FanStory.com - The Divine Nonsense of Jim Wile by Jim Wile

Prologue

Until fairly recently, I’ve been what I would call a reluctant poet for much of my life, at least since my 30s, when I decided to try my hand at poetry. Well, that’s not strictly true. My first attempt at poetry came when I was either 8 or 9 years old, and my teacher assigned us a poem to write. I still remember it today. It was called “Baseball,” and it goes like this:

Baseball
By Jimmy Wile

    Baseball’s a game that’s lots of fun.
    You hit the ball, and then you run.
    You catch the ball, and then you throw,
    So the man on base cannot go.

    It starts with nine men who make a team:
    First, second, third base, and a man in between,
    A pitcher, a catcher, three fielders also,
    And they all put on a very fine show.

    That’s all there is; there’s nothing more to say.
    I hope you’ve learned how to play baseball today.
    If you’re not satisfied, and you want to know more,
    Buy “The Little League Rule Book” at your favorite sports store.

Not bad, huh? The meter’s not so great, but it rhymes well.

I may have written one for a high school English class, but I don’t remember it. I didn’t write another until age 30, when I was inspired to write one on my baby daughter’s first birthday. The next one came in like fashion to commemorate the first birthday of my son. These rhymed well, like “Baseball,” but the meter was quite unpolished.

The first, what I would call good poem, was written on the occasion of my father’s 70th birthday and was called “Have Another Pork Chop, Paul.” That will be the first poem in this collection. I consider that one to be the beginning of my poetry-writing journey. It was a sporadic journey, however, and most of my poems, with few exceptions, were to commemorate special occasions—birthdays, graduations, retirements, etc. Poetry did not come too easily to me, and, although I was generally pleased with the results, it was an arduous task for me to write a poem, and I often needed to be begged to do it.

But then came FanStory, which I originally joined in November 2022 to share mainly prose—stories and essays—but eventually began submitting poetry as well. The more I began writing poems, the easier they became to write, and, with the exception of “Have Another Pork Chop, Paul,” all of the poems in this collection were written since I joined FanStory. It’s to the point that poetry is as much or more fun for me to write than prose, and I keep a little notebook to jot down poem ideas when they strike me.

My poems are almost exclusively humor poems, and they rhyme too. Although I respect free verse poems, I still prefer poems that rhyme and have good meter. Where do my poem ideas come from? Beats me. Many just pop into my head for no apparent reason. (A lot of nonsense goes on in there!) Some are also suggested to me by my wife, Elise, who is both my biggest fan and my biggest critic.

Enough of this; let’s move along to the poetry.

Table of Contents

Have Another Pork Chop, Paul

Too Many Characters

The Tuba and the Piccolo

What Real Poets Know

Bad Guy

Wile on the Green

Don’t Laugh

Tough Questions

My Earlobes

The Ballad of Old Blue

Garbage Disposal No-Nos

True Love

Pluto

Chapter 1
Have Another Pork Chop, Paul

By Jim Wile

When in the course of human events
You're foiled at every turn,
And you find that in the school of life
There's just too much to learn,
When despair's about to grab you,
And you're headed for a fall,
Just... have a pork chop
... Have a pork chop
Have another pork chop, Paul.

When your heels all but kill you
And your knees can't stand the strain,
When your fingers lose their feeling,
And your wrists are full of pain,
When all your nails are crumbling,
And your pecker won't stand tall,
Just... have a pork chop
... Have a pork chop
Have another pork chop, Paul.

When your putts all rim the cup,
And your approach shots find the trap,
When you shank the little pitch shots,
And your drives aren't worth a crap,
When however hard you try
You just can't hit the !@#$%*?$ ball,
Then... have a pork chop
... Have a pork chop
Have another pork chop, Paul.

When you ask for seats in first class,
But coach is where you're stuck,
And you hope your luggage makes it,
But again you're out of luck,
When you expect to have smooth sailing,
But you're battered by a squall,
Just... have a pork chop
... Have a pork chop
Have another pork chop, Paul.

Your life is in a shambles, Paul,
Of that there is no doubt,
And you know from lots of practice
That it does no good to pout,
But there is one thing you can do
To eschew your problems all,
That's... have a pork chop
... Have a pork chop
Have another pork chop, Paul.

Author Notes We lived in the north, and when I was ten years old, my southern grandmother visited us and stayed for a few days. At dinner one night, my father, whose name was Paul, finished his plate early, and Grandma said to him, "Have another pawk chop, Paul."

