Smart Bitches, Trashy Books

OMG - THE PRESSURE!!!! First to comment and poetry required too boot??

I’ll be back…

Hasselhoff’s name is
Perfect for Haiku. No wonder
Japan adores him.

“No! I am not Bruce Campbell, nor was meant to be;”

Bruce Campbell > David Hasselhoff in my book, the Hoff is awesome, don’t get me wrong, but BC is whole other class of super awesome and meeting him was the best day of my life. (He is so intelligent and witty and just so damn funny in person).

It was the best of Hoff, it was the worst of Hoff, it was the age of Botox, it was the age of mousse, it was the epoch of tanorexia, it was the epoch of facelifts, it was the season of Knight Rider, it was the season of Baywatch, it was the spring of Shar Peis, it was the winter of Kitt, we had mantitty before us, we had chest hair before us, we were all going direct to Germany, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of hassling only.

Well it’s not poetry, but still.

A Writer’s Lament

Last night I watched “America’s Got Talent”
I became convinced this was a lie.
The human slinky was terrifying
The hot aerialist didn’t fly.

But then I checked Smart Bitches
And what then do I find?
Hasselhoff is doing a BOOK signing?
You mean the Hoff has a MIND?

Here I am an author,
Slogging though all the slush piles
And a man who can’t eat a cheeseburger
Has a book in bookstore aisles?

I must have no talent
As an actor or a writer.
If I can’t do better than to
Be jealous of the Knight Rider.

Hasselhoff can spell?
Even the thought hurts my brain.
Quick!  Pass me a lighter!
Time to light the plane!

*grin*

Wow. So that’s what you do with a B.A. in English.

You had me at “Can I has a peach?”

Loved the “Love Song to D. etc” I don’t think I’m a poet though.

If in some happy dream you too could ride
In the sleek black car that he’s sitting in,
And watch his brown eyes laughing at your side,
In t’bronzed face, worshipped in Berlin
If you could hear the radio blast
‘Living for freedom’ from his lucious lips
Divine harmony, forever unsurpassed
Beguiling through the miles of your road trips,—
My friend, you would tell with such sincerity
To bloggers desperate for something to laugh at,
The truth about Hoff, the enduring verity:
Nihil peccat nisi quod nihil peccat.

(His only fault is that he has no faults.)

It all goes wonky at the end (that’s what you get for reading Philosophy rather than English) but at least I tried…

And I didn’t check as to the eye colour. If it’s wrong, I plead poetic licence.

Oh life is a glorious cycle of song,
a medley of kittens and soft rain,
And love is a thing that can never go wrong,
At least not if I win the Hoff Plane.

Love it Celine!

Oh my God, you are geniuses. Those poems are truly awe-inspiring.

gee!  thanks! nothing I like better than warping iambic pentameter while being a smartass.

Awesome poetry SB’s.  I can’t write, so instead I checked out the U-tube link…oh the awfulness.  Now I’m off to shower, must get clean…where’s the detergent, the loofa, the bleach?

Luck to all poetry writing SB’s.

With all apologies to W.H. Auden, and poetry fans. The bitches made me do it.

Baywatch Blues

Stop all the clocks, put off the TV,
Prevent the child from playing with that Wii,
Silence the Ipods and with muffled drum
Bring out the program guide, let the mourners come.

Let Hoffplanes circle in flames overhead
Scribbling on the sky: Baywatch Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the necks of German fans,
Let the beach police wear black cotton bands.

He was my Mitch, my Mike, my Hoff and Dave,
My sharpè hugger and my ocean brave,
My day, my night, my hope, my heart elated;
I thought his tan would last: I miscalculated.

The cameras are not wanted: turn off every one;
Pack up the props and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and send away the best boy.
For nothing now can ever come to joy.

Shall I Compare Thee To A Hasselhoff?

by Rhonda Stapleton
(shamelessly ripped off of Shakespeare)

 
Shall I compare thee to a Hasselhoff?
Thou art less beefy and less fortunate.
His tight, red shorts do beg to be ripped off,
And wavy hair dost serve as tempting bait.

