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08/28/09 - (2)
The Eight Wives of Hank "King Henry" Finkelheimerstein
I must have a very thick epidermis, elephant-hide flesh, Not the thin skin my eight disreputable wives Each, in her fifteen-minute time slot of divorce-court fame, Testified to my possessing — the reason, they claimed, For the marital abuse they could never prove I inflicted on them. Just imagine, not one of them pried one red-scented dime out of me, Which must say something about our Shysterlock justice system, If not about the nature of female invertebrates... None of which means a good flambéed kosher shit to me, anyway, Since I'm a big believer in letting bygones be bygones with the wind. For the past five absolutely hunky-dorily, peachfully peaceful years, I've been on the connubial wagon, you might be so inclined to say, Preferring not to go swimming where sharks have been sighted, Staying under the radar of matronly snake-oil ladies on the make And overage "forty-year-olds," whose marriages have been foreclosed. Life's been good to me, lately. It's definitely the cat's pawpaw patch, Knowing I can go to sleep sans the "sweet dreams, sweetie" shit, Certain no termagants, vixens, harridans, viragoes, shrews, harpy-cunts Might Mola Ram my heart out, Lorena Bobbitt my schlong, Or worse, Klaus von Bülow my "sunny" disposition, before I wake. As for lonely, hard-up, I hardly think so. You should only know. Even the fabled Old Testament Mr. Hard-On himself, Onan, Couldn't hold a paschal candle (so to speak) to me, When it comes to grabbing the lunchmeat gusto, spanking the bonobo, Instead of suffering a rag whining, "I've got a gas headache, Henry!" And so it goes and comes, comes more than goes, these days, Not like those when my eight wives manned the Piranha Squadron, During their unilateral, preemptive jihad against me. Indeed, I never realized how peaceful peace could peacefully be, Until the enemy in my midst disappeared like JAP's at Auschwitz.
08/28/09 - (2)
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