be a batshit hootenanny of conspiracy theories and vengeance. And Covid is still here and still murdering people, as I know personally. Machete after machete. Dodge one and there's another about to come at your face.
So around these parts, we kick the calendar year's ass out the door with haiku, those little 3-line poems you were forced to write in grade school and everyone made it about poop, except for that one kid who took it seriously and wrote something so beautiful that the teacher brought it home to show her family and prove to them that it was possible for children now to connect with the ethereal and allow the muse to flow through them and what was I talking about?
Oh, yeah, haiku. Send me yours. Here's the deal:
Submit your haiku about anything you want having to do with the fucked up 2022 to "rudepundit(at)yahoo(dot)com." I'm the only judge and jury here, and I am generally fickle, cranky, drunk, high, and yelling at birds.
I'm also a stickler for the form: one line of 5 syllables, one line of 7 syllables, and one line of 5 syllables, in that order. They can be as filthy, funny, or fucked-up as you like. You can be serious, silly, or sanctimonious. Titled or untitled. The ones I like the best get published on here over the next few days, so lemme know what name you want on it (in case your boss or mate or Mom sees it) and where you're from. Like "Elon Musk's Blood Emerald from Balltorture, AL" or "Alisha from San Francisco" or something.
Here's a few to inspire you:
The End of the Committee
A report's onlyAs good as the indictments
That come after it
Relax
One day, cold, alone,
Tucker Carlson will die, too.
That's it. That's the poem.
Climate Changed
No god is needed.
We have all the floods and fires
We create ourselves.
Okay, now it's your turn. Send 'em on.
(Note: Yeah, the title up there was one of my favorite flicks of the year.)
