The Frustration

A parody

About three or four years ago, a poem titled "The Invitation" was being forwarded in multiple e-mails. If you visit the link, you'll see the poem is by an woman — who appears to be caucasian — Ohiah Mountain Dreamer. However, no doubt due to her name, many people assumed it had been written by a Native American. By the time this bit of "spam" came to my mailbox, the claim was that it was written by a Native American chief.

The poem takes the form "X doesn't interest me ... I want to know Y", where "X" is some traditional American value (e.g., how one earns a living) and "Y" is some positive, "spiritual" value (e.g., "what you ache for").

After receiving the poem for the 3rd or 4th time, I decided it needed a parody, and suggested that the venerable Dr. Omed collaborate with me on same. The Reverend Doctor quite appropriately pointed out that "The Invitation" was practically self-parody, but he was game to give it a shot.

What follows is my edit of that collaboration.

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The Frustration

I don’t care where you slept last night
I want to know if she was warm & tender
and told good jokes.

It doesn’t matter what your screen name is
or if your avatar has been killed 9000 times.
I want to know if your fingers are sore from typing
or from stroking her cheek.

I’d have to stay up late at night
to be concerned about Cheryl Neys
much less to pray for her.
I want to know what color socks she was wearing
when she came down with that strange blood disease.

I want to know how many jokes you’ve learned from your email
and if you have them filed
according to topic.

I want to know if you really have awakened in a tub of ice
with only one kidney.

I want to know if her kisses were worth it.

I could care less about your dimensions, your prowess,
or that little trick you do with the circles.
Just give me your credit card number
and password.

I don’t care if Shannon O’Malley has been missing
for six weeks, six months, or six years;
by the time you’ve read this message,
he will have been found.

I want to know your favorite singer, favorite pet,
and eternal destination. Just fill in the form below.

I don’t care whose cousin told you Microsoft
would send you to Disneyland and
Nokia would give you a free phone and
5,000 chain e-mails will grant me everlasting peace.

I want to know if you’re interested in this fine lake-front property.

I want to know the name of your legal guardian.

Spare me the details of your web site, your web cam life,
or the list of others who have read this very important message.

I just want to know
how to get my name off your mailing list.


By Uriah Heap BigMuddy
from Denial of Dreams (1995)