That just cracked me up the way she said it, and I started repeating it over and over. It became a family joke.

When he turned 70, I wrote and presented this poem to him at a big dinner party. He was very amused.

Chapter 2
Too Many Characters

By Jim Wile

Too many characters—I just cain’t keep ‘em straight…
When I read a novel, ‘cause my memory ain’t so great.
Gimme three or four, maybe five, but that’s enough,
‘Cause more than that and knowin’ who is who is just too tough.

And don’tcha hate it when the author gives ‘em sim’lar names?
Ain’t no excuse for comin' up with names like Jim and James,

As if there wasn’t plenty names the author coulda chose!

How ‘bout Jim and Chucky? There’d be no confusin’ those.

Gimme a good ole novel like The Old Man and the Sea,
By Hemingway. Now there’s a guy who surely spoke to me.
He kep’ his players to a few, which is my dyin’ wish.
The story's mainly told with three, and one of ‘em’s a fish.

There wasn’t no confusin’ who was who, and who did what.
I know you’re probly thinkin’ this is musings from a nut.
Just wait ‘til you get my age, and yer mem’ry’s all askew.
I’m sure that you’ll appreciate when characters are few.

Chapter 3
What Real Poets Know

By Jim Wile

It’s free verse I must master if I want to be a poet.
For “Rhymers” lack the necessary skills—we just don’t know it.
We think that rhyme’s the best way to communicate with words,
But we don’t know what “Freevers” know: That concept’s just absurd!

They say that rhyming’s limiting; it forces me to choose…
Some words I may not really want, for fear that I will lose…
The rhythm and the cadence—unnecessary chores—
That force me down a narrow path, the “Freevers” all abhor.

And try to end a quatrain line with words like “bulb” or “orange.”
I only can approximate the rhymes with “hub” or “flange.”
Why must I tie myself in knots, just to make it rhyme?
When free verse offers me the chance to mitigate the crime…

Of choosing words that fail to say exactly what I mean,
And offer me but little hope my audience will glean…
The point that I am trying to make. It’s time I must retool.
So, I’ll attempt to write a poem without the stringent rules.

Let’s see if I can conjure one without reverting back…
To rhyming, which the “Freevers” say will make me just a hack.
I promise not to make a rhyme. I’ll swear off meter too.
And then I’ll see if what the “Freevers” say is really true.

Here goes:

Higher Duty

There lies
the fair maiden.
Her concupiscence abundant
in her artful splendor,
adjuring me to reap the rewards
she knows she can bestow.
So why must I go

[watch it now!] (oops)

away from her realm
to where cold winds stir
that shun the comfort of her evanescent loins
quickly fading away
like a magician’s vanishing coins

[you’re not trying very hard!] (I apologize)

Such is my woe
That I can only imagine her now in my dreams!
For I must go where higher duty beckons.

Despite the rain and cold and wind
To cancel a golf game? That’s a sin!
I must show up, I promised my buds.
If I renege—my name is mud!

(@#!$%^&*)

I’m sorry, I have failed, my friends. I just could not sustain it.
I did my best, you must believe. I just cannot explain it:
This need to rhyme with flowing cadence I can’t do without.
I’ll never be a poet now! I think I’ll go and pout.

Author Notes Please don't be offended, free verse poets. This is all in good fun.

Similar in theme to my poems "Simple Poet" and "Simple Poet - Part 2," it illustrates my attempts to grow into a complete poet. It isn't so easy for me.

To give context to this latest goal: About ten years ago I was a volunteer at a library with the job of shelving books. This afforded me a wonderful opportunity to browse many books. (It's a good thing I wasn't being paid, or I probably would have gotten fired for the amount of time I spent doing this!)

One of the books I had to shelve was called "The Best American Poetry: 2010." I spent a few minutes reading poems, and every one I saw was a free verse poem. I couldn't find a rhyme anywhere. The conclusion I drew from this was that rhyming was now passe, and if I wanted to become a real poet, I would have to master the art of free verse.

Chapter 4
Bad Guy

By Jim Wile

    No rhymes you say? Surely you jest!
    Okay, I’ll defer to your ~~request~~ command.
    I’ll warn you right now, it’s tough for me
    To write without rhyming as you can ~~see~~ figure out.

