Home > Poetry > Hot Dog

Hot Dog

This one rigged ass game we all play.

It’s outcome determined long before it started,

it’s stars,

written in the stars.

Yet we play,

we dutifully carry on,

because someone convinced us there was a reward at the end just for playing,

and we play and play even though the game sucks,

hoping for a participation trophy at the end.

And we can’t quit, because, well, quitting is bad,

and quitters won’t get a trophy at the end,

and the Ref says they’ll have to go to a bad place.

As if there was something worse than this,

and fuck that Ref,

I’ve never seen him,

have you?

But for some reason we keep playing and playing.

We make up new rules all the time too,

as if the old rules weren’t shitty enough.

Is that a hot dog you are eating?


That’s made of meat. 

Meat is murder.

You shouldn’t eat hot dogs.

Now a poor sap like me, just some 4th string nobody who won’t be remembered,

can’t even enjoy a hot dog without wondering if it’s really a bad thing,

being afflicted as I am with an overzealous conscience,

and terminal niceness,

I can’t just say, fuck you you arrogant fuck,

this bullshit game sucks as it is,

did you really have to go and spoil my god damned hot dog too?

Categories: Poetry
  1. August 4, 2010 at 6:06 am


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