The Wussy Boy Manifesto
my name is big poppa e
and i am a wussy boy.
it's taken me a long time to admit it...
i remember shouting in high school,
"no, dad, i'm not gay!
i'm just... sensitive.
i tried to like hot rods and jet planes
and football and budweiser poster girls,
but i never got the hang of it!
i don't know what's wrong with me..."
then, i saw him,
there on the silver screen,
bigger than life and unafraid
of earrings and hair dye
and rejoicing in the music
of the cure and morrissey and
siouxsie and the banshees,
talking loud and walking proud
my wussy boy icon:
duckie in "pretty in pink."
and i realized i wasn't alone.
and i looked around
and saw other wussy boys
living large and proud of who they were:
ralph macchio, wussy boy;
matthew broderick, wussy boy;
and lord god king
of the wussy boy movement,
john cusack in say anything,
unafraid to prove to the world
that sensitive guys much kick ass.
now i am no longer ashamed
of my wussiness, hell no,
i'm empowered by it.
when i'm at a stoplight and
some testosterone redneck
jock fratboy asshole dumb fuck
pulls up beside me
blasting his trans am's stereo
with power chord anthems to big tits
and date rape,
i no longer avoid his eyesight, hell no,
i just crank all 12 watts of my car stereo
and i rock out right into his face:
(devil sign and morrissey's voice)
"i am human and i need to be loved
just like everybody else does!"
i am wussy boy, hear me roar (meow).
bar fight? pshaw!
you think you can take me, huh?
just because i like poetry
better than sports illustrated?
well, allow me to caution you,
i'm not the average every day
run-of-the-mill wussy boy you
beat up in high school, punk,
i am wuss core!
(flash "wc" gang sign)
don't make me get renaissance
on your ass because i will
write a poem about you!
a poem that tears your psyche
limb from limb,
that exposes your selfish insecurities,
that will wound you deeper
and more severely
than knives and chains and gats
and baseball bats
could ever hope to do.
you may see 65 inches of wussy boy
standing in front of you,
but my steel-toed soul is
ten foot tall and bullet proof!
bring the pain, punk,
beat the shit out of me,
show all the people in this bar
what a real man can do
to a shit-talking wussy boy like me
but you'd better remember
my bruises will fade
my cuts will heal,
my scars will shrink and disappear,
but my poem
about the pitiful, small, helpless
cock-man oppressor you really are
The preceding poem is the slam legacy, the epic masterpiece of poet Big Poppa E, otherwise known as R. Eirik Ott. There was simply no other way we could explain exactly how damn good Ott is. His intense live performances are the jolt of brilliance you need to lead a quality life.
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