Lutsen haikus
So, every year we go to Lutsen, MN with a gaggle of our friends. We rent this big executive cabin and 10-15 people head up there and for several days everyone gets loaded and plays games, watches movies, plays guitars, walks around in the nature, throws shit at the seagulls, hangs out, reads, plays cribbage, smokes, eats, eats, eats…
We also have a special tradition of creating haikus. You know, the poems? That you learned about in the 4th grade? 5 syllables, 7 syllables, 5 syllables….
It’s a little hard to explain, but we all sit around the giant wooden table and in the middle are tons of pieces of paper and pens. The only rule is that you can’t write 2 lines in a row. You might grab a blank sheet and write the first line of 5 syllables — then you throw it back in the mix. Someone else grabs it and writes the next line of 7 syllables and throws it back in. Someone else grabs it and finishes it…. and will often start the next one, as well. When we have 30 or 40 of them – we all get up and go outside and take turns reading them aloud.
You might be spinning your finger in the air in the internationally known gesture for “whoooo -peee” right now, but it’s much funnier than you think. We all look forward to it — and each of us spends several days when we got home trying to stop our brains from counting the syllables in everything we and other people say. Every year there are some reoccuring themes — last year, the Pope had just died that morning, so that was one of the themes – sex, drugs, drinking, poop and anything else inappropriate are always popular… and just plain funnier than other subjects.
Here are some of my favorites from the ’05 trip:
(READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!)
(and maybe have a few cocktails first, these are much funnier when drinking…)
Freddy got fingered
Who is this Fingered Freddy?
Dude, check your name tag!
Oh, blessed divorce!
I think I am in trouble
God saw me, that time
Soviet tanks roll
The red-light district is full
Flat Russian hookers
You never know when
Life will hand you lame lemons
Small fruity crutches
No corn in my poop
That’s odd, I’m a corn aphid
Your ass is my home
Here I go again
Sometimes I no wait, that’s you
Stop being me, jerk!
When does it all end?
Post apocalypse, you mean?
No dummy Viagra
Cool pistachio
Brown, like your mustachio
Fuck Ralph Macchio
Hey! It’s time to go
Pope John Paul thought to himself
So tired of shaking
I am so stupid!
You’ve got nothing on me, friend
‘Cept the stupid part