    You’ve thrown down the gauntlet, I must obey:
    Omit all rhyming, and don’t go ~~astray~~ wayward,
    Or I’ll be disqualified, can’t break the rules
    'Cause then you'll take me for a ~~fool~~ jerk.

Enjoy the poem for the contest I wrote,
There isn’t a rhyme as I’m sure you’ll ~~note~~ see:

Bad Guy

That guy over there who appears to be rich,
Walks over folks like a son-of-a-gun.
Better watch out ‘cause he has a knack
For stabbing his enemies in the gut.

Better not cross him, it’s rather bizarre:
He’ll hunt you down both near and not near,
And if he should catch you, he’ll make you pay.
You’ll be lucky to live for another 24 hours.

Chapter 5
Wile on the Green

By Jim Wile

The outlook was terrific on the links that summer day,
For Wile had a three-stroke lead with two holes left to play.
He was the odds-on favorite to win against the field,
Especially with the ladies, how excitedly they squealed!

He cut a dashing figure as he strode upon the course,
With all the shouts of “WILE!” fans were surely getting hoarse.
The gallery was ten rows deep around the seventeenth green,
They had no fear he’d disappoint; he was a deft machine!

He lofted his approach shot way up high into the air.
A gust of wind then captured it and knocked it down from there
Into a wretched bunker, and the crowd it hollered, “Foul!”
They also knew their champion would ne’er throw in the towel.

He climbed down in the gaping pit: this scar upon the links
The architect had placed there in a fit of mad hijinks.
He was so deep into the earth, he couldn’t see the pin.
A worse place than this grave, you can’t imagine he’d be in.

The bunker held no fear for such a veteran of the game.
He calmly took his stance, and with aplomb he took his aim.
Then came a mighty swing, and when the club plowed through the sand,
The ball shot up but hit the lip—it’s not what Wile had planned.

Bother him? Not Wile for his lead it still held up.
The next shot made it out, but he was miles from the cup.
With two putts he was in the hole, when all was said and done,
He’d scored a double-bogey, now his lead was down to one.

Worried? Not our hero. Many times, he’d faced such trials,
And to the eighteenth tee he strode, upon his lips a smile.
He only needed par to win, ‘twould be a simple feat,
He put the last hole out of mind, and still remained upbeat.

He pulled his driver from the bag and set up to his ball,
Then smashed that little pill so far—a wonderment to all!
His next shot landed on the green, just two more strokes to win.
The crowd went wild, the ladies swooned amid the raucous din.

The ball lay twenty feet away—a fairly simple chore,
To knock it close then tap it in like many times before.
Adrenaline took over, though; his first putt was too strong.
He’d knocked it six feet past the hole, about five feet too long.

The crowd, in utter shock then groaned, but Wile raised his hand
As if to say, “Don’t worry,” though it wasn’t what he’d planned,
He still was odds-on favorite to make his par that day
And win the tournament outright, and then no one could say…

He’d blown it at the very end. He set up to the ball
And stroked it, but that cursed pill, it just refused to fall.
And now it settled three feet past, again the crowd was shocked.
It should have been an easy win, but now their faith was rocked.

A playoff loomed, assuming that he knocked the next one in.
The crowd held its collective breath as goosebumps topped their skin.
And then they watched him hit the putt, all eyes upon the ball,
And then it rolled towards the hole, all hoping it would fall...

“Oh, somewhere in this favored land, the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,”
But there is no joy upon the links—for mighty Wile lipped-out.

Author Notes "Lipped-out" - When a ball rolls around the edge of the hole but stays out.
"Double-bogey" - Two strokes over par on a hole.

With thanks for the first three lines of the last verse, which came directly from "Casey at the Bat."

If you are not familiar with this classic poem, you can find it at: Casey at the Bat

Chapter 6
Don't Laugh

By Jim Wile

Don’t laugh about us old folks, kid. It ain’t so wise to do.
Before ya know it, you’ll get old an’ do the same things too--
Like grunt when we bend over, an’ fart when we get up.
Just make us laugh a mite too hard, we’ll piddle like a pup.

We take a load a medicine fer all our aches ‘n pains.
You know our joints is killin’ us ‘bout ever’ time it rains.
Our eyesight’s gittin’ cloudy, and we cain’t hear worth a lick.
Our memories is shot ta hell, that’s why we seem so thick.

Vicissitudes a aging means we’ll soon ride in a hearse
I’ll tell ya what that big word means—it’s “changes fer the worse.”
I learnt that word in church one time and thought that it applied.
It sounds good anyway fer all the things I cain’t abide.