One time, the Hoffer were but stinking ripped,
And thus, the world’s opinion of him dimm’d;
But cries for help did soften hearts and lips—
We hope he leaves that blessed hair untrimm’d;

Thy Knight-like glory, never shall it fade,
Nor willst your talking car be far from mind;
We’re certain that show helped you to get laid
By drunken chicks who showed you their behind:

So long as Hoff can—in slow motion—run,
This poem shall praise (and poke a little fun).

B-list actor burning bright
In the wan fluorescent light
What immortal hand or eye
Could fold thy fearful symmetry?

In what cache of office supplies
Dwells the paper for thine eyes?
On what page shall we aspire
To print the face of Hoff-the-flyer?

And what hand and by what art
Can we make this hunksome dart?
And if by email it is sent
Is that copyright infringement?

What the printer? What the ink?
Of what cartrige shall his face drink?
And when it’s done in what firm grasp
Shall his smiling face be clasped?

And when we’ve thrown our valiant plane
And a million faces all lay slain
Will He smile or will he scoff
Or merely claim we’ve Hasseled his Hoff?

B-list actor burning bright
In the wan fluorescent light
What immortal hand or eye
Could fold thy fearful symmetry?

The Hoff made a guest appearance in my nightmare last night. Thanks a lot, Bitches.
Strangly, my nephew has a friend named Michael Knight.

I MUST have that shirt. I MUST.

Congratulations!
Today is your day.
You’re off to the book store!
You’re off and away!

You have a marker for signing.
You have book clutched in hand
You can now steer yourself
Towards that Mystic tanned man.
You’re on your own, at the front of the line.
He’s beckoning you forward; it’s Hasselhoff time!

You’ll look up and down him.  Look him over with care.
About him you will say, “What a full head of hair!”
With your paper airplane and your bag of Hoff loot,
you’re a PR wet dream, ‘cause you’re preggers to boot!

And you may not tell him
The reason you’re really agog
Are the hundreds of comments
That will be left on your blog.

Oh! What a lark
For Bitchery snark.

So smile wide for the camera
and restrain the urge-r
to instruct the Hoff
on eating a burger.

So…
be your name Candy or Sarah or Nora
or Mordecai Ali Van fiveandfour-a,
you’re off to the bookstore!
Today is your day!
The Hasselhoff’s waiting
So…get on your way!

Am I supposed to say who I ripped that off of?

Dr. Suess.

You people are awesome! 

But…can it really be a poetry contest until we hear from EvilAuntiePeril?

These are BRILLIANT. I have been laughing and laughing and laughing…

Competition is getting fierce! And could the Hoff ask for anything more than being the topic of all these poems??

You people are killing me with the funny.  With apologies to Dickenson:

The Hoff - is greater than John Tesh
For - put them side by side -
The one the other will smack down
With ease - plus you - besides

The Hoff is deeper than the sea -
For - watch them running in slo mo to ebbing & flowing
The one the other will splish splash
As kids in a wading pool can do

The Hoff is just the weight of Cheezburgers and Beer
For - Heft them - Pound for Pound -
And they will differ - if they do
As 8 ounces from a cup

and An opportunity to read and guest-review Smart-Bitch style the Hoffobiography if you like.

if I didn’t know you better, I might think you SBs were trying to get out of reading The Hoff’s book.  But that can’t be it, riiiiiggghhht?

Oh. My. God.  HaikuKatie is TEH AWESOME. She’s got my vote now, at least until I come up with a poem of my own…

I’m having altogether too much fun with this:

I
Among twenty silicone breasts
The least realistic thing
Was David Hasselhoff.

II
I was of three minds,
Like the Hoffster
With three fine ladies.

III
The Hasselhoff whirled in the media storm
He was King of the Internet

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and David Hasselhoff
Are on pay-per-view.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of man-titties
Or the beauty of speedos,
The Hoffplane flying
Or just after.

