Dad And The Curling Iceberg William Zez


Oh fuck. My dad.

My dad was original.

When my dad was drunk and in your room, my dad owned that room!

He’d be knocking people’s hats off and shit.

Smack! Flips your hair and your hat’s in your hand.

Unless you were holding some food…

But on the curling ice, man. That’s where he was king.

Swing these rocks? These silly little curling rocks?! mocked his eyes.

Oh shit! That’s fuck all! That’s easy! they peeped.

But… he let go of the rock a little too late.

Held onto it just a little bit too long.

And the rock, it hung in the air for a minute,

Before plummeting back to where it belonged.

On the ice with a crack!

When the rock returned home it spanked a huge chunk of berg,

Just a slip and a skid past the hacks.

Kaabloosh! kissed the ice on the plummeting rock.

And splissssshhh went the smaller shards of ice.

SWEEP said my dad, kind of out dumbfoundedness,

And out of dumbfoundedness us beggars did sweep.

We swept and we swept and we swept.

They called it a game but for Dad it was life.

And just why shouldn’t we have a little fun?


Tell us where is the good life sans fun?


Thank you, friend.

Barry out. 

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