So, at yer peril laugh at us, and think it ain’t gone happen.
It will, cuz you just cain’t escape from followin’ the pattern.
It’s part a nature’s plan ta kill us off an’ start anew.
There ain’t no damn exceptions, it’ll happen yet ta you!

Author Notes As a young man, I can remember teasing my folks (and laughing at them behind their backs) about how many pills they took, their grunts and groans, and all their complaints about aches and pains. Now that I'm an old geezer, my kids and grandkids are doing it to me. What goes around comes around.

Chapter 7
Tough Questions

By Jim Wile

“Why’s the sky blue?” said the kid to his dad.
“I’m really not sure,” he confessed to the lad.
“It’s something to do with the stuff in the air.
Beyond that description, I’m not at all clear.”

“Then what makes a rainbow?” the kid tried again.
“Once more, I’m not sure,” Dad admitted to him.
“It’s something to do with the sun, I would think.
You ask some tough questions,” he said with a wink.

“Why does a rooster crow loudly at dawn?
And what makes the white spots appear on a fawn?”
“I wish I could tell you,” Dad said by and by.
“The answers escape me,” he claimed with a sigh.

“You mind all these questions I’m putting to you?
Don’t want to annoy, but I want to know too.”
“Course not,” said Dad. “You just keep questioning.
Without ‘em, then how would you learn anything?”

Author Notes With credit to an old joke I heard in my youth.

Chapter 8
My Earlobes

By Jim Wile

Today I’m determined: I will not complain
Of the fact that my body is riddled with pain.
Most of it feels like it’s going to hell,
But my earlobes are swell, my earlobes are swell.

I’ll be silent about all the pain in my back
That makes it feel like I’ve been stretched on a rack.
I promise that all my complaints will abate,
For my earlobes feel great, my earlobes feel great.

There won’t be a mention of fibromyalgia.
I’ll think of my youth then with quiet nostalgia,
With no pain at all in my feet and my hands,
And my earlobes were grand, my earlobes were grand.

My lips will be sealed, and you won’t hear word one
About gout or shingles or pyorrhea of the gums.
With all that is wrong, it would take too much time,
But my earlobes are fine, my earlobes are fine.

So, I sat there refusing to think about pain
‘Cause too much of that will just drive you insane,
When OUCH! I was suddenly stung by a bee,
And need I relate to you where he stung me?

Take a guess!

Author Notes I actually did get stung by a bee on the earlobe once, and the ear swelled up so much that it looked like I had a grapefruit on the side of my head.

Chapter 9
The Ballad of Ole Blue

By Jim Wile

Ole Blue the locomotive on the Shenandoah Line
Attracted little work ‘cause he was way beyond his prime.
See, Blue he ran on steam like many others through the years
But then those wretched diesels came and kindled all his fears…

That he’d be obsolete and out to pasture he’d be put.
No longer could he bother folks with all that noise and soot.
They stuck him in the yard where ancient engines go to die,
And left him there to decompose for time had passed him by.

He used to be the workhorse of the Shenandoah Line.
His boiler was immense, and polished up he looked so fine.
And Blue was proud that he could haul about a hundred cars
All day beneath the searing sun, all night beneath the stars.

But now they’re only memories of splendid days gone by
As Blue sat rusting in the yard, but he refused to cry,
For still he held out hope that they would call on him once more
And promised he’d be ready for whatever was in store.

That time came soon enough for there was trouble down the line:
A train sat stalled upon the tracks with very little time
To push it to a siding lest another train came through,
With not a single diesel near, they had to call on Blue.

Of course, it took some time to get his boiler going strong,
And by the time he’d built some steam, he hadn’t very long
To reach the stranded cars before a freight train barreled through
And caused a great collision, better hurry now, Ole Blue!

Finally, he reached the train, came up to its caboose,
And coupled to its coupling, then pushed hard to bust it loose.
So little time was left before the next train would arrive
That Blue, he strove with all his might to keep the hopes alive.

It looked like he would make it, for the siding was in view,
He had to push it there before the freight came speeding through.
And then they reached the siding, but instead of veering right,
They missed it and continued straight which wasn’t very bright.

They wondered what had happened, it had gone without a hitch
Until the worthless brakeman just forgot to throw the switch.
The collision was spectacular. For miles all around,
Folks heard the huge explosion—what an awful, dreadful sound!