VI
Waves rolled on the long beach
With barbaric might.
The shadow of the lifeguard
Crossed it, to and fro.
The beach babes
Traced in his shadow
And indecipherable longing.

VII
O rich men of Hollywood
Why do you imagine Johnny Depp?
Do you not see how David Hasselhoff
Blithely feels up
The women about you?

VIII
I know noble authors
And lyric, literary biographies;
But I know, too,
That Hasselhoff has written a book
That I will read.

IX
When the Hoffplane flew out of sight
It marked the edge
Of one of many cubicles.

X
At the sight of David Hasselhoff
Lying in a drunken stupor,
Even the lushes of LA
Would offer him a beer.

XII
My eyes are bleeding.
I must be watching Baywatch.

XIII
It was summer all year
He was drinking
And he was going to drink
David Hasselhoff sat
In a talking car.

In the bookstore women stand, a train,
Waiting for the Hoff to sign their plane

No one can top this.

The list of prizes sounds like a collection plus ephemera that would be appraised on Antiques Roadshow. Someday… Lucky winner!

With apologies to Coleridge.

In Malibu did Hasselhoff
Some bouncing pleasure-globes provide:
Where Pam, the plastic breasted, doffed
a swimsuit barely held aloft
And Hoff’s pedicured foot did stride.

He had international hits with cars that talked and babes and babes,
He wore leather coats, coy curls, led town parades,
And he sang pop songs in a foreign tongue,
Flaunted hairy pecs and Speedo-ed buns,
And some did whine, “I’m afraid.”
...

He is a specimen of hair and teeth,
A drinking party boy who claims substance beneath!
But all who bought his albums, they are mad,
And sane ones cried, “His book is oh so bad.”
His skin is tight, he’s a faux-lad!
So fold your paper into planes and send up high
Make a wish as they ascend in cerulean sky
For he that Barbara Bach once wed
Now he seeks to establish literary cred!

To His Coy Hofness

Apologies to Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough and time,
This Hofness, sir, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To run, down the beach today.
Thou Hofness by Malibu’s side
Should’st bimbos find; I by the tide
Of Long Beach would complain.  I would
Read your book if forced, and should,
You write more, if you please, choose
A ghost writer, as your muse.
My nauseous stomach should blow
Faster than frat boys’, and more slow.
A hundred years they seemed to laze
As chapters passed, Hoff.  I praise
Your tales of booze and all the rest
But I like the Baywatch yarns the best.
I wonder if you’ll get another part,
A movie with a former Baywatch tart.
For Hoffster, you deserve this fate,
And Germany will make you head of state.
  But I will always live in fear,
Of what you do after a beer,
And why, drunk, you always seem to cry,
Your Botox keeps eyes dry.
Thy man-titty doth now abound,
Herr Hoffmeister will soon be crowned
Since all the motherland will buy
That awful autobiography,
And pray that if we must,
Let sequels be a bust.
The Hoff’s so fine and full of grace,
But none, I think, would dare embrace.
  Now therefore, while the greasy hue
Sits on thy man-titty like morning glew
And while thy armpits perspire
At every pore like burning tires,
Now let us inhale while we may;
And now, like B list celebrity,
Rather at once our fame and power
Was used up in about an hour.
Let us judge reality shows and all
And sign books at run-down malls
And to court go with our wife
‘Cause tabloids love has-been strife.
Thus, you’ve had your days in the sun
Sir Hoffington, your career is done.

I feel bad.  That is my all-time favorite poem.  I should be ashamed.

Oh, and all the poems?  They rock.  My husband had to come in the room to see why I was laughing so hard.

That…was incredible. ::runs off to work on “Names of Hoffses”::

So, I wasn’t going to join in, because I don’t think I can match the earlier poems. But ... it’s the Hoff. He speaks to me. I haven’t quite hit the rhythm, so apologies for that (and to W.E. Henley, who didn’t deserve this).

