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"For $15 I'll induce your labor."

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O Brendan Frasier

O BRENDAN FRASIER

with your swashbuckler’s jaw line

and your three “r”s

like hooks in your peg board garage wall,

outfitted with a cutlass lined lawn mower for the summer

and a dragon’s breath snow blower

for the winter—

O Brendan Frasier,

your lifeline on your palm is etch marked with cliffhangers,

broken like an ancient rope bridge—

spliced down the middle,

broken like how your nose should be

at all times.

What do you think you’re doing,

wearing linen!?

Your fingers are finger-guns

Bang—clickthumb—Bang

shooting time-traveling

time-capsule bullets to the cretaceous—

Hello dinosaur, meet Mr. Frasier—

Pleased to meet you dinosaur—

chocolate milk for everyone!

My nephews, dripping in chlorine, salt,

and buttery liquid call your movies films.

They take crayon notes

in the dark of the theatre,

draw your torso a yellow-green center,

inscribing each “r” with a wonder

akin only to imagining Jesus

spelunking in The Batcave.

O Brendan Frasier,

are you 3-D in real life?

Or are you an animation cell,

flipping 24 frames per/sec

down Rodeo Drive in a station wagon,

the kids and the wife layered underneath?

You love your wife.

You love your movie’s wives.

You have been telling us for years

that you really really really hate mummies,

but no one listens to your cries

because we love you for fighting them.

There is no tender unraveling

of the seven shrouds,

caressing of aloe vera,

or rejuvenating skin therapy formula

on their ancient wrinkles,

there are bullets,

you kill dead deader,

so when I see the casket at this funeral

and imagine with x-ray vision

to the formaldehyde Tutankhamen within,

glistening under his White Sox cap

which hides the surgery stitches

along the latitude of his brain—

a brain like the Library of Alexandria

on a summer Sunday—

I almost think I see you

in the picture-laden corner of the service,

sharpening a machete with your teeth among the chrysanthemums,

ready to put everything in its place

until it stays there forever,

like Brendan Frasier was born to do.

What in the Sam H-E-double hockey sticks is Blue Ox?

Blue Ox is Brian and Dave. They make books. Karate & Females is the first of those books.

Sometimes Dave writes the words, sometimes Brian does. Sometimes Brian draws the pictures, sometimes Dave does. Jacks-of-all-trades.

Blue Ox is a myth. It's a giant, lumbering, 8-stomached myth, and now you can have a little tiny sliver of it when you read K&F.

"Do you have an uncle named Dreighton, who has a gut like this?"

It's on the streets...

WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN UP TO THIS SUMMER DAVE AND BRIAN?

Eh you know. Just doin' karate and tryin' to get females pregnant. (3:16)

- Tracy Morgan