variations on a bad habit

Hello, dear readers. You may be wondering why it has taken me so long to post here. The thing is, not much has happened between my last post and now, so it’s not like I’ve been putting this off. Nope! But this is a nice segue into  the subject of today’s post: those despicable people who put off doing things that they’re supposed to do. The scum of the earth! We appear in many forms:

the procrastineater

The procrastineater empties her dresser to smoothe out the wrinkles in her clothes. Not with an iron, though. That’s too much of a commitment. The procrastineater uses speedy Japanese folding techniques, then packs up her clothes very economically so that her drawers can finally close.

the procrastineater, II

The procrastineater, II eats when he thinks he’s bored because he thinks he has nothing to do. But really the procrastineater is trying to trick us all — and worse, himself! — by appearing to be busy with his mouth full of popcorn EVEN THOUGH THERE IS NO MOVIE PLAYING.

the procrastiknitter

The procrastiknitter sits at her computer before a blank Word document. But make no mistake! She’s never merely sitting. She’s procrastiknitting, while admiring beautiful knit objects on ravelry.

Here are some of her more recent procrastiknit objects:

garish blue coat
a garish blue coat
an ugly green sweater, complete with giant pockets and elbow patches
an ugly green sweater, complete with giant pockets and elbow patches

So she might miss some deadlines, but only by a few hours. At least we know that she and her friends will be warm this winter.

the procraftinator

The procraftinator insists that making arts and crafts is a Basic Human Right. The procraftinator believes that non-procraftinators are soulless capitalist automatons whose values are askew because they have no idea how to “let loose,” “have fun,” and “be creative.” The procraftinator’s living room is filled with an astonishing collexion of procraftinated artefacts. The stench of wet paint crossed with molding papier-mâché paste tinges the air.

See: your weird neighbour who needs a shower. Also: this guy.

the procrastinasty

procrastinasty hello kitty
Can you spot the nasty face? Isn’t she too young to be procrastinasty?

The procrastinasty treat their friends horribly not because they’re naturally inclined to hurt the ones they love, but because they’re stressed out about all of the things they’re supposed to be doing but aren’t because they are PROCRASTINASTY.

the procrastinettor

middle click/control click
middle click/control click syndrome

The procrastinettor is a self-diagnosed chronic middle-clicker (or control+clicker). He has a million Wikipedia articles open in his browser. Does he read them all? It is a mystery. At least he appears to have good intentions of self-enlightenment.

the procrastinaked

The procrastinaked has nothing to wear because the laundry never got did.

So, dear reader, what are you ?? ? ? ???

from underneath the kitchen sink

From underneath the kitchen sink
there reeks a really awful stink
of offal skins and garbage juice
and other foodstuff with no use…

The fume’s so foul we end our meal;
our noodles, cold, have no appeal.

We hold our breath and clear the spread
although our guts have not been fed.
We wipe the counter, wet our hands,
and scrub the crusty pots and pans…

But oh, that smell is much too vile —
our senses aren’t so versatile!

We hunker down, crouch to the floor
and peer behind the cupboard door.
But what is this? What’s this we see?

My Uncle Jim peers back at me!

His hands are full of bones and meat,
of turkey wings and chicken feet.
His face, once handsome, now is marred
with grease and crud and sludge and lard.

We grab him by the collar — quick!
He struggles with a punch and kick!

Bring vinegar to clean the slime!
Abrasive sponge to scrub the grime!

Then Uncle Jim begins scream:

“What’s that?” we say; we are perplexed.
We let him free; he says this next:

Imagine rodents tucked beneath
the kitchen sink: their tiny teeth
do tear upon the bits of flesh,
left over from your dinner, fresh.

They sleep inside the kitchen drawer,
and scatter crumbs upon the floor,
leave trails of refuse in their wake,

Would you prefer those mice to me?

Your Uncle Jim, who quietly
has seen that no food goes to waste,
so thankful for the glorious taste
of all the food you deem unfit,
discreetly in a napkin spit…

But don’t you know? All food’s divine!
To Uncle Jim, all food is fine!

So tell me kids, what do you think?
To dwell beneath the kitchen sink:
which one is better? Mice or me?

We chew on this thought carefully…

and so….

Back underneath the kitchen sink
goes Uncle Jim, who gives a wink.

His parting words are soft but frank:


written in 2010