Laughter
Toilet Humor for Psuedointellectuals
- My Thanks to Dorothy Parker
- Another Day, Another Universe
- Candlestick Phone
- One of Life’s Little Failures
- I Have No Calling
- Some Poets
- My Butt (After Steve Martin’s King Tut)
- That Feeling
- Katydid
- More Notes on Aging
- Caveat
- Rhinoplasty
- What It Means to Be a Man
- Ode to A Dover Sole
- On Becoming My Grandfather
- Fatty Pajama Boy
- Recipe
- Mano á Mano with the Sewer Snake
- Jesus Was A Space Alien
- Gesundheit
- Loose Thread
- Ballad of the Neutered Dog
- Ode to Winter
All work is copyrighted by Steven V. Hight.
Men seldom make passes
at lasses with glasses
except when those lasses
have smokin-hot asses.
March 16, 2007
The Prime Mover
awakes from His nap,
yawns and stretches
and scratches His nuts,
then sits on the Throne
to think and compose
His Second Movement.
February 7, 2007
There he looms,
larger-than-life,
a giant of the silver screen.
Clark Gable!
(or maybe it’s James Cagney)
firmly grasping the shaft
of the candlestick phone
(What were you thinking?),
holding the earpiece
at a jaunty angle
near the ear
(not touching, exactly —
maybe that would be weak),
barking orders like a riveting gun
to the poor fellow on the other end,
that poor, soft fellow
whose life is to take orders
from the real men,
who own the phones
and all the power they represent,
men who can lead a labor strike,
or go to the wharf to end one
with their fists,
fists like clubs,
fists like granite,
fists hardened like the steel
raising America
from the flat dust
into the very sky,
men hardened like those fists,
like that steel,
hard and cold and towering
like skyscrapers
that try in vain to emulate them,
men who can yet laugh heartily at a joke
and fall into the arms of the right screwy dame —
after she has passed the tests
and accepted her new master —
men like Spencer Tracy,
men like Humphrey Bogart,
men who can melt the iron hearts
of Barbara Stanwyck and Claudette Colbert
and remold them into the shapes they desire,
men who can grip the shaft
of the candlestick phone
and bark orders into it
orders that will be obeyed without question
by the poor, soft men
like you, like me.
After all,
when Cary Grant calls you on the phone to say
“Stop the presses!”
you stop the presses.
March 31, 2006
No dump for this chump —
I’m in a slump,
And my rump won’t pump.
January 13, 2006
I want to be a priest
who ministers to the poor,
the sick, the lost, the weary, and the sad,
who leads his flock homeward
in times of deep trouble
and guides them to the good through the bad.
I want to be a pastor,
the Reverend Doctor Hight,
a father, brother, shepherd, and a saint,
with answers to the questions
everyone keeps asking,
but I’m afraid that fellow I just ain’t.
January 7, 2006
Some poets
I am told
write their poems in the morning
with a pencil
while sitting
in a bathrobe
at the table
with a cup of hot tea
or coffee
and perhaps some oatmeal
or half a grapefruit
while watching the sunrise
listening to the birds
and the wind chimes
or the babble of the brook
thinking deep thoughts
while turning last night’s dreams
into today’s words.
I wrote this poem
as I have written so many others
sitting late at night
on the toilet.
January 2, 2006
My Butt (After Steve Martin’s King Tut)
My butt —
It’s my favorite cushion —
My butt —
It’s better for the pushin’ —
My butt —
It’s so very heinous —
My butt —
It’s padding for my anus!
Oh, my butt is funky —
It’s big and around and chunky!
My butt!
November 9, 2005
You know that feeling,
that really good feeling you get
when the turd comes out just right?
And then that other feeling,
the one that comes just after,
that emptiness when it’s all over?
Life sometimes feels like that,
doesn’t it?
October 31, 2005
What was it that Katy did?
Does anyone know for sure?
Did Katy do,
or did she not?
Please answer, I implore.
What was it that Katy did?
Did she do a dreadful thing?
Did she sing a song
that went on too long?
Can Katy even sing?
What was it that Katy did?
I’ll ask you one last time —
What was it that Katy did?
What was poor Katy’s crime?
October 13, 2005
I sprinkle when I tinkle,
and the truth is sad to say,
but when I stand to take a leak,
the leak will start to spray!
2005
The President loves cutting taxes
of those who have bought special access.
While the rich think this fair,
You and I should beware
Of presidents sharpening axes!
2004
She had the perfect nose,
strong, proud, Mediterranean,
a tribute to her Greco-Roman forebears.
Then she had it chopped off
in the name of Beauty.
March 15, 2001
Tinkle, tinkle
in the pot,
I stand to pee,
I do not squat.
2000
O! fishy fishy fishy fishy fishy fishy fish,
how I wishy wishy wishy wishy wishy wishy wish
you were served with lemon, butter,
and some garlic on a dish.
1999
So I’m standing before
the bathroom mirror,
trying to catch a glimpse
of the mosquito bite
between my shoulder blades,
when I see it —
when I see them:
The hairs.
