Hug Machine is perhaps the funniest shit ever. I was introduced to it by a Livejournaler a few years ago, and I still damn near piss myself laughing every time I read it.

In it’s entirety:

hug machine
i see you across the street
in the library
at a Starbucks
or at an emo concert
wearing black thick plastic
glasses,
a horizontally striped shirt
that makes your tits look
big,
a satchel with band buttons like
Saves the Day
Dashboard Confessional
Weezer
and other obscure bands
i don’t know about,
some loose fitting jeans,
and boots
black boots
fresh from K-Mart
and on your face
is a look that would make
doves cry
and on your face
is a look that would make
Richard Simmons
cry
and on your face
is a look that would make
Jesus
cry
and you just stand there
looking all mopey
like no one has touched you
or kissed you.

i have the urge to run over to you,
grab you by the shoulders
and shake the melancholy
out of you.
but that won’t do
because those boots are probably
steel toed
and i know where one of them
will go.

besides i have a better idea.

i think you need a hug,
not just any hug
where the arms are all sloppy
and you pat the person on the back
while the hug goes on
because you don’t know what to say
no, you need the kind of hug
that squeezes hard
so hard
you can feel the misery
oozing out of your pores
and onto the floor.
a hug softer than
Charmin toilet paper
a hug that will soothe your bones
and heal your soul
so you aren’t so
emo.

and that’s what i’ll do.
travel across this land,
hugging sad, lonely kids
so the dark cloud is lifted
from their brows
and they can finally
finally
finally
get over themselves.

do you want a hug?
do you need a hug?
well come here
and i’ll
give you one
right
now.

Copyright by j. bradley 2002

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