Ole Blue had done his best that day, he’s blameless it would seem.
Though not his fault, he ended up all smashed to smithereens.
Now Blue remains a legend, and it’s certain that he should
Because he’d come back from the dead, then died again for good.

Author Notes Inspired by the works of the children's author, Bill Peet. When my kids were young, they loved his stories. In many cases, the entire story was a rhyming poem. It always amazed me how good the rhyming was, and the meter was always perfect. This poem is very much in his style and is similar in some ways to Smokey which was also about a train put out to pasture. That story had a happy ending, though.

We kept the books, and now the grandkids are enjoying them.

Chapter 10
Garbage Disposal No-No's

By Jim Wile

The wife gave me a list of all the things I shouldn’t grind.
And put it on the wall so I would heed it.
I start to put some eggshells in, she says, “You must be blind,
Or determined that you aren’t going to read it.”

One day I peeled potatoes and forgot to check the list.
She noticed—made me pull the peelings out.
“You never pay attention, and it really gets me pissed,
You imbecile!” then she began to pout.

I read the list again, and I admit I’m sometimes thick,
And down I dumped some used up coffee grounds.
The wife then spotted this; it made her downright apoplectic.
“Your flouting of these rules, it just astounds!”

She pulled it from the wall and said, “I really must insist
That you read it one more time this very minute!”
I noticed then that “wife” was not an item on the list.
I think I’m going to try to grind her in it!”

Author Notes Look at a list sometime of all the things you shouldn't put down a garbage disposal. Makes you wonder why you need 'em in the first place.

Chapter 11
True Love

By Jim Wile

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.

Haven’t washed my face in quite a while, and it shows,
And someone said a booger’s hanging right down from my nose.
My teeth are kind of slimy, and my tongue is turning black.
Among my many faults, is general hygiene that I lack.

My belly-button’s full of lint plus sand and dirt and goo.
Last week I lost a marble, and perhaps it’s in there too.
My ears are full of wax, and I just know my armpits stink.
My butt is full of dingleberries, even more, I think!

And then there is the toe jam, and I just became aware
A family of birds has made a nest within my hair.
My hygiene may not be the best, but I don’t care a whit
Because my dog, he loves me so, and he don’t give a s__t!

Chapter 12
Pluto - The Complete Poem

By Jim Wile

This is the poem in its entirety. For those who have already read Part 1 and want to skip directly to Part 2, simply scroll down until you see it, clearly marked. Whatever you do, please don’t skip the notes at the end where I explain why he was really voted out and a theory about why Pluto is the way he is at the beginning.

Part 1

    Pluto the space rock of dubious fame
    was once called a planet then stripped of the name,
    but not for the reason you’d think it would be.
    He well-earned his fate, as I’m sure you’ll agree.

    Pluto was such an insufferable pest,
    vaunting his status to all of the rest.
    Of the folks in the Kuiper Belt, he was but one
    of thousands just like him who orbit the sun.

    He was the biggest but not by too much
    to warrant the bragging that helped make him such
    a pain in the buttocks to all within hearing,
    with nothing to make him the least bit endearing.

    He bragged to the rest that his weight was immense
    and scoffed at them all for being less dense.
    For rock he was made of while they’re made of ice.
    His density therefore was way more than thrice.

    Insults he hurled at them, morning ‘til night
    without provocation. It just wasn’t right.
    With the closest of planets, he followed the pattern--
    made fun of Uranus, and Neptune, and Saturn.

    He called them “old gas bags,” offending them greatly.
    He showed no respect for the large and the stately,
    who earned their position as planets, no question.
    To all of the others Earth made a suggestion:

    “Instead of complaining, let’s all go to work.
    Why don’t we vote to get rid of this jerk.
    To be clear: It’s not for diminutive size
    we seek to expel him. He must realize…

    That far-outsized ego’s why he gets the boot.
    We’ll say, if he argues, the point is now moot.
    Alright, who’s in favor of kicking him out?”
    The vote was unanimous. There was no doubt.

    Pluto then brooded. Now what would he do?
    For that you will just have to wait for Part 2.
    Oh, will he decide that he must make amends,
    or stay a li’l beast and then seek his revenge?

Part 2 – Pluto’s Revenge

    Pluto was miffed and kept stewing and brooding
    as fellow dwarf planets were jeering and hooting.
    They’d suffered too long from the insults and sneers
    deplorable Pluto’d been slinging for years.