At first
I cannot comprehend it
and think
the veiny marks on my back,
viewed from the corner of my eye,
are stretch marks,
familiar signs
of my ongoing struggle
with corpulence.
And then,
for less time than it takes
to write it,
I think,
Maybe they are veins.
But as I think it,
I already know better.
Those are hairs!
The thought comes shockingly swift.
That’s hair!
On my back!
My God, I’'m a gorilla!
Denise,
you’ve a gorilla in your midst!
I’ve become
my grandfather!
She laughs
lovingly
and with a grin
offers me a shave.
1999
There was once
a skinny me
who looked pretty good
in a thin, black tie,
but that me
was a dork,
a gawky,
arrogant,
snot-nosed
punk —
you know,
a teenager.
But now I am
a man,
fat
and happily married,
and these days
I just find life
so much more comfortable
lounging about
loosely
in my cool, soft
pajamas —
you know,
the pair with the splitting
backside.
1998
Roll, roll, roll
the cat
gently in some flour.
Bake him at
four hundred degrees
for just about an hour.
1998
Mano á Mano with the Sewer Snake
It was just one of those days.
First, I stopped up the toilet
(but at least I got in a good read in the process),
so I had to call in a plumber,
and who should show up,
driving a battered 1962 Ford pickup,
wearing faded, dirty denim and a shrinking, white t-shirt,
bedecked with a jangling, leather tool-belt,
rusting sewer snake in one hand,
well-used plunger in the other,
but Sean Connery!
That famous Scottish lilt,
that twinkle, that smile,
that meaningful look he extended my wife,
the way he kissed her hand,
all conspired to set me on edge.
But Sean Connery?
I’m a man, true,
but how to compete with a man
who actually looks better grey, bearded, and balding?
Sean Connery!
Suave, sophisticated, debonair,
fit, trim, and handsome,
in my house,
God on wheels,
fixing my toilet,
stealing my wife!
But as Sean bent over the porcelain bowl,
I knew my wife would be mine again:
The sight of that crack
does it every time.
1998
I’d been reading tabloid magazines
for just about a year:
They were full of dire predictions
’cause the end was drawing near.
Nostradamus gave us warnings
of some ungodly plague,
An earthquake or a tax hike,
(he always was so vague).
Reverend Billy did his damndest
to instill the fear of God,
Lest we all be swept to Satan,
king of the cloven shod.
The aliens were a-coming,
and so was Elvis too —
He’d traded in his jumpsuit
for a spacesuit suede and blue.
Bigfoot would lead his backup
in howling at the moon,
The Prez would play the saxophone —
this was all to happen soon.
There’d be plagues of locusts falling
like chitin-covered hail,
The Titanic would be rising,
into port she’d finally sail.
And JFK would come back
like King Arthur from the dead
To claim the throne of Camelot —
that’s what the tabloids said.
But the biggest news they gave me,
the news that got four stars,
Was that Jesus’s face was stuck there
on a mountaintop on Mars.
It’s hiding in the shadows,
and the light must be just right,
But if you’ve got a spaceship,
it’s hiding in plain sight.
Could it be a cosmic billboard
hanging up there in the sky,
A welcome mat from Heaven,
or God’s way of saying “Hi”?
It could be some secret message
from some secret alien race,
With some secret knowledge coded
in the lines of Jesus’s face.
Or could it be coincidence,
a trick of Martian light,
That’s up there looking down on me
unblinking red at night?
Oh, well I should not worry,
It’s safer not to think;
I’ll spend my days in stupor,
fingers black with tabloid ink.
1998
I’m in the chiropractor’s office,
Meekly explaining:
“I stifled a sneeze today,
And it threw my back out.”
And he nods and smiles and his eyes twinkle
In that way he has mastered,
That way that says to me,
Reassuringly,
“That’s quite common.
I’ve seen it dozens of times.”
But that nod and that smile and that twinkle
Are all liars.
I know he’ll look it up in his medical textbooks,
The reference volumes he keeps in his office,
And in those he can’t afford to keep,
But secrets away in the University Library.
And he’ll saunter out of the Library,
And salute the lions at the gates,
And write a paper,
Give a presentation that will make him famous,
Establish his place
In the annals of medicine,
Get chiropractic recognized
By the AMA,
And become a talk show guru
With healing hands.
And meanwhile,
My back still hurts.
1997
Too late I realize
The Universe comes undone.
It was just hanging there,
The loose thread,
Inviting,
Waiting to be pulled,
Wanting to be pulled,
And I pulled it.
An honest mistake.
I just wish I had thought
To bring my scissors.
1996
Snip, snip,
Plop, plop,
Into the bucket
The testicles drop.
1995
My toes are froze
and so’s my nose,
do you suppose
that I’ll compose
a little bit of nonsense prose
about my frozen toes and nose?
1994
Movies
Books
Television
Photo Galleries
Under the Blanketing Night
Steve’s Poetry
The Jesus Limericks
Plato’s Republic, Book 11
Cubicles
Jeffreviews
John’s Poetry
Army Cadences
Fun & Games
Commercial Writing
Personal & Contact Info
Copyrights
Home