Dude, Where's My Pen?

April 7, 2008
Dude, where’s my pen?
Dude, I like really need a pen.
This isn’t funny,
You had it last,
And I need a pen.

Why? You might ask.
A pen is mightier than a sword.
Actions speak louder than words
Sticks and stones may break my bones but without words you wouldn’t have that dumb saying.
I need my pen.

My pen is what helped me escape from my life,
A life of misery, and despair,
Not to mention the life of the cow that came back to life on my dinner plate
Or my mother’s scream from inside the UFO,
Screaming for a pen.

I was born in Lackawannabackawannaputzkahannaville, New York.
It was a dark and dismal spring day,
When the most intelligent, insightful, and ingenious life form entered this god-for-saken planet.
I was born in a meerkat home, it was quite dusty.
They tied me off with a pen.

I only knew my mother a short time.
She was mauled by jackrabbits, and kangaroos, and bunnies, and the meerkat who delivered me.
She was beautiful, she was brave,
And she died being taken by the UFO which we now know wasn’t the ambulance.
All I have left of her is that pen.

I was left motherless, hopeless, and belly-button-less.
Some of us just don’t have luck on our side.
But I made due with what I had.
I had one precious family heirloom to cuddle with in the place of an assortment of worthless stuffing
And that was my PEN!

All the other children had teddy bears and teddy elephants and teddy walruses,
I had the smoothness of my mother’s pen against my cheek at night.
They all had the fluffiness of their furry friends
And I suffered through nightly face-freezer burn.
But it was all a sign of rugged love from my pen.

My pen and I spent out school days studying at the Webster’s Brainery for Human Dictionaries.
I was released due to certain creativity differences.
Try as I might have, I don’t like to write words.
I like to create them.
And I generate them using my PEN!

The children called me Pen-head brain due to my 4-inch diameter skullcap.
I may be narrow brained, but not narrow-minded.
I see you cowering in my presence.
There is something you wish not to tell me,
Regarding my pen?

This has been repeated many times, however.
The other children would steal my pen and perform their cannibalistic practices upon my precious.
Me and my were scared, for life!
So much that it destroys my pronoun-antecedent relationships.
If only I could fix them with my exemplary extravagant erudite pen!

I was then renamed Mrs.-Mr. Fix it, for my ability to uplift grammar
My name was updated with its now modern “Chick Who Destroys Stuff with Her Brain”.
I used my pen to tell every person I had ever acquainted the news.
They were so happy they were speechless, and letterless!
They were just so jealous of my powerful primo-PEN!

My pen was there with me, and stayed by my side.
In times of peril, hardship, and lack of tissues,
What it lacked in size was made up for in flexibility.
Best of all, me and my pen worked hand and point together to create an unsung magic.
Magic that could only have been created by nothing more, then my PEN!

We concocted stories and dreams with our magic,
Like of a woman, who falls for the charm of a postal employee,
But is torn between her old stable life or for the adventure of living in a cardboard box made of love
One of our better unheard works of penmanship,
All copyrighted in the highly prominent country of Palau, thanks to my PEN!

My pen is magic! It is my life! Without it I would have a whole in my stomach!
It gave me romance, drama, cardboard real estate,
An ability to reach for the googly goggly grossness implanted inside of my smelling mechanism!
Every chick flick and nose-chill I would hold my head high, and ponder,
How did the all-mighty deity write a holy book without a pen?

Do you know? I didn’t think so.
You think you know, but you don’t.
You think that I don’t know that you know that you think that I don’t know you have my pen!
Actions speak louder than words,
Words that can only be aggrandized by my PEN!

You know, I previously tried to publish our autobiography.
But those imbeciles we so jealous of my pen they smeared out a true masterpiece with fake tears.
And they laughed while doing it!
But my pen never moved a stroke; it’s so stalwart that way.
I wish I could become more congruent to my pen.

My pen is what made me, me.
I am known as Mrs.-Mr. Breaks-it-cone-head-cookoo chick and pen, and many other adjectives.
I have a reputation to fill,
I have sortilege to show,
And the only mind to know that word’s definition is my PEN!

So, dude, level with me here.
I like really need a pen.
My life has nothing to write about.
I need my pen to extract the reality from my eyes.

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