Bad Poems, Fun Times

Technology can provide mechanisms to create the most amazing and unexpected forms of artistic expression. Take, for example, bad poetry. There is, in essence, a formula that can be followed to create bad poetry. Take several unrelated words or phrases, sting them together with ennui and bongo music, then present them to an audience of like-minded art appreciators. This formula can be turned into a quick little script, paired with a database of phrases, and viola... bad poetry.

Ok, I'm kidding. Bad poetry is perhaps the most mocked of all written forms. It is so bad, in fact, that is has had cause to be published. It mocks itself, and causes a sort of ironic amusement and wonder at the general awfulness of it all. And, of course, we can all get in on it. Anyone can sit down and write their own bad poetry (some people do this unintentionally). But for those of us, on the go, we can find (if we look) humourous ways of generating bad poetry quickly. The internet is truly wonderful.

A quick Google search reveals a plethora of "poetry generators", many dedicated to producing the worst kinds of poetry. There is goth poetry, bad poetry, and (the worst) Vogon poetry. Why are we fascinated with re-arranging words and phrases into new, sublime, and ultimately horrible combinations of broken metaphors and abused similes? Probably because it is fun. To that extent, I give you a Garfield Randomizer.

Not only is Garfield one of the most consistently mediocre strips available for consumption, but the general lack of substance allows it to be easily remixed into something new. Simply by clicking the go button, you can create strips of absurdity, strips of randomness, strips of... well, bad poetry. How can something so bland, so bad, be so addictive?


Of course, if I really wanted to use a computer to make bad poetry, I'd just load up my copy of Grim Fandango and head into the Blue Casket. That can just kill hours.

Hope for Opus

A scant few months ago Berkeley Breathed creator of Bloom County, returned to the world of newspaper comics with a full colour weekend feature entitled Opus. He has re-introduced Opus, that slightly neurotic penguin, Bill, the deranged cat, and even Steve Dallas (as an over the hill single father figure). And I've read them every Saturday. And I've felt nothing for them.

You see, I grew up after Bloom County. I never read them when they were new. But my dad had a collection that encapsulated nearly the entire run. I've read it a few times. The characters were endearing and lovable, if a bit deranged. The humour was odd-ball and semi-political. But, it was good. It fit. I liked it. And now that something of it has returned after all these years, I feel sorry for the people who are reading it for the first time.

Because it feels like Berkeley is trying too hard. There isn't any of the loveable-ness left in the characters. They all felt like they've had too hard a time over the past decade or so. They feel worn down and stretched. They feel like they are on the edge of sanity and barely hanging on. And the humour has gotten stanger. There is still the sense the Mr. Breathed is trying to remain political, but the references grow stranger and the antics more crazed.

Basically, none of the strips have made me laugh. They've made me shrug or wince or grimace. I've felt everything from apathy to confusion to acute embarasment over them. I havn't enjoyed them, but I love these characters. I want to see them in a good light again, so I continue to read. And today I finally got a reward. It wasn't a perfect return, but perhaps it is a first step. It at least shows that Berkeley has not lost his sense of irony and humour entirely.

Since the strip cannot be found online, I'll have to describe it to you who cannot see it. Opus and Bill are sleeping. The Anxiety closet creeps open and there are a number of pop-culture figures huddled just inside of Opus's room. Opus wakes up and begins to exclaim a number of names (Micheal Jackson, Darth Vader, Jagger, Schwarzenegger, Bono, Paula Abdul, Donald Trump). "All back", he says. He wonders at their return ("poping up like cheep yo-yos"). Then he shoos them back into the closet telling them they should get back to the cheesy decade they belong. He then screams after them (there is a lot of screaming in the new Opus strips), "Ya know, maybe you persistent pop culture has-beens from the '80s could use a few rounds of bird shot in the butt!". There are then a couple panels of quite return and reflection as Opus returns to bed and Bill the Cat looks on.

And the final panel has Opus asleep with Bill cocking a wide-mouthed shotgun at him.

I think Berkeley gets it. And maybe there is hope for Opus after all. Only time will tell.