The Worst Poet Ever

She twirled her tongue around and smiled her frown upsidedown.

As soon as Rushamkin wrote that in his diary, he knew it was genius; "That's Poetry!" he thought. Little did he know he was the worst poet in the world.

What was his life like? Rushamkin's lover put it succinctly: "you're lonely and sexually frustrated". He liked to think that those things made him a better poet; but in fact, it had made him exponentially worse.

Being horny and alone (a-hornlone, as scientists call it) made him find all women poetic. Of his overweight, middle-aged neighbor, Raquel Klurngsteen, he wrote the following poem:

Jelly Rolls Of Lust

You Are A Wilting Flower
Sitting on a Bun of Jelly
Rolled Around Your Towers
Cellulite Butt, Great Round Belly
I Dive Into Thee

It took Rushamkin three weeks and 12 drafts to complete that masterwork.

(Klurngsteen on Vacation)

He once wrote an ode to his Kitten, Mrs. Sparklepants, called "Oostie Woogums". The poem was so bad, that after reading it, Sparklepants killed herself with a single shot from a .45 calibre handgun.

The final paragraph of her suicide note read, in part, "the existence of this poetry proves that there is no God. My entire life has been a lie." It was later discovered that Sparklepants was a devout Catthiest; The religion that promises unlimited Fancy Feast in the afterlife.


Was there anyone worse than Rushamkin? Only one person came close: 12-year old Sara Schlongberg, author of "River Of Dispare [sic]" a biting metaphor for her parents recent divorce.

So Rushamkin went about his daily business, writing and writing, never knowing that he was the worst poet in the world. He died tragically at the age of 32 after trying to smoke a stick of butter.