A few years ago, my friends Kelly and Tobe got married. I decided to write them a poem, but I didn’t want it to be about the usual “marriage stuff.” So this is what I gave them, on parchment in a beautiful wooden frame:
I had sex with Mahatma Gandhi It was years ago on a business trip to India. He was in the midst of a hunger strike But he wasn’t on a sex strike — that’s for sure.
I met him in a hotel lobby About 8AM, I was just checking in. Someone behind me said “Nice suit, buddy.” He was really thin — with barefoot, calloused feet.
He took my bags and climbed the stairs I thought he was the bellhop, boy was I wrong. He shook his head when I tried to tip him "No money or possessions" — like my main man Christ.
He took my hand and led me inside He said the liberation of his country was at stake. He ripped my shirt as he pulled me to him Such a peaceful guy — but he sure liked it rough.
A half hour later the dream was over We lay on the floor and drifted off to sleep. When I awoke, no sign of “Skinny” Just a simple note — “God be with you, you were great.”
I called room service and ordered breakfast Too bad he couldn’t stay for some steak and eggs. When I look back, I can’t help but smile At that morning I had my ass reamed by Mahatma Gandhi.
A termite goes into a bar and says “Is the bar tender here?” The bartender replies, “Yes, I am the bartender.” The termite says, “No, I was joking, I said is the bar… tender, like is it tender enough to eat?” "Oh, I see," said the bartender, "that’s hilarious. Kind of a double meaning thing."