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...and as they both sank beneath the water, the scorpion said to the frog:
"I couldn't help it. It's in my nature."

The Bipolar Bowler

by D X Stone


The Bipolar Bowler had balls, you bet!

He had two big balls, as big as they get!

He'd roll 'em both together

Whenever he bowled

And the right one was all silver

And the left one was all gold...


But his right hand never knew

What his left hand was about...

So half the time those two big balls

Would cancel one another out!

His style was perfectly berserk

It wasn't right--it didn't work!

One lane was not enough for such as he...

He needed two at minimum, or maybe three!


And when he'd roll a double-gutter

He'd become so utterly depressed

You'd think his three best friends had died!--

He'd hold his balls up to his head and threaten suicide!

But then he'd laugh and say it was a jest

And just pretend...

And then he'd cry and cry

Til it was time for him to bowl again


He wanted to bowl in two lanes at a time--

In two leagues at a time!

"Where's the crime?" he'd protest,

"Just because I wanna bowl twice as much as the rest?"

But more popular people prevailed--

The Bipolar Bowler was jeered at and jailed!

And when he finally got out

And went to get his balls back

They told him that his golden bowling ball was stolen--

Sold perhaps, or painted black--

They told him that he couldn't get it back...


The Bipolar Bowler heard these words

Stood stock-still, seeming stunned...

Then went to get his gattling gun


All the High-Rollin' Bowlers froze in mid-frame

When the Bipolar Bowler stepped onto the lanes

In his street shoes!

"I'll teach you!" he shouted, deranged!

"I'm all better!" he cried to the crowd,

"I have changed!"

"I am no longer who I once was­

And I know it shows! I know it does!


"I repent!" he cried, "I've changed my ways!

Prayer, crying, crime--

None of it pays!

I'm goin' straight this time!" he said--

Then he drew fast and shot himself right in the head...


And his blood was red and green and blue

And orange and yellow and purple, too...

And it fountained up out of the tiny hole

Like a rainbow wrapping around a soul

And bursting through a coal-black cloud--

A curse came up from the beer-swilling crowd...


Then burgeoning cheers and loud applause!

And then everybody got out their saws

And cut him up into tiny bits

Then affixed all the bits onto spiky spits

And cooked him up to a crackly crunch...

And then all the bowlers had him for lunch...


And he was... sweet... and sour...

And somewhat difficult to devour...

And even more difficult to digest

Cuz after dessert, and a little rest

They all soon found

That none of them could seem to hold

That old Bipolar Bowler down!

He came right back up! With a rumbling sound!


In projectile fashion he erupted and rained!

Knocking every last pin down on every lane!

So in one single mythically sickening frame

The Bipolar Bowler scored

One single




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