Tubby, The Hick Poet

Tubby's Blog: tubbythehickpoet.wordpress.com 

Tubby, the Hick Poet wrote his first poem—Incest and Tuna Noodle Casserole—at age thirteen after an obese aunt got drunk and crawled in bed with him. He’s had a disturbing obsession for poetry and large, white-trash women ever since. Tubby lives in rural western Pennsylvania and works on the garbage truck. Some of his hobbies include hunting, fishing, taxidermy, trapping, camping, drinking, the Pittsburgh Steelers, swatting his old lady’s ass, and shooting stray cats. Tubby can be seen reading his poetry on atom.com, YouTube, and several other original animation sites.

Beagle

My beagle

looks at me
expecting a Milk Bone.
But since he ate
the cat turds
from the litter box,
all I have for him
is a buffalo wing
where my heart should be. 

Stinky

My old lady’s underwear
is lying on the bathroom floor.
They are stained green, brown,
and red from her dirty pee hole.
All night long they lie on the tile,
festering and attracting flies.
Early in the morning,
I catch wind of them and nearly throw up.
Later I watch her put on
the stinky underwear.
They ride up her crack
and get lost in her fat rolls.
With a quick shake of her ass cheeks,
they appear again.
Still stained, still stinky. 

The Neighbor Girl

When I’m drunk I dream of the neighbor girl
even though she is only sixteen
and has a face pocked with zits.

Her build is like a middle linebacker
with thick shoulders, big floppy titties,
and a train-wreck of an ass.

Her long black hair drips with grease
and in the summer her sweat-stained pits
smell like Italian dressing.

When the kids call her Sweaty Betty
I laugh right along with them,
but deep down I think she is beautiful.

My heart sings:

I love you, neighbor girl.
The yellow sweat rings in the armpits
of your white t-shirt are like a golden sun.

Your stinky pits are the sweetest perfume.
The grease from your hair will lubricate
my truck and four-wheeler.

Your zits are like constellations in the sky.
I want to play connect the dots
on your purple cheeks.

Don't shave for me.
The curly hairs on your legs and pits are
a mysterious forest full of trophy bucks.

I cock my deer rifle for you.
The scope has you in
the cross hairs.

My trigger finger is itchy.
I aim just below the shoulder blade
to bring you down nice and clean.

Waiting

Goodnight, Rudy 

It's midnight. I can't sleep.
My old lady is snoring beside me.
Her potato chip farts fill the night.

Outside a raccoon cries,
Mourning his dead mate.
Her pelt is hanging in my basement.
A drink would do me good.

There's no beer in the fridge,
Only juice for the kids,
A jelly donut,
And some left over Taco Bell.

I weep.

My truck doesn’t make a sound
As it leaves the garage.
The headlights are off
So my old lady doesn’t know.

I floor it,
Forgetting stop signs,
Hoping to make last call at Rudy's.
The door is locked, but I knock all the same.

I see Rudy though the window,
Doing shots and crying 

Over his old lady.
Dead one year this May.

His eyes light up when they see me.
We drink to last year's hunting.
A doe for him, a ten-point buck for me.
He laughs and calls me a poacher.

The sun has risen when I empty my glass.
Old Rudy's breathing is shallow.
I carry him to bed, grab one for the road,
And drag my ass back to the truck.

The road sings me a lullaby.

The kids are leaving for school
When I pull in the driveway
And hit the fence post.
I sleep.

Goodnight, children.
Goodnight, Rudy.