The Song of Matty Unman, or The Tramp Doth Protest Too Much

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The Song of Matty Unman, or The Tramp Doth Protest Too Much

Postby admin » Sat Sep 14, 2013 12:10 am

The Song of Matty Unman, or The Tramp Doth Protest Too Much
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In the Beginning Was Unman

Or

The Pabst Is Prologue


How fit to write the beginning after absolute ending!
Such is history. And such is this poem and what follows.
Behold, the counterfeit presentment of two men:
Unman on the one, and Carreon on the other,
Like a satyr to Hyperion or a used condom to a new
This prologue and its mate aim the reader to shew
The difference. Unman is spoken of sufficiently
Below, as the reader will surely find, if he or she
Has a mind so daring, a heart so pure and bowels
That are not easily upset. Carreon, however, we
Have not given his due: a white hat lawyer shining
In his Birkenstocks while driving his Prius chariot,
If Arthur had needed a litigator, Carreon would
Have been his man, nascent time-travel permitting.
Carreon puts his mouth where his money is, quite
Unlike Unman, and his money where his mouth is.
He fights injustice with justice, a holy, a righteous
Hash-pipe Jerry Garcia would envy in hand as well
as a store of research chemicals an amateur pharma-
Cologist like myself can only stand back and admire.
His deeds are righteous as he is, as his litigation is,
As his aims and means are. So when faced with a piss-
Ant plebian po-dunk would-be artist who engages
In defamation and personal attacks, he took the high-
Road and went to court. Thereafter, this Noble Poet
Took upon himself to sort this ignoble argument into
Its noble and ignoble parts. The ignoble ones belong
To Unman, the noble to Carreon, like true spoils to the
Victor or the pure winged-horse of Plato’s imagination
Only being drawn by a pure charioteer in a pure chariot:
Unman is that ignoble horse that drives only himself to
nose-dive himself only further down from whichever depth
He had been in, to find himself no better than he was fresh
From the womb, nor so good as he will be entombed.
That said, pass round the Pabst, and you shall hear wonders
Of Unman’s ineptitude in the day and in the night, and,
Soon enough, his own drear person’s twilight through
Mine poetical alchemic transformations! Men and women!,
gird your loins for my matchless well-metered excitations!
Prepare for past, present and future Unman execrations!

Part the First

Matty Unman sat and stared in star-spangled underwear
at the image upon his four matching mega screens:
each portrayed the same sorry visage, for each monitor
was asleep: the image was his own, faux-haggard
with hipster stubble, a glaze of oily skin peering
from above an ironic t-shirt rising off a tailored pair
of thrift shop jeans. He realized the monitors were off
in his stupor and began to admire his bedhead hair,
his fetch-stained designer underwear, the costly cost
of being a frivolous frat boy in his late-twenties.

He rose himself in his dissheveled splendor, afternoon
after a long D-list bender: Carson Daily sure can drink,
more than Matty “Michelob Ultra” Unman can usually think.
He brought himself to summon a vassal with the shake
of a velvet tassel. “Grunt, make me my caviar omelette!
The hour is late! I must eat and drool and masturbate!'
Off went Poor Vassal, fearing Unman's charming tassel.
“Glad I am that my master assumed his precious velvet robe
for I am wary of yet another mid-afternoon anal probe.”

After gnashing at his omelette, Unman commenced to drip
from his lower lip as was his fashion. Another comic
had come to mind, but first he must make love to his most
beloved. Thus he fell to furious wanking in the kitchen:
“Babe, I love you, I love you!” he exclaimed between grunts,
tugging at his meager manhood while admiring his stubble
in the mirror he had installed within his breakfast nook.
Two minutes elapsed. The hard work of self-pleasure done,
he receded to his computer again to take the life out of fun.

He sketched out the laborious labor ahead of him:
how to make one hour's work seem like ten: “Dogs, yes,
dogs. I can write about dogs. Their behaviors are ironic.
This suits me best. I can compile the ready-made ironies
of a pet and fob it off as my own work. There will be text
There will be dogs. There will be tepid text about dogs.”
“Yes!” Unman exclaimed, “I could reside within a dog's
turd and count myself the king of infinite shit but that
I have the courage to be a perfect public mediocrity.

