BALD AND FREE — HOW CAN THAT BE? (subtitle: The Bald And The Beautiful)

Nothing makes a woman feel as old as watching the bald spot increase on the top of her husband’s head. –Helen Rowland

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Oct. 7 is BALD AND FREE DAY, but personally, I’m not sure what one has to do with the other. I’m mostly bald, all right, but how free is a married man like me? Of course, I’m just kidding — my wife lets me out of my cage for an hour a week, even though I keep getting balder….and making her feel older. Maybe I shouldn’t be using that hour to get a haircut.

HEADLONG RETREAT

As the years go by, my barber
Takes less and less time with my hair
Which only serves to remind me
That there’s less and less of it there.

To be sure, I’m not the only one whose predicament may become a hair-raising experience:

That gave me a headache just watching it. If only I could trust the dubious ads that involve spending my moo-lah to get to the root of the problem, I might risk springing for mo-hair….but snake oil aside, there must be a less painful way to restore a Lost Hairy zone:

Hmm. I wonder whether that great humanit-hairian, Donald Trump, would mind parting with some of his spare hair if I could dig up some skullduggery by his political opponents? For example, much corruption has been reported in the Caribbean nation of Hairti — and it’s surely a lock that all of the Democratic Presidential contenders are involved. All I’d have to do is send my nosey friend, Fruity Giuliani, there on behalf of our Pres with a quid pro-boscis that the Pres of Hairti can’t ignore.

On second thought, if Agent Orange went to my head, my wife might think I’m losing it along with my hair. I might as well keep to my cage, skip my weekly trip to the clip joint, and try to console myself that, after all is said and done….

Now, if I can only convince my wife.

THE WAGES OF SIN TAX

Pardon the intrusion —
I don’t mean to pry —
But the deficit’s soaring;
The figures don’t lie.

Uncle Sam’s in a pickle —
Needs money like mad —
So he sent me to tell you
You must pay to be bad.

He’s taxed income and outgo
And capital gains;
Now, an excise on excess
Is all that remains.

Uncle wants to be fair —
No sin taxes he’ll seek
‘less you go making love
More than one time a week.

I’m installing surveillance
To monitor your behavior.
Lusting under covers won’t save you —
I’ll hear your cries to the Father of your Savior.

But please don’t take this personal —
It’s my job to listen and view it.
Hey, you know what they say:
Someone’s got to do it.

So….

 

 

 

 

DON’T EXPLAIN — IT’S A PAIN!

The title of my last post got me thinking about how much time I spend on the first paragraph of most of my posts, introducing or setting up what I’m getting at — sort of what I’m doing now, except I realize that some set-ups are necessary and others could just as well be dispensed with, thereby freeing time for better things, such as reading your stuff (if that doesn’t ingratiate me with you, you’re just plain un-ingratiateable). My point is that this set-up is necessary in order to explain what I’m getting at here, OK?

Now where was I? Oh, yes — inasmuch as the drain on my brain is a pain to explain, each of my next x number of posts will consist of a single poem, un-introduced and un-set up….so don’t be upset if you’re on your own to navigate the depths of such odes as this:

IN THE HEAT OF NIGHT

Now I lay me down to sleep;
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray there’s been one helluva mistake.

No need to get all hot and bothered if you don’t ‘dig it.’ Simply send $100 cash or money order (if you order before 10:01 a.m. next month, add $10.01 because I’m kinda busy right now) to the address on your screen, and you’ll receive an explanation that’s as transparent as the address on your screen. Satisfaction guaranteed, or double your dissatisfaction back. As our gift to you, the first 100 callers will also receive who-knows-what absolutely free (simply pay an additional $101 to cover the cost of bs&h*). This offer is limited to the first 100 callers, and because I’m not giving out my phone number, the odds against your being the 101st (or later) caller are all in your favor. So act NOW! And pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.

*bullshit and handling

A TAXING SITUATION

Preparing an income tax return is like a girl preparing to go to the beach: you take off as much as the law allows. –Evan Esar

Speaking of which, I’ve mustered enough resolve to start on my federal and state tax returns (rather than procrastinate ’til it’s almost too late, as I’ve done for decades), so I’m going to strip some preparation time from this post by re-publishing an old poem. But at least it’s for a good cause — ’cause if I don’t get a move on, that age-old last minute stress could cause an old-age heart attack, which would not be in my best interest.

