Published Monthly

From the Editor (January 2006)
by Michael Haislip

I hired a poet to write epic poems about my life. It’s true. I felt my life needed to be recorded in its entirety, from every emotional high to all of the boring minutiae. I hesitated slightly before choosing a poet, though. I worried that the wrong epic poet would have me slaying cyclops or defeating Grendel, when we all know the most I’ve ever defeated is that one pre-school kid down the street (last week was a bad week, ok, and he had it coming). So, I went to the epic poet employment office to ask their advice.

“Well, Mr. Haislip, what are you looking for in a personal poet?” the Poet Advisor asked.

“Mainly, he needs to make my daily routine look like the life of a god,” I answered. “Oh, and I was really looking for someone who wore one of those little togas. The ladies love that. Oh, and maybe he could carry a lute or a harp. With a wah pedal or a talk box.”

The advisor zipped through her Rolodex. “Let’s see. You want to look like a god?”


“And you want a toga-wearing, lute player with a wah pedal or a talk box?”

“That’s right.”

She sighed. “Why don’t you just put a toga on Peter Frampton and give him a lute?” she asked. “You’re asking for quite a bit.”

I felt the knife stabs of disappointment slice through my gut, like someone had punt kicked my testicles into my colon. I tried to regroup, a last ditch effort to salvage my dream of the week. “How about just the looking like a god part?”

She flipped through the index cards again, and the blur of motion stopped on one card. “Ah, here ya go. He goes by the name Mentos, and he’s available everyday but Columbus Day.”

“Mentos? All you have is a guy named Mentos? Is that even a Greek name?” I asked.

She snapped shut the Rolodex. “Look, Sappho, Hesiod, Homer, doesn’t matter what the name is. No one reads it anyway.” She snapped her head up to make eye contact with me. “Take it or leave it.”

I hired Mentos on a probational basis. If he goes two weeks without making me look stupid, and if he quits claiming I caused the Trojan War, then I might consider keeping him on. For now, we’re going to the Gas-N-Go.

Salty corn chips and root beer he did purchase for lunch.
Behold, angels weeped tears of blood as he paid with quarters.
Lo, forever doth his Big Gulp runneth over.

Michael Haislip is the editor of AntiMuse. For 6 years, he published the cult favorite American Assassin magazine, churning out almost 1000 pages of commentary and humor in that span. In lieu of flowers, he asks that you send alcohol. He also wishes it known that he has the longest biography out of all the staff writers.


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