“Behold, my readers! I am your devious dullard king!
I have so many readers, and will have more, since
most of you are breeders.” The masses applaud, vomit
forth noise with their mouths: “Give us more, Matty
Unman! We despise ourselves enough to read your
treacle. Within thine realm of insolent fatuous pulp,
you are without equal!” Matty Unman fell out of his
happy daydream. Three cosmos too many was too much:
He would list and draw and such and such and such.

The cartoon complete, the goal achieved. He leaned
back in his exquisite Herman Miller chair and heaved.
“Never trust that bastard Carson again. I will injure
him for this with my trusty pen!” And then he yawned
and then he drooled and Matty Unman gave a cursory
glance to the little clock on the corner of his screen.
“I have labored an hour at this bestial art. I have writ
of poop and balls and vomiting and eating that very poop.
My minion readers will adore it! My blessed mindless troop!”

Part the Second

We left our hapless hero in beatific bliss,
having duped his followers with a skidmark
disguised as a comic. He sent the precious
parcel to his intern, a young lady well-endowed
to the tune of 36D and utterly gag-reflex free.
She giggled a very blonde giggle and posted the tripe,
then returned to debating the merits of thongs on Skype.
Right pleased and rightly so, Matty Unman turned
his lofty thoughts to grammar like a schoolmarm spurned.

Splendid eiron of his own life, Matty Unman spewed
forth on the topic of Irony, oblivious that his notions
were as old as Aeschylus' Orestia, 458 BCE at least.
This ignorance did not deter. To his fans he must defer!
Verbal, situational and dramatic irony met with his mind
and each curled up and rotted like an old orange rind.
Lack of information and wit were no hindrance at all
to our redoubtable hero. His bank accounts off-shore
proved poignantly that he was not a crashing bore.

Alas, Miss 36D had missed the over-arching irony
tacit in Matty Unman's grammar gripe while in her
reverie of thong-thoughts: her master delivered in his
illustrated tract the profound lesson that we lesser
mortals should not debate Irony and endure the slur
sent from on high; Matty himself was somehow exempt!
He may doodle and debate and salivate despite not heeding
his own words: if Matty is so far above he can dictate,
blessed are we below who do not hear to insinuate.

Sheer physical distance, however, is not enough in this age.
After punishing myself to read Matty's naff notions
regarding dogs and grammar from afar by Internet,
I bought three handles of gin and proceeded to wet
mine faculties that were so dessicated and starved
for actual intellection that I sought refuge in three
plastic bottles' alcoholic confection. Downing bottle
one and bottle two, I felt the very merry obliteration
of the synapse formed from Matty's grammar miscalculation.

In this poet's gin-soaked ecstasy, he thought an experiment
would be wise, so he conjured another Unman scrawl
concerning the venerable semicolon. What folly this was.
Even in my liquor-stupor I could see that Matty had taken
elementary school grammar and coupled it with an
anthropomorphic inanity quite noxious in its bland absurdity.
I had learned no more and no less than a tame monkey
dragged by a deranged zoophile into the wilderness
to be poorly lubricated then fisted learns of tenderness.
I slept and dreamt of poorly illustrated grammar taught
by an albino donkey, an ass without pigment, upon a
stinking prison ship I could not leave. The days of my
torture I'd marked on my tattered sleeve. “More grammar!
More! You will learn more!” However, I had learned all
long before, though I dared not speak for I feared
the unknowable grammatical horrors he might inflict.
I woke terrified. How could I ever sleep peacefully again
while Matty practiced his unholy grammatical zen?

Part the Third

Like dogs and grammar, zombies are thematically forever
for the candid cartoonist who wishes to remain topical
in perpetuity. The research for this cartoon had been
achieved sometime in high school by the following means:
a VHS player, TV set, Unman's parents' house unoccupied
on drunken bowling for hookers night, an ounce of ganja
and every zombie film ever made. And so he had the know-
how and the power, as has been shown. Lock the door
and get your gun! Matty's bent on boring like Jersey Shore.

Unlike every zombie film ever produced on VHS, Matty's
venture into zombiedom will cost you twenty-dollars for
just a poster, with free shipping, mind you. The good thing
about the poster is there might be a chance of reselling
the maimed pulp to a middle-school student. No middle-
school student will buy VHS. Do not attend to this Most
Popular Cartoon upon zombies if you have ever thought
for yourself. Re-reading Master Unman's grammatic splurge
again would better please the nonexistent demiurge.