MAX AT TAX

“Hello, Sam!”
“Good morning, Max!”
“Have you done
your income tax?”
“Taxing though
it be to say,
know I did
it yesterday.”
“Did you take
your deductions?”
“I deduced
for reductions.”
Four reduced?
I laud your feat!”
“I took off
my hands and feet.”
“That’s the way
to keep ahead!”
“Yes, I used
my limbs in stead.”
“Instead of
head? Way to go!
That’s the way
to save some dough!”
“Have you done
your income tax?”
“Goodbye, Sam!”
“Good morning, Max!”

’nuff wisecracks! Jills and Jacks, here is Max on the stacks with the facts about tax, so relax:

AN EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES

Water, water, everywhere, / [And not a] drop to drink.
–Samuel Taylor Coleridge, THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER

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So much I could write about, but of nothing can I think.
Oh, fie on my dilemma, scheduled post day on the brink!
Such embarrassment of riches is an albatross ’round my neck….
All this water all about; sound the call: all rimes of “riches” on deck!

An embarrassment of BITCHES: complaining to the max
An embarrassment of DITCHES: the downside of digging, sore backs
An embarrassment of GLITCHES: my computer is prone to upheaval
An embarrassment of HITCHES: my computer is a necessary evil

An embarrassment of ITCHES: too unreachable for scratching
An embarrassment of KITCHES: bad taste beyond patching
An embarrassment of MITCHES: too many friends named Mitchell
An embarrassment of NICHES: easily found places that hide a missile

An embarrassment of PITCHES: throes of what The Donald doth tout
An embarrassment of RICHES: what this post is all about
An embarrassment of STITCHES: what I hope this post’ll leave you in
An embarrassment of WITCHES: wicked ones melt (they’re inhuman)

NOTE: I didn’t want you to think I’m too big for my BRITCHES, so I left them off — the list, that is — WHICH IS cool with me and, I assume, with you.

 

OH, WHAT A RELIEF IT IS

Life is just a dirty four-letter word: w-o-r-k.  –J. P. McEvoy, writer/comic strip creator

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If you have a job that stinks because your caseload is overwhelming (like maybe social work, child welfare or criminal court), you can probably relate to this:

http://thinkprogress.org/justice/2016/01/09/3737789/ohio-judge-poem-mocks-inmate/

If I’m any judge, that’s a Judge (and fellow Ohioan) who knows how to do creative “sentencing” — a Cain who is able, as Judge Cain himself might pun. As a poet, I see poetry as a way to express myself creatively, but the above case demonstrates that poetry is also good for getting a load off one’s mind. Take those times I’m on the throne, dumping a commodious b. m. — I’d liken it to killing two turds with one stone, because at times, it may be the only place I find peace and quiet to compose the poems I post….such as this com-post:

THE REAL POOP BEHIND THE FLOOD

Noah did build a mighty ark;
He worked by day and he worked by dark.

From lands afar he gathered pairs
Of kangaroos and polar bears,

Of groundhogs and water buffalo,
And every creature, bound to go

With him o’er deserts, swamps and seas,
Across the Alps and Pyrenees,

Taking those beasties from where they were at,
Straight to his ark for a cruise to Mount Ararat,

Got them on board, two of each species,
Ere long to amass a mess of feces,

And though the elephants brought their trunks,
Two hoses could but horse with a stench like skunks.

Fortunately, as much as decks stinked,
Dinosaurs and mastodons had become extinct.

But how do we know Noah knew their gender?
The pairs multiplied like rabbits by THE ENDer….

MARRYING MADE MAID MARY MERRY

Mary Christmas is her name.
Merry Christmas is her game.
So, Merry Christmas, Mary Christmas!
Merry, the way you made your list less
The merry day you lined off your wish list
The last name that you became
When you married Mister Christmas.

And now you’ve heard the gospel of how Christmas, Mister,
Made Maid Mary’s Merry Little Christmas….a tongue twister.