F-U-double-nizzy

Okay...here's something for the pure entertainment value of it (thanks to A&E). Here's my previous post, "The bee-hive having," translated into gangsta-speak, courtesy of Gizoogle. It's some funny shiznit.


The bee-hive doggy stylin'
I love this letta fizzy our Pusha.

Pam n Tony,

On thursday, I tizzy tha whole hive apart again. I couldn't find tha queen but there was lots of brood n I'm sure she is in there lost in tha piles of bees that is present. I did makes killa split, so I unloaded a few more of those bees n brought them over ta mah place ta requeen like old skool shit.

My gangsta attempt ta requeen tha fiznirst split failed. The queen was releazed but killed yaba daba dizzle. Don't ask me why but I placed her in tha hizzy too soon n tha bees were still stressed while in transport n relocizzles. At $14.00 a queen, I'd say its sum-m sum-m I need ta git shot calla at . Drop it like its hot.

Yo hizzle shows no signs of want'n ta swarm. It is an extremely strong hive tizzle is ready fo` tha honey flow ta start. My next move will be ta add a honey snoopa in `bout 10 days. I have bootylicious expectations as everyth'n is primed n any swizzay tendancy has ended n shit.

A couple of guard bees slipped out of tha split hizzy that I was mobbin' ta load into tha ride n a bee nailed me in mah left pusha eyelid . Slap your mutha fuckin self. When I wizzy up this AM, it felt n looked like I had been in a barroom fizzay . Keep'n it gangsta dogg. My left side of mah fizzle was really swollen now pass the glock Anotha dogg house production.. T-H-to-tha-izzat happened at `bout 4 o'clock, n I hoped thiznat you weren't return'n soon. You M-to-tha-izzust have noticed sum-m sum-m was up . Snoop dogg is in this bitch.

I left tha feeda in tha entrance but they dizzay need ta be fed fo' rizeal. At least, not in any time soon hittin that booty. Talk ta you playa. Give me a cizzay if there is any questizzles

I am from

My friend E. sent me this wonderful poem exercise, which is essentially a form of mad-lib style poem making. I had to stop everything so I could write my version right away. If you want to see the template so you can write your own, go here

Here is my poem:

I am from Fry Daddy, from powder puffs wafting silvery talc powder and Prell shampoo.

I am from the doll’s house, with its pink, push-button stove and counters, laundry chutes, sloped ceilings plastered with Duran Duran posters where I wrote the names of my crushes on the bottom of my desk chair.

I am from the Sycamore, the Linden, and the Elmwood, from Cazenovia creek, that wound its way past the cemetery toward Burger King, stinking like a sewer, from Sinking Ponds and four-leaf clovers.

I am from Amazing Grace in the kitchen, and maple spread, from Ruthie and Lois and Floyd. Audrey and Bud. Always an auntie, never an aunt.

From “practice makes perfect,” as I trudged toward ice skating or swim practice, and “you have to call them, even if they don’t call you,” when my heart was broken and lonely.

I am from speaking tongues in an evangelical church, kicked out of catholic school for wearing sideburns, asking the Sunday school teacher to define a virgin, and being stoned to death while spreading the message of Christ.

I’m from Motown and Staten Island, from Sweden and Deutschland. Pickled pig’s feet and liverwurst with mustard, Foosh soup, and little chicken, little salad.

From the stubborn toddler pouring a beer in her mother’s shoe to get attention, the ambitious girl who sold homemade potholders for change, the young woman who escaped her younger siblings by going to church.

I am from refrigerator door, dry sink, battered shoebox.

Bee bother

More Meriweather

I've updated "Meriweather." (See below.) It's such fun to write. I'm still thinking about how to end it though.