Poetry Slam Syndrome
Scion of science Dr. Cyrus Syernick sighs, “Most science studies are in fact unscientific. The media is mean t’ya, I mean, the mean meaning’s a miasma. Asthma, plasma and xanthelasma studies by my buddies of fuddy duddies are ruddy cruddy. Pseudoscience can be found all around you’d be astounded.”
Doctor Syernick recited these lines at the MIT poetry slam last Thursday where he was really having fun by the sound of it. He woke up with an aching head like someone’d pounded it.
“My head is killing me,” he said. “Really illin’ me. Are you fillin’ me? Like someone is pilling me with a potato piller.”
Doctor Syernick is one of a growing number of sufferers of Poetry Slam Syndrome as it’s now known. One seemingly harmless night out at the poetry slam, and these poor individuals can’t find their way back to a simple prose jam.
“It seems that some folks don’t have that switch,” said linguist witch, Sandra Snitch. “It’s like a mental glitch, as they rhythmically twitch. Rhymes they spits, and lines of poetry pitch, and sometimes catch, which, natch, can be ratch because they become fricking annoying.”
Ms. Snitch, as you can see, is also a sufferee, of this syndrome, as is me. Unluckily.
“These poetry slams are actually quite dangerous,” said Boston College student affairs administrator, Mr. Poetry Hater. Oh shoot, here we go again. “At Boston College we pay medical staff like time and a half to stay after school and treat these fools who come outa the Thursday Night BC slams spitting dirty dithyrambs and mumble rapping mammer-jams its like Sodom and Gomorrha they come in with anaphora it’s like a Neurospora germs on the brain and the poetry’s driven them insane.”
Is there any treatment? Is that what that tweet meant? The one you just sent? That said you too were suffering through and is there anything you can do? Sorry for you, I do not have a clue. But for a few weeks at least do not, under any circumstance, attend any sort of poetry get together or dance. Or poetry slam. Damn…