The Stupid Jerk I'm Obsessed With

The stupid jerk I'm obsessed with
stands so close to me I can feel his breath on my neck
and smell the way he would smell if we slept together
because he is The Stupid Jerk I'm Obsessed with
and that is his primary function in life
to be a Stupid Jerk I can Obsess over
and to talk with that dinghy bim bat blonde as if he really wanted to hear about her manicures and pedicures and new age ritualistic enema cures and
truth be known he probably does want to hear about it
because he is The Stupid Jerk I'm Obsessed with
and he's obsessed with doing anything he can to lend fuel to my fire.

He makes a point of standing,
looking over my shoulder
when I'm talking to the guy who adores me
and would bark like a dog and wave to strangers if I asked him to
bark like a dog and wave to strangers,
but I can't ask him to bark like a dog or impersonate any kind of animal at all
cuz I'm too busy lookin at the way The Stupid Jerk I'm Obsessed with
has pants on that perfectly define his well shaped ass
to the point where I'm thoroughly frantic.

I'm just gonna go home and stick my head in the oven,
overdose on nutmeg and aspirin and
sit in the bathtub reading the executioners song
and being completely confounded by the fact that I can see
The Stupid Jerk I'm Obsessed with's face
defining itself in the peeling plaster of the wall
grinning and winking
and I start to yell “get the hell out a there.
You're just a figment of my imagination.
Just get a life and get out of my plaster and pass me the next painful situation, please.” But he just keeps on grinning and winking.
He's a Stupid Jerk I'm Obsessed with
and he's mine,
in my plaster
and frankly I couldn't be happier.