Grass Stains
Jono Tosch

I’m too tired to talk about Stalin.
Stalin would hit people in the face.
Stalin would throw hot spaghetti at people.
Stalin would push people onto the ground
and ladle steaming bowls of ramen onto them.
What a bore.
It’s like pulling teeth.
Everybody goes around talking about Stalin.
I was at a party the other day
and there was a whole contingent of grubby kids
talking about all the bread that Stalin threw away.
They were particularly outraged
about the pumpernickel.
Stalin threw away huge droves of pumpernickel.
I went into the other room
where the well-dressed contingent was hanging out.
There was this drunk chick hanging all over this buff guy.
She was saying
Stalin would let me drive your car.
Stalin wouldn’t care about the cops.
I had to hand it to that chick.
Stalin didn’t give one cent about the cops.
Joe Stalin did pretty much whatever Joe Stalin felt like doing.
If he wanted to hold a raffle, he held one.
If he wanted to throw his tea at you,
he threw his tea at you.
I’m not claiming to know every single thing about Stalin
because I don’t.
Not a lot has been written about Stalin and pillow talk.
There isn’t a lot of literature about the things he’d coo
to his girlfriend at the end of a hard campaign
to brutalize Europe.
I know he destroyed a lot of people
but I want to hear about the sweet nothings he’d whisper.
It’s so boring to hear people parrot the same old shit.
Stalin was Lucifer, Gandhi was a saint.
I don’t care about people who suffered in the past.
People are suffering now.
It’s boring to talk about old pain and suffering.
It’s much more interesting to talk about yachts.
A yacht is sailing nicely along in the bay.
A bigger, more powerful yacht creeps up behind it
and sprays grape juice all over it!
All the chicks in bikinis have grape juice all over them!
All the boating hunks are pissed off in their deck shoes
because a bigger, more powerful yacht has snuck up from behind
and made them look dumb in front of their girls.
I want, for once in my life, to go to a party
where people are talking about nothing that ever existed.
My own mother told me that a stitch in time saves nine.
Nine what, ma?
What a load of bull.