Blog #33: Bygone Days of Eldest Youth

Blog #33: Bygone Days of Eldest Youth

…and so I had a notion to do a whole “Mishka: Year One” kind of a deal. Actually, for quite some time I’ve had it in my head to go through old journals and noveletters for material to use for new writing, and this seemed an apropos venue for doing so… Turns out a lot of what I wrote then was either extremely inappropriate or just plain crap. (Or both.)

I’m sure many are those who would say such remains true…

            (Probably not—such would require “many” to be reading me.)



…so I had this notion… and I suppose I will or I won’t. But, should it ne’er come at all to any sort of fruition, here are some highlights thus far… (keep in mind, I’m just beginning; should additional gems occur, I’ll no doubt harangue the world by sharing those as well—and, who knows, mayhap someday ‘twill be a book!?)

And so, without further ado… sum stuff:


There would be no fauns were it not for lonely goatherds…



Mush and Muck


Kill a bunny,

Squish it flat.

Mush and muck;

Eat it.


Kill a kitty,

Gut it live.

Mush and muck;

Who cares.


Kill a puppy,

Tear it up.

Mush and muck;

Oh, well.


Kill a baby,

Smash its skull.

Mush and muck;

Looks like Hell!



from ‘Dung-buckets For All’:

Everyone should have to know whether or not people’s ears are brown and green ribbons of spaghetti sauce and nothing every more. But, you know, the Romans did NOT shave; they plucked their whiskers out with a tweezers. “Ouch!” he said, taking is finger from his nose. Actually it wasn’t his nose, it was his girlfriend’s, but he was renting it for the week.


A boy with flat feet in the first row (actually he had flat feet anywhere he went, but he sat in the first row) stood up on top of his desk, dropped his pants and said: “It says right on a label in my dad’s jacket ‘Don’t put packets of honey in left pocket to avoid puddles and the wasting of swizzle sticks’.”

“Thank you very much, you little, sorry-excuse for a human child. You probably bathe in urine!”


As Mr. Kalidupface left the school and tripped over an old lady doing disgusting things to her dog with a large serving spoon…


The teacher got out of his car, put his pants back on, and then pulled over to the side of the rode, er, I mean “road.” Looking around he discovered that he probably needed a new tie—and not one of those knit-shit ones, either, too! Of course, since their brains were composed mostly of spit, only a small portion of their minds worked right… Or left; I forget which, exactly.


“You crazy pile of cat saliva! If everyone drove like you, we would all drive similarly… And whether or not!” I yelled as I became Mr. Kalidupface again briefly. Then he settled down again, so I stepped out for coffee.


Mr. Kalidupface, deciding to walk home, got out of his car. Then, totally disregarding the previous sentence, he began to drive home. And as he drove out of sight he shouted: “Cherry Mristmas o tall and dung-buckets for all!”



Slovenly, Slovenly


Slovenly, slovenly,

She walks in rare beauty;

Her beauty is rare,

Though she has lovely hair.

Yet for me, t’would do better,

E’er it be not on her legs,

Else, when luckily rubbing,

To get hair on mine tongue.




Slovenly, slovenly,

Her kisses so sweet.

Still, that hair on her legs,

Wraps neat ‘bout her feet.

Bound in great glory

And elegance, so fine,

Once more I look down—

Hey! That hair is mine!


Slovenly, slovenly,

Alas, though I fear.

Oft wonder I what happens.


The trimming, the clipping,

The shaving of two;

The bouncing, the flipping,

And all else for you.





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—Mishka Zakharin © 2015

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