A DAY EARLY AND A SCHOLAR SHORT

I just learned I’ve made the first mistake of my entire life (excluding the countless ones that don’t count — like, who’z kounting?). Why I am admitting this mistake, I can’t say — no one seems to have noticed it, so I have no reason to believe my seemingly unblemished record wouldn’t continue to leave all my adoring followers none the wiser. All right, if you must know, I’m admitting the mistake because of writer’s block; now I have something to post about, otherwise you would be staring at a blankety-blank screen.

No doubt you’ve heard the expression “A day late and a dollar short.” Well, my last post on April 24th was a day early and a scholar short: EAST MEETS WEST DAY was April 25 (not April 24), and the head scholar on my staff failed to catch the error. I have therefore fired said head scholar, for whom I’ve generously provided a letter of recommendation to the Trump Administration for the position of Secretary of Wealth, Edumacation & Hellfare — a position held since January by one Alex Azar, who is but the fourth such Sec since Trump became President, lo, these many moons ago. Their average length of service being under four moonths, the position should become vacant shortly; my bumbling former head scholar will fit right in and fill the vacancy with no one being the wiser.

Now, I realize that I appear to be putting the blame for my date mistake on the poor schmuck I fired, but as President of this blog, the bucks stop here….and so, dear reader, I take full responsibility for the poor schmuck’s error, and

I humbly ask that you accept this sincere apology for what it’s worth. After all,

Love you.

Advertisements

Get Ready For HUSBAND APPRECIATION DAY

You may recall that in my last post on April 14th (LET’S CALL IT A DAY), I took exception to the fact that a person of nil repute actually did call it a day (namely, INTERNATIONAL MOMENT OF LAUGHTER DAY ). Today, I humbly take back my ‘exception-taking’ by admitting there is an exception to the reason I took exception to what I took exception to, because the day after tomorrow is the exception of all exceptions: HUSBAND APPRECIATION DAY….a day of such exceptional exceptionalism that it doesn’t matter who proclaimed it. Frankly, I don’t know — or even care — who proclaimed it (though I’m pretty sure it wasn’t my wife).

Yes, brother husbands, there’s a day set aside for us to finally be shown the respect we so richly deserve. For too long, we husbands have been taken for granted, like henpecked clucks, while our wives get all the glory. Don’t get me wrong — I love my wife as much as the next “Yes, dear” guy, but is it asking too much to be appreciated for all we do that’s above our pay grade? For example, the other evening I took out the kitchen trash, even though she could’ve sat on it to squish it down, creating enough space for the half dozen beer bottles I’d be emptying before the night was o’er. I did so even though I had a good notion to suggest that she might as well go on a diet if she’s not going to put her fat butt to the good use I had in mind. If that’s not showing restraint and consideration, I don’t know what is.

My fellow Lords and Masters of our domains: good husbands like me (and, I presume, you) don’t grow on trees. We know that our wives could have done a lot worse than us. Therefore, why shouldn’t we expect them to overlook our few minor foibles and appreciate us for the paragons of postpubescence we are? It’s time they realize how very lucky they are to have found us, because….

P.S. Please put down that frying pan, honey buns — you know I’m just kidding, don’t you?

LET’S CALL IT A DAY

Half the world doesn’t see how the other half can see anything funny in what it laughs at. –Evan Esar

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As if there isn’t enough funny business going on in the world, today is INTERNATIONAL MOMENT OF LAUGHTER DAY. I don’t know who came up with this day (actually, I do…. but he’s not famous, so let’s let him rest in peace, even if he’s still with us). My point is, what is this world coming to if anyone and their Aunt Charlie can proclaim a DAY (an INTERNATIONAL day, no less) and expect it to be recognized? Well, I have half a mind to proclaim a DAY myself, which certainly makes me qualified. INTERNATIONAL HALF-WIT DAY, that’s what I’ll call it. I wonder if The Donald, if he hears of it, will deny it’s in his honor.

Meanwhile, back at the wench, it’s time for those poems I promised last time:

BUSYBODY BERATES BUSY BODY; BEELZEBUB BLASÉ

“Say, have you been, sir, to Kathmandu?”
“Nay, but I have sinned, sir, in Timbuktu.”
“A tale of sin, sir? What did you do?”
“Sailors would blush, sir, if I told you.”
“My lips are hushed, sir — how ’bout a clue?”
“Maidens of sin, sir, were none too few.”
“May God rescind, sir, the sins you knew.”
“I do not pray, sir, those sins to rue.”
“Then may you pay, sir, the devil’s due!”
“Satan would say, sir, c’est entre nous!”

THE ORIENT EXCESS

One fine night in old Hong Kong,
White-skinned lady meet Mr. Wong.
Mr. Wong say, “You fine missy.
Let me favor you with kissy.”
White-skinned lady say not to bother —
Wong old enough to be her father.
Mr. Wong say, “But I got money.”
White-skinned lady say, “Kiss me, honey!”
Well, one fine thing lead to another;
Next time, Wong bring older brother.
This time, lady draw line tight:
“You know two Wongs don’t make a white.”

And with that, ladies, what do you say….

ZEE POET OR ZEE COMIC – WHICH EEZ MORE MORONIC?

In my April Fools’ Day post, I noted that April is NATIONAL HUMOR MONTH. As a poet of sorts, wouldn’t it be funny if April also happened to be NATIONAL POETRY MONTH?

Well, as you might guess,
it turns out that, yes,
that is the case….
and this is the place
where poetry and funny
join together as oney
until death do them party
or are doomed from the starty
by comic rigor mortis
or a poet out of sortis.

