Who Knew Meatheads Could Be Such Poets?

Commenter Justin mentioned being unable to get through the entirety of Wednesday’s wacko-rant. Apparently, that sort of bile needs to be broken down into chewable, digestible chunks.

Even better, let’s tart up the Firehose of Meathead’s missive into poetry! Many of his insults practically arranged themselves into pentametric couplets (though not all iambic, so, overgrown English majors: most lines won’t scan, get over it). I threw in tetrameter at the end. Or possibly not. I haven't taken a poetry class in more than a decade, so I'm rusty on meter.

Without further ado (or maybe just a little more ado...), I offer my first poem in the nearly six years of this site. You're witnessing history, y'all. Weep before its beauty, and recognize yourselves as mere pebbles on the Beach of the Universe.

From the Meathead, With Love
And you are Suzy homemaker who makes
Useless fats, cheese fondue, Old Glory cakes.
My killer abs don’t come from drinking beer,
My old slobby self is my greatest fear.
Endurance training may be cynical,
I do seven miles of elliptical.
And I can pair that with a two-mile run,
So at forty-six I’m still having fun.
Vain? Me? Vain, oh baby, you’ve got that right,
Today I’m just itching for a fight.
My body and cocky-ass attitude,
A conceeded, ripped, chiseled, dago dude.
I can go for hours in the sack,
Provided there’s a mirror on your back.

I love all those useless hours in the gym, but you,
Have your American flag cake and eat it too.

Happy Friday, everyone!