    Had Pluto been humbled? Oh, not in the least,
    and still he remained an insufferable beast.
    The brooding he’d done had been very productive
    for making a plan that was highly destructive.

    First, he would pop all those gas bags who voted
    to have him expelled and now simpered and gloated.
    And then he would crash into Earth whose suggestion
    had started the plan to remove him—no question.

    So, Pluto took off like a shot for Neptune,
    and struck him and popped him just like a balloon
    that shrank into nothing from sudden deflation--
    a planet no more much to Pluto’s elation.

    Repeating this feat for Uranus and Saturn,
    he popped both of them in identical fashion.
    Now heading for Jupiter, Pluto was giddy.
    For all of these gas bags, he lacked any pity.

    But Jupiter, rather than quickly deflating,
    exploded his hydrogen core, thus creating
    a vast conflagration of such immense size
    with a brightness that surely could blind any eyes.

    Propelled by great force, Pluto headed for Earth,
    sailing by Mars who he felt had no worth.
    For Earth was the target of all of his wrath.
    She’d started the rest on their treacherous path.

    Pluto expected to smash her to bits
    by striking a blow with his damnable blitz.
    But what he forgot or perhaps didn’t know:
    Earth had vast oceans which softened his blow.

    So, Pluto had failed to blow her to bits.
    He sat in the ocean and suffered from fits
    of despondency. Many long years he remained,
    bemoaning his failure, for he was ashamed.

    He’d only succeeded in changing her axis,
     reducing the tilt eight degrees, and that fact is
    the cause of the change in extremes of the seasons,
    with summers now cooler and winters less freezin’.

    Earthlings rejoiced; they had Pluto to thank
    as they toasted his health, while they ate and they drank.
    They even created a world holiday
    and honored his feat every sixteenth of May.

    Earthlings adored him. They couldn’t deny he
    made temperatures everywhere more like Hawaii.
    Despite his intention to ruin the Earth,
    his action instead proved to be of great worth.

    Pluto was stunned by the joyful displays,
    which caused him to question his virulent ways.
    Showing some kindness would sure be a first,
    as would giving his best as opposed to his worst.

    Deciding right then, he vowed he would try it
    and show folks some goodness instead of the diet
    of bragging and insults, invective, and jeers
    that he’d hurled at his neighbors for many long years.

    Pluto went home as a far different fellow--
    more kind to his neighbors, more laid-back and mellow.
    Humble and modest, at long last he felt
    a friendship with all in the great Kuiper Belt.

Author Notes A few facts about Pluto: Pluto was discovered in 1930 and remained a planet until it was re-classified as a "dwarf planet" in 2006. It was the smallest planet by far, with a diameter 1/6th that of Earth. This makes it sound larger than it actually is because 170 Plutos can fit inside Earth.

Pluto is one of several dwarf planets in the Kuiper Belt--a zone beyond the orbit of Neptune brimming with hundreds of thousands of rocky, icy bodies, each larger than 62 miles (100 kilometers) across.

Pluto is made of rock and methane ice and is much denser than other dwarf planets in the Kuiper Belt which are primarily ice.

Note: The "old gas bags" mentioned in the poem are the planets Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune. They are the "gas giants," composed entirely of gases such as hydrogen and helium.

Why was Pluto such an obnoxious jerk at the beginning? Some may think it's because he suffered from the "Napoleon Complex," whereby a domineering or aggressive attitude is an overcompensation for a small stature. My wife happens to think it's because, deep down, Pluto never felt he really deserved to be a planet in the first place and tried to build himself up by making fun of others. This is typical of a bully, as it serves to mask his insecurity.

I have a different theory. I think it's because he knew that to be a planet required 3 things:

1) Must be in orbit around the sun -- check
2) Must have sufficient mass to create a round shape -- check
3) Must have "cleared the neighborhood" around its orbit -- fail (This is the "real" reason Pluto was voted out.)

He knew that rule 3 meant that there are no other bodies of comparable size other than his own moons in his vicinity in space. That meant he would have to push everyone else in the Kuiper Belt away so that he could clear his neighborhood. What better way to do that than to insult everyone else and become such a jerk that they will move away?

Yes, he was a jerk before these criteria were set down by the International Astronomical Union (IAU) in 2006, but my theory is that Pluto had the foresight to know this would eventually become one of the criteria of planethood and, in an attempt to preempt his exclusion on these grounds, he came up with his plan to push everyone else away so that he would qualify.

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