Oui, mon ami — this is going to be a post which joins zee art of zee poet with zee art of zee comic, and if you don’t like zee combinaison, you can lump eet. What’s more, I’ll do more such posts, zee likes of which will have you begging for merci. So if you know what’s not good for you, you’ll take eet and like eet….or take eet and fake eet. I’m not particular. (I’m also not hungry — I think I eet too much.)

Understand, I’m not one of those poets who doesn’t understand what he has written, but somehow expects zee reader to. Non, mon ami, I understand perfectly what I have written. It’s YOU who I expect hasn’t a clue. Why is that true? I have no clue. And, frankly my dear, I don’t give a fous (pardon my French).

Unfortunately, I see that my allotted time for this post is almost up, so zee funny poems I was going to publish here must wait until next time, for which I apologize. Thank you for your very kind attention….or, as zee Hoosier Hot Shots more etiquettely and poetically put it:

I CAN’T USE IT

Today being April Fools’ Day, and April being National Humor Month, I thought I’d write a funny post. The problem is that I’m having problems writing a funny post. Either the jokes I find are losers, or I don’t ‘get’ them (obviously, if I don’t get them, they can’t be funny), or they contain one or more of the seven words you can’t say on television (or mention on a family blog) — you remember, the 7 words comedian George Carlin warned us about back in the 70s:

Of course, you would hear every one of those words if you watched the above clip, so I can’t use it.

And then I thought about using this clip,

but….

So, I can’t use it.

Finally, out of desperation, I thought I’d call my neighbors, the Funnies, but they were out of desperation too. However, they did let me borrow yesterday’s newspaper containing these cartoons:

https://www.indystar.com/story/opinion/columnists/varvel/2018/03/25/cartoonist-gary-varvel-donald-trumps-past/456682002/

Now that, I can use.

VERSES WITH CURSES

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

May the devil write your obituary in weasel’s piss. –old Irish curse

Hold on — how did that get there? Either the devil made me do it, or me computer is up to no good (which wouldn’t be the first time). To be sure, me fine lads and lassies, this post is about curses in verses, but a curse alone does not a poem make. As for that derelict curse above, there are no weasels in Ireland unless you count the sloat (which is often mistaken for a weasel) or the lowly human (which often acts like a weasel, but technically is not).

Be that as it may, I haven’t got all (St. Patrick’s) day, so let’s get on with it. Here is a cultivated selection of VERSES WITH CURSES which, not least among its Hibernian virtues, could serve to show America’s petulant President how to insult his inferiors with a bit more savoir fairy (class, in plain English) than is typical in his limited vocabulary:

THE CURSE by John Millington Synge

Lord, confound this surly sister,
Blight her brow with blotch and blister,
Cramp her larynx, lung, and liver,
In her guts a galling give her.

Let her live to earn her dinners
In Mountjoy with seedy sinners:
Lord, this judgment quickly bring,
And I’m your servant, J. M. Synge.

from THE CURSE OF DONERAILE by Patrick O’Kelly

Alas! how dismal is my tale,
I lost my watch in Doneraile.
My Dublin watch, my chain and seal,
Pilfered at once in Doneraile.
May Fire and Brimstone never fail,
To fall in showers on Doneraile.
May all the leading fiends assail
The thieving town of Doneraile,
As lightnings flash across the vale,
So down to Hell with Doneraile.
The fate of Pompey at Pharsale,
Be that the curse of Doneraile.
May beef, or mutton, lamb or veal
Be never found in Doneraile,
But garlic soup and scurvy kale
Be still the food of Doneraile.
And forward as the creeping snail,
Th’ industry be, of Doneraile.
May ev’ry churn and milking pail
Fall dry to staves in Doneraile.
May cold and hunger still congeal
The stagnant blood of Doneraile.
May ev’ry hour new woes reveal
That Hell reserves for Doneraile.
May ev’ry chosen ill prevail
O’er all the imps of Doneraile.
May not one prayer or wish avail
To sooth the woes of Doneraile.
May the Inquisition straight impale
The rapparees of Doneraile.
May curse of Sodom now prevail
And sink to ashes Doneraile.
May Charon’s Boat triumphant sail
Completely manned from Doneraile.
Oh! may my couplets never fail
To find new curse for Doneraile.
And may grim Pluto’s inner jail
Forever groan with Doneraile.

RIGHTEOUS ANGER by James Stephens

The lanky hank of a she over there
Nearly killed me for asking the loan of a glass of beer:
May the devil grip the whey-faced slut by the hair,
And beat bad manners out of her skin for a year.

That parboiled imp, with the hardest jaw you will see
On virtue’s path, and a voice that would rasp the dead,
Came roaring and raging the minute she looked on me,
And threw me out of the house on the back of my head!

If I asked her master, he’d give me a cask a day;
But she, with the beer at hand, not a gill would arrange!
May she marry a ghost and bear him a kitten, and may
The High King of Glory permit her to get the mange.

THE CURSE OF NOT BEING IRISH by mister O’muse

And so we can see, Donald T.,
What the problem may well be:
In your entire immigrant ancestry,
Of Irish blood, you’re entirely free.

But on St. Patrick’s Day, luckily,
Every man is an Irishman, glory be!
So depart for today from your family tree,
Uproot this curse, branch out, and be free!

From ass act to class act, verily
This very day, you can transformed be….
Therefore, by virtue of the Irish in me,
I dub thee, please God, President Donald O’T.

 

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