InHofftus

Out of the swoon that grips me
  When contemplating the Hoff’s work
I curse whatever gods may be
  For Hoff’s unconquerable smirk

In the fell clutch of bronzed man-tit
  I have not winced nor cried aloud
Under the bludgeonings of Kitt
  My head is bloody but unbowed

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
  Looms only Baywatch replayed
And yet the menace of the years
  Finds and shall find Hoff, unafraid

It matters not how the grammar grates
  How charged with cliché is the scroll
I am the master of my fate:
  I shall promise to read the whole

so much depends
upon

the rosaceaed Hoff
junk

glazed with fire
water

beside the tan
chickens

(God, that hurt!  I will arise and go now, to my phalanx of votive candles, and burn one to placate the spirit of WCW.)

Stephanie, I think you need to apologize to Four Weddings and a Funeral for that one, too.

These are ALL hilarious, but the obvious winner is “Thirteen Ways of Looking at the Hoff.” (Though I DID like “This is Just to Say.”) Thank you all for making my day. Possibly my week.

I’ll apologize to Four Weddings and Funeral when the director apologizes for casting Andie MacDowell as the American. Never has my nation been so maligned.

O.k. folks—I’m giving fair warning that I’m about to unleah my infinite dorkitude.

*cracks knuckles in the style of cartoon pianists*

Whan that Hoffe with his mantitte froote
The droghte of Fame hath perced his roote,
And bathed every floore in drunken stoupor
Of which even Germanee kyndness is unshour;
Whan Fandome eek to makke his face to flye
Inspired hath in every bitcherie a crye
To Hassle the Hoffe of this deraunged sonne,
For his sometyme career its half cours yronne,
Withe smale abilitee he maken melodye,
That sended al the worlde to jumppe to dye
(So warneth hem recorde label in coverages),
Thanne longen folk to watches unto fak talentsearches,
All mannere of horror hee workis to sende
So unto Marvel to Stevens wee comprehende,
The hooly blessed peace for to seke,
That commes with hem skewered on wordes we reete.

Just the thought of reciting that in Middle English is enough to make Chaucer turn in his grave.

ROFLMAO!

There is too much awesomeness here.  How can we choose a winner?

My votes, in this order:

Joanna S.
HaikuKatie
Aggiedone

I am totally blown away by all of the Bitchery who entered.  You guys are brilliant!

Ode to the Hoff of the past

Bet you thought that you could hide or
Escape from him after his Knight Rider.
His car was sexier than his acting.
Then he was back with Baywatch Hotties
Flouncing man-titty and other naughties.
My lusts for him were fast retracting.
Of Hoff, why did you leave the car?
Hoping you could be a star?
Maybe you thought you could catch a girl
While running in your little speedo.
They all thought you really neato.
I tried watching, but it made me hurl.
I really miss Kit.

ROFL—holy crap, there are some scarily talented people on here.  I’m dying laughing.

Since it’s all about the madness, I cast a vote for everyone who posted a poem. 

And two votes for myself. 

ROFL

aggiedone and Joanna S.!
YAY!

Once upon a Baywatch dreary
While I drank beer, bored and bleary
With my gay brother’s criticisms of too-jiggly gore.
While I tippled,nearly crippled
Oh the horror!  My eyes were stippled!
By a hairy chest, pertly nippled
Nippled to aureoles galore!
Quoth I, “What a whore.”

Ah, instantly I erupted, my laughter uncorrupted
As I scrutinized the remainder of the   lifeguard corps.
It was quickly quite apparent
That those nipples were not errant
And the swimsuits near transparent
Transparent down to the pore.
For the rare and fabulous Oxyclear that cleared up every pore.
I fell to the floor.

And the fulsome fun and frantic laughter
That accompanied us hereafter
Thrilled me—filled me with horrific images never seen before.
So that now, to stop the sobbing
Of my hilarity, uncontrollably lobbing
The Hoff plane led me past the fact that the show was a bore
Yes, I said that Baywatch was a huge bore.
That it is, and nothing more.

Presently, amusement left me, sense of humor had bereft me
As my digusted brother made his progress to the door.
I love my brother in the main,
But on this topic he’s insane!
He has Hasselhoff on the brain,
A character flaw in him I deplore.
I can’t believe we had the quarrel,
And to this story there’s no moral,
He wants the plane, nothing more.

