Remember how I used to have contests and things? Remember how some of those included poetry? I miss those days, guys.
Related to this is that the fabulous Elfi sent me some codes for minipets. I have two: one for the Cenarion Hatchling and one for the Pandaren Monk. I told her she should run a contest with them rather then bestow them upon my not properly appreciative self (I never run with mini pets out if I’m paying attention due to them bothering me), but she sent them to me anyway saying that she didn’t have any ideas for contests.
Thanks to a stray comment from Pilfkin in Twitter this morning, an idea was hatched.
Vogon. Poetry. Contest.
If you don’t know what Vogon Poetry is, then shame on you and I’ll be taking your geek card at the door. But I’m sure I won’t have to do that to anyone here, so here’s the fine print:
I’ll be the judge. All judging will be 100% arbitrary. I will award useless points for overuse of big words and the creation of made up words. Length and pointlessness will also be key factors. Topic is unimportant, but I’ll post the winning entry here for sure.
I’ll accept entries from now until the 27th – that’s two weeks to get a masterpiece to me. Plenty of time to come up some really bad poetry. Entries should be mailed to me at alas at kissmyalas dot com.
The winner will get their choice of the two pets I have available. I’ll reserve the second for an honorable mention, assuming they even need it. I suspect there may be some regional-related shenanigans to take into account (Blizz’s store is most definitely blocked from work so I can’t check until I get home), but for the best worst poem I may just pony up a few bucks so that I can include my non-US and Oceanic readers as well. Cause I love all you guys.
Alright, go!
/hopes that this isn’t another case of my being amused and excited by things no one else is
-A Final Farewell-
Empty roll
Of toilet paper
Stained a bit
By water vapor
You seem so glum-
And naked, too-
All that’s left
Is a bit of glue.
You’ve now outlived
Your useful span;
Meet your new best friend
The garbage can.
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See, see the feisty sky
Marvel at its big yellow depths.
Tell me, Alas do you
Wonder why the armadillo ignores you?
Why its foobly stare
makes you feel confused.
I can tell you, it is
Worried by your refiblen facial growth
That looks like
A pak choi.
What’s more, it knows
Your moist potting shed
Smells of sprout.
Everything under the big feisty sky
Asks why, why do you even bother?
You only charm cheeses.
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Once you were round
and fuzzy
The color of that broken crayon
over there
Now you are mashed
your bits scattered and sticky
Into the government issued
linoleum floor
You must have been
delicious beyond comprehension
Before you were squashed by that
Mean looking fifth grader’s
Neon green converse shoe
with one white and one orange shoelace
And an equally bad attitude
I have trouble thinking you were
Scrumptious
When you look to be mixed with poo.
Shawndra recently posted..Clarabelle’s New Ride.
This was a lot more difficult than I thought it would be. After all, how tough can it be to write something terrible? I hope I have managed to capture the particular… spirit… of Vogon poetry.
——–
An Ode to the Person Over There Whom I Have Never Met But For Whom I Have Discovered a Tender Emotion
The serendipitous whiffling of the snufloxes
Chiming adequately far and twee,
Rendering very more specious motes
Of dingling adipose mute,
Are not half so smarmy as
Thy nictitating beedle-smeedle meted out
In punctilious harmony.
Verily, my turmtumlets seek to descend
For whooping clinging tiffs of schlam
To beat out the daylights of any awfletcherous villager meeteling foam
And see if you can top that.
Lip-slingers muckle may flummox turpoli
While plutons fustigate squeedishly
And trickle to the mellifluous lining
Of yummy sloes
Nevertheless
They can get stuffed.
My love,
For you,
All is twirgy.
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A fair summer thwarginsapple
Upon hich I mourn
Where doth thou qusinaffle?
I sundoon lorne.
My thighs quizattoo in a sound unknown
A smell of prettle sappled horns
Seep into my musty unquintapo bones
Shrieking at the child just borne
Where doth thou qusinaffle?
I ask in not a pound of jest
My emotions rage in a saddle
Of my whimpering chest
(I’m entering to win, but refuse any prizes)