A virtual zombie writing about zombies! The Irony!
Has anyone seen Matty Uman eat human flesh? No?
That's because he hides his zombiehood so very well;
rather than eat people, he lets them eat themselves
as they view the thoughts made cartoons originating
from near his perineum. His sycophants' minds half-
gone upon their Oatmeal arrival, he merely waits for
them to enter credit card data when their minds atrophy.
And so he profits. Twenty-dollars is a reasonable fee!

If you've ever been sucked into the timesuck of Facebook,
The Oatmeal is just such a timeless nook of mindlessness.
This zombie sketch and the other two treated just above
would benefit mightily from vigorous lube-free buttlove.
But I digress from zombies into truly profitable thought!
Let us return to the Unman Inn, where stock zombie-
thoughts are glorious good fun, every reader is deemed
below average and the Innkeeper cannot but share his art
despite it and the author being cheap as a truckstop tart.

If this author were like Unman, if he could so far descend
in intellect, education and experience and then perpend
long enough how to turn a slop trough into a money-machine,
if this author could become so utterly daft, so artless and
so keen, he would honorably commit good old seppuku,
which is, in fact, as painful as seeing Unman at sudoku.
Yet Innkeeper Unman of Oatmeal Offal will still abide
a while longer in his pride and folly, as will this Poet mere
for wishing Unman will do so. As soon as his next pap smear.

A few more words on zombiekind: when Unman zealots,
fearless keyboard warriors, mental children escaped from
distant creches descend on one who does not care for his mom
(dead) illustrated seducing a bear, or feable non-charity
schemes much like a lurid tryst with some uncle or cousin
to provide charity monies once intended for the National
Wildlife Federation and American Cancer Society, the noise
is so noisome. You rant without understanding; you agree
with Chief Frat Boy Unman. How unsurprisingly twee.

Part the Fourth

Writing about the present and the past are not difficult
for a Poet such as I. Therefore I now assay to the occult!
to tell the future of Matty Unman as he will be sooner
or later depending on his own vacillations, ineptitude
and regular bouts of mental constipation that would
require God's own finger to dislodge the feces of his mind.
But the deity is not to be disturbed. Matty, hear now
your state to be! People on the whole will become more
stupid or more intelligent – the former if reading your
twaddle is their bent. Your days have much in store!

Let us ground our prognostications in wrinkled reality:
people will only become more stupid as they gape
at you and your ilk. One fine day your comics will
be far above the masses who kept you in good swill.
No one will understand what you wrote or drew,
the culmination of your miserable work. Tis true!
Instead, they will wonder how you ever paid the bills
as you wander the streets in search of new shills
who will accept you as you are: lowest heap among hills.

Wander you will and wander you must. From truckstop
to truckstop you will wearily tread only to wait in the
lavatory for the latest unwashed obese trucker with two
loads in his pants, and both of them for you. Oh Irony!
As you sit upon the throne, the fellow unzips lustily
and smacks his lips. You wrap your lips around his member
as you try to ignore the smegma scent rolling off his groin.
He fucks your throat as gently as a hurricane lands in Haiti.
You hold your breath and swallow. In your mouth a twenty.

And nevermind the second load you could not manage,
for you were full of moldy cock cheese and rank jism then
and thus begged off much methane before a fecal feast.
A lonely trucker is a difficult beast. With head bowed,
you leave the restroom, attempting to put your jaw back
into place while removing long and curly pubic hairs
from your teeth. The twenty dollars in your unwashed
pocket, you head, self-loathing, to the next truck stop
wishing that they'd wash and trim before the unzip and pop.

Self-love alone keeps you alive now, as it did not so long
ago when the distracted multitude belched their praise
in your general direction. As you huddle beneath an over-
pass in the night for shelter, you think of the grand old
days of dogs and grammar. “I was a star! It was the
restroom stalls that got smaller!” Lice and other vermin
pick at your body as you try to rest, two pints of long-
haul trucker jizz perturbing your bowels. Oh, the hours
and the howls! The longing for your frat boy ivory towers!

We might leave you here, and we will. Matty Unman,
king of the underpass and twenty-dollar deep-throat
truckstop blowjobs must have his nap. May flights of
vermin sing you to your sleep, sweet prince of slime,
darling middle-aged sperm-rag. Dream of the next day
when the hirsute truckers wish to unzip and fart and play.
A man in a black Mercedes stops by your shuddering side.
The back right door opens, and a ringed hand beckons.
Poor Vassal with a velvet tassel says: “Now what you reckons?”
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