That’s right.  The plane, and nothing more.

Someone HAD To do Poe—might as well be me.

The Modern Hassel-Miracle

in modest tribute to Gilbert & Sullivan

The Hoff he is a man of high attraction most emphatical,
The eyes of brown, the hair so perfectly sine-wavy natural.
He confidently poses in his Speedos most elastical;
In sunlight his hip flexors show development quite radical.

An open shirt reveals expansive man titty piratical,
A leather jacket lends panache that women find romantical.
Because he knows we’d hate to see him shuffling and rheumatical,
He generously pays a doc to keep his features affable.

He generously pays a doc to keep his features affable
He generously pays a doc to keep his features affable
He generously pays a doc to keep his features affable

While treading water Hoffy teaches safety techniques practical,
On Wednesday nights he volunteers to save the Malibu Seagull.
The way he leaps in to the breach, an action figure on the beach,
His gallantry inspires us each to follow his examplical!

The way he leaps in to the breach, an action figure on the beach,
His gallantry inspires us each to follow his examplical!

On someone else the Hasselhoffin’ charm would be ephemeral,
For most actors end their careers endorsing stuff for hemorrholds.
But Hoff’s appeal transcends the normal limitations epochal,
His gleaming teeth and chiseled jaw a marvel orthodontical.

The Hasselhoff attracts attention good and plain fanatical,
His private life is targeted for reasons enigmatical.
The tabloids try to catch him with a blemish or detractable,
His fans are desperate for a glimpse, they’re lovingly tyrannical.

His fans are desperate for a glimpse, they’re lovingly tyrannical
His fans are desperate for a glimpse, they’re lovingly tyrannical
His fans are desperate for a glimpse, they’re lovingly tyrannical

Hoff’s moral fiber is a type no superhero school can teach,
The way he leaps in to the breach, an action figure on the beach,
A demigod just out of reach, accepting glad tribute from each
Buoyant and Coppertonèd peach he saves from Neptune’s watery reach!

A demigod just out of reach, accepting glad tribute from each
Buoyant and Coppertonèd peach he saves from Neptune’s watery reach!

His sense of humor unimpaired by mockery inimcal,
He even gives his autograph to those who find him laughable,
Those jealous peeps who futilely deny his music’s danceable.
He graciously takes photographs with those who make a spectacle.

His equanimity to his detractors must enbaffle ‘em
He’ll answer to the Hoffster, Hoffy, Hasselhoffelheffalumff.
If Hoff could be engaged to pose for romance novel cover stunts,
There’d be a record lineup to be swept up on his camel hump.

There’d be a record lineup to be swept up on his camel hump
There’d be a record lineup to be swept up on his camel hump
There’d be a record lineup to be swept up on his camel hump

Enquiring minds ask whether he got both Pams horizontical,
But someone so sincere would never play such games erotical.
Hoff’s moral fiber is a type no superhero school can teach,
His gallantry inspires us each to follow his examplical!

Hoff’s moral fiber is a type no superhero school can teach,
His gallantry inspires us each to follow his examplical!

Iffygenia gets all of my votes. Holy crap, that made me spew root beer at my monitor.

*we’re not worthy!*
*we’re not worthy!*

Here’s mine, you can sing to it! (apologies to whichever filthy rich songwriter wrote the words to “clap your hands”).

If you’re Hoffy and you know it,
Clap your hands! *clap clap*
If you’re Hoffy and you know it,
Clap your hands! *clap clap*
If you’re Hoffy and you know it,
and you’ve got the hair to show it,
If you’re Hoffy and you know it,
Clap your hands! *clap clap*

If your mullet’s hue is fading,
Clap your hands! *clap clap*
If your Baywatch bod’s deflating,
Clap your hands! *clap clap*
If your ass is still no tighter,
Than your days as the Knight Rider,
Your fans know you’re still a fighter,
Clap your hands! *clap clap*

