Sister Slam and the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip Read Free Page B

life
    will be different
    and all that.
    It’s bogus.”
    The obscene geek guy
    opened a lemon pie
    and shoved it in his venom-trap,
    chewing with his mouth open
    like some kind of
    Conan the Barbarian
    moron.
    â€œFat pig,” he blubbered,
    his flubbery gut
    bouncing as he lumbered
    away.
    â€œDork,” I responded.
    That’s when the retard
    retaliated by bombarding
    my car with his smushed-up
    lemon pie.
    And then I
    knew Rule Number Three
    of the university:
    People Are Rude in the Real World, Too.
    Without a clue
    as to what to do,
    I just turned and threw
    a hunk of chewed-up gum
    at the dude’s fat buns.
    Lucky he didn’t have a gun,
    because I would’ve been one
    dead poet.
    But don’t you know it,
    when we left the station,
    Mister Hideous Lemon Pie Idiot
    followed right on our tail,
    never failing to turn
    onto every road we followed.

Lesson 5
Expect Annoying People
    The Lemon Pie Guy
    followed us all the way
    to Tin Can,
    and man, was I mad.
    â€œWho do you think you are?”
    I called to the pathetic
    maggot-gagging
    dweeb
    crawling out of
    his yellow VW.
    â€œI know who
you
are,
    missy,” said
    Mister Hissy Fit,
    all pissy.
    â€œYou’re the poet
    who doesn’t know it,
    but you have no chance
    of winning
    this slam.”
    â€œOh, boy,” I shot
    back, cracking up.
    Twig and I,
    cackling like chickens,
    followed his bubble-gum butt
    and flubbery gut
    into the brick building.
    Registration was taking place,
    and most poets were patient,
    waiting in line and smiling kindly,
    but Lemon Pie Guy
    didn’t know how to smile.
    He just muttered and mumbled,
    grumbling, rumbling, fumbling
    in his pocket
    for a pencil, and then
    stumbling on something
    nobody else could see.
    â€œHow annoying can one person be?”
    Twig commented, and a chick
    in tinted-pink glasses laughed.
    â€œI’m going to smack his
    big ugly head,” I said.
    It wasn’t what I meant,
    but I said it anyway.
    â€œThat’s not nice, Laura,” said Twig.
    â€œI mean, Sister Slam.
    That’s not nice, Sister Slam,
    to tease the man.”
    â€œIt’s not a man,” I said.
    â€œIt’s a thing.
    If I could sing,
    I’d have a song
    about how it’s just wrong
    to exist in this world
    if you’re surly
    like him.”
    Twig grinned.
    â€œYou’re the Queen of Surly,”
    she said.
    â€œI know,” I agreed.
    â€œI am edgy.”
    â€œSo write a poem,” said Twig.
    â€œForget about Gloom Pillows
    and Huge Boobs.
    Write about Lemon Pie Guy.”
    Twig is my life raft in
    every hurricane,
    my Tylenol for every ache
    and pain.
    She saves
    me from going stark-raving-crazy
    insane.
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    â€œWhat rhymes
    with Lemon Pie Guy?”
    Twig shrugged.
    By that time,
    Lemon Pie Guy
    had disappeared
    into his weirdness
    somewhere,
    and we didn’t care where,
    as long as he was out
    of our stare
    and our air.

Lesson 6
How to Take Lemons and Make Lemonade
    Festering with indigestion
    in the Sleep Best Inn
    on that night in question,
    I was desperate
    for the white light
    of revelation
    that would lead
    to the creation
    of the best
    lemon pie poem ever,
    but I was suffering
    from inspiration constipation.
    The slam began
    at 8 A.M.
    the next morning,
    and I was pouring
    everything I had
    into writing a poem.
    Twig wanted to rent
    videos, but I said,
    â€œNo. Poems are groovier
    than movies.
    Now be quiet,
    so I can think.”
    In the pink
    stink of the
    cigarette-stenched
    room,
    Twig was digging
    the sixty-six
    channels on the
    television screen,
    and I was as green as spinach
    with frenzied envy
    that her poem was finished.
    â€œThis isn’t a pajama party,
    Miss Smarty,” I said.
    â€œI need to think!
    I’m on the brink
    of wearing mink
    and riding in a limousine
    if I win this slam.
    I want to be on the
    cover of
People
magazine!
    I need to be the queen
    of beat,
    the sweetest heat
    where