Waiting for 8 freaking hours
in a car mechanic shop
As they fumble trying to fix
your crappyass Honda car
As your cell phone drains itself
from playing Angry Birds too long
As you grow bored reading
the shitty golf magazine for the 5th time
As you get deliriously bored
and then deliriously horny
from letting your mind wander so far
but nowhere to jack off to
Oh how I love thee.
When I first took a bite of you
there were hallelujahs raining down
upon my unsuspecting taste buds
I reveled in your blissfully sweet taste,
a taste that is made only complete by
the soft bread layers that gets even softer
as I reach the center of your magnificence,
Your seductive cinnamon brown sugar
wrapped with the bread layers like a love-struck fool,
and the incomparable white cream frosting
that makes time go still.
In all those years though,
I pronounced you as “Cinnabun”
and for that, I must apologize.
I know now how your name is truly pronounced
and it is Cinnabon.
You’re quite a lovely contradiction
for you are so
with your 880 calories,
yet so heavenly satisfying
in the blissful smile that you give me.
But I hear blasphemous things being said about you
and it makes me angry to hear your name being defiled
by ignorant idiotic schlumps.
You are not a “fat faggot treat”,
there is more grace in a single speck of your brown sugar
than the entire silly being that is Louis C.K.
Nor are you some evil thing run by Satan,
first of all Satan doesn’t make sweets
and if he did, he can’t create the heaven that is you
so do not pay heed to Jim Gaffigan’s bitchy demeanor.
Comedians like them,
these inferior fools make fun of you
because they do not know the divine beauty
that you possess.
You are a mystical comfort healer
in all the strangest ways
every time I had
and days that just plain sucked.
I find it beautifully odd how I can find
so much joy
so much solace
I find peace in knowing that
you are always there for me
shining in your bright blue and white sign
always there to greet me with your sweet smile
in the form of a swirl that spirals into perfection.
Un un un
So much un
Un’s in my zombie head
More Un’s than I can deal with right now
So much that
I just want to masturbate
inside this auto repair shop
even though I risk getting kicked out
and have my fucked up car
Remain fucked up.
I haven’t gotten laid in a while.
How’s that for awkward honesty?
It didn’t bother me until
pointed that out to me
and now I’m left with this pent up frustration
that I thought I was damn sure wasn’t there
but now ripped open;
my core exposed by what was
by my tenacious busy nature.
So I give myself to you,
for it has been far too long
that I revealed to you
my pathetic secrets,
my pent up desires.