If you’re no longer lusty manbeef,
Clap your hands! *clap clap*
If you’re now film’s comic relief,
Clap your hands! *clap clap*
If you feel so out of place,
When Adam Sandler slaps your face,
Spray Happy Gilmore with some mace,
And Clap your hands! *clap clap*

If you now awe the frauliens,
Clap your hands! *clap clap*
Germany pays all your bar fines,
Clap your hands! *clap clap*
You’re the Germanic William Shatner,
Just leave off the orange tanner,
And your fans will just get fan-er,
Clap your hands! *clap clap*

If you’ve just written a book,
Clap your hands! *clap clap*
And some Smart Bitches want a look,
Clap your hands! *clap clap*
Your face on Sarah’s paper plane,
Will just increase your worthy fame,
Just you remember who to blame,
And clap your hands! *clap clap*

ROFL—okay, this is the impossible situation.  How are you guys going to pick just one winner?  So many different awesome poems on here…

I vote for Iffygenia’s poem

I also vote for myself - because it seems like something Hasselhoff would do. ^_^

I must say—Iffygenia you are my Yoda!  I definitely cast a vote in your direction. Gilbert & Sullivan never had it so good, not even with eachother!

Oh, and of course, one for my criminal use of the General Prologue—I’m not egotistical.  Nope. Uh-uh. No, siree.  Hey, anyone want to make an origami plane out of a picture of my face? Anyone? Anyone?!

Oops!  I forgot to add a vote for HaikuKatie as well…“Thirteen Ways of Looking at the Hoff” was absolutely brilliant!!

Just the thought of reciting that in Middle English is enough to make Chaucer turn in his grave.

Now now.  Chaucer had a sense of humor.  And surely he would admire the Hoff’s knack for self-promotion.

the rosaceaed Hoff
junk

Oh shit. Oh shit. My brain, it bleeds.

Ok, regular reader, never commented, but sometimes there’s inspiration.

Smiling at virgins
Teeth gleaming whitely at night
Hoff slinks silently

Loping like a wolf
That hunts only in autumn
The Hoff slinks alone

Realization hits!
A chill sliding down her spine
She knows he seeks her

Night falls around them
His ego intoxicates
them, lighting the night

In the style of John Donne:

Invoke nostalgia of red-speedoed Hoff; for, now,
You but drink, mumble and try to consume
Your surgeon’s knife to alter, sculpt and make yourself new.
Fame, like royalty checks, to others are due.

Alright, I had to join in.  This is just too much fun!  You are all very, very witty!

“The Hoff”

Hoffy!  Hoffy!  Burning bright,
In a Speedo oh so tight,
What immortal “Baywatch” fan
Could frame they faithful symmetry?

In what distant shows or book-
Writings gleams the fire of thine eyes?
On what ambitions dareth thee aspire?
What new career dareth they reach?

And what a fake tan!  Such an art
Could twist the sinews of a heart.
And when a heart begins to beat,
What dread hair and what dread man-titty!?

Mitch Buchannon—Michael Knight—
In what soap opera was thy brain,
For surely there could be no career
Better suited to thy grace?

When the stars threw down their towels,
And watered LA with their tears,
Did thou smile at a TV movie to-be?
In “Dodgeball” we adoreth thee.

Hoffy! Hoffy! Burning bright
In a Speedo oh so tight,
What immortal “Baywatch” fan
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

My solicitor would like to add that I have never heard of anyone by the name of William Blake.

Ok..one vote for HaikuKatie, hope I made the deadline (it’s 11pm central!)

These are all terrific!!

d’oh!
here’s hoping that this will get counted as a vote, even though it’s past midnight here. (it’s not midnight on the west coast yet! that counts, right?)
this is such a tough decision, but my votes are:
haikukatie
iffygenia
and
joanna s.
(unless i can vote for candy. that damn llama song is going to be stuck in my head for another week and a half now, but i don’t think i mind. it was that funny.)

Hey, nobody votes on a weekend except Commies and Canadians (or is it the French?  Which, as far as I’m concerned, is the same fucking difference).