Today's Timericks.

 

Trial by riot seems the way/justice is dispensed today/If the verdict does not please/mobs take over like disease/If I were a judge right now/I would move to Curacao/throw away my nasty gavel/and enjoy some tropic travel.

Anyone can buy a gun/even madmen on the run/weapons of assault are cheap/causing sane folks' skin to creep/It's a buyer's market, friend/when the rules so easy bend.

Supreme Court justices agree/the media is quite pesky/Recent rulings seem to show/they'd like reporters to lay low/Journalists had best take care/and invest in lots of prayer.

If an author you would be/write about the GOP/praise them up and down to cause/spending like old Santa Claus/they will buy your book en masse/making it bestseller class/Who cares if your writing stinks?/you'll be out on green golf links!

No matter how you do the math/the rich will never take a bath/when it comes to paying taxes/their wealth don't wane/it always waxes/Be assured the upper crust/never will be going bust/The middle class must always pay/for how the wealthy like to play.

Prose Poem: Wash in warm soapy water.

 

I bought a new toaster the other day.

My old one, when I looked into

its crumby blackened slots,

looked like Lord Foul's Creche.

So I stopped by the supermarket

and got one for fourteen dollars.

When I opened the box and took

the thing out of its plastic bag

cocoon, I read the instructions.

Carefully.

They said, quite clearly, to wash

it in warm soapy water before using.

"That can't be right" I said to myself.

"You don't plunge an electric appliance

into water -- ever."

But there it was, in black and white.

So I called my old friend Crazy Henry

to see what he thought about it.

Two heads are better than one, right?

"Sure, you can put the whole thing

in warm soapy water" he assured me.

"Nowadays these electric doo-dads

are all waterproof anyway. It's a federal

regulation."

"You sure?" I asked him.

Crazy Henry used to own a pet monkey;

that kind of guy can't always be trusted.

"Trust me" he said. "I read about it in

the New York Times."

"Well, okay" I told him. "But if it blows up

or something -- I'm gonna have you buy me

a new toaster!"

So I washed my brand new toaster in

warm soapy water.

I let it dry, then plugged it in.

It blew up.

Sparks and smoke and gouts of flame.

I burned my hand. 

Furious, I dialed Crazy Henry.

"Guess what?" I shouted at him.

"The damn thing blew up and

nearly killed me!"

"It must have been a defective toaster" 

he said.

"The New York Times is never wrong --

they got fact checkers checking every story."

"Well" I yelled at my phone, "you

and the New York Times can go

straight to hell!"

I threw my phone on the couch. The putz.

I got out my first aid kit and read the

instructions on treating a first degree

burn.

It said to soak the affected skin in

warm soapy water.

So I did. I dipped my hand in

a tub of warm soapy water.

And it didn't feel any better at all.

Nearly weeping in frustration and pain

I smeared my burned hand with butter.

I remember that's what my mom used to

do when she burned herself cooking.

That felt much better.

Then I went out to feed my 

dwarf hotot rabbit to calm myself down.

The poor thing didn't look well.

It was squirting thin green streams

of evil smelling stuff all over the place.

Luckily I knew a good vet,

so I called him up.

"Hello" he answered promptly.

He sounded like Crazy Henry.

"Is this George Metcalf?" I asked.

"No one else" he said. "What

can I do you for?"

I told him the problem with my hotot.

He said "Just feed it some warm soapy

water and that'll clear it right up."

"Are you POSITIVE that's the right

procedure?" I implored him.

"Never fails" he said, still sounding 

like Crazy Henry.

"Thanks" I said faintly.

So I did like the vet said.

And my dear little dwarf hotot

rabbit got better.

My hand got better, too.

And the supermarket refunded my money

for the exploded toaster.

With which I bought several boxes 

of melba toast. I love spreading

lemon curd on it.

Sometimes life gives you a punch before

it gives you a hug.

Today's Timericks.

 

When it is a slow news day/reporters still must have their say/I don't say they fantasize/but new twists they improvise/on old themes of sex and crime/It sells papers all the time.

Tapioca can't be had/making boba drinkers mad/They will have to switch, I fear/to a Pepsi, or cold beer/Me, I just can't sympathize/with their passionate outcries/Drinking pudding ain't my thing/to the malted milk I cling.

Now I've read an article/about a wave or particle/that defies and then reverses/what we know of universes/Muons and their unknown kin/make of science a has-been/Throw out all the textbooks, chum/to start a new millennium. 

Welcome to Surveillance Land/where when you take an adverse stand/your face is recognized and linked/to the nearest grim precinct/Russia, China: all the same/You're ratted out by their mainframe.

Today's Timericks.

 

Uncle Sam can do no wrong/in places where he don't belong/Our troops will wipe away all tears/although it takes a thousand years/Perhaps if we stayed home a span/we wouldn't have Afghanistan.

The experts say that old T. rex/never really reached apex/It numbered but a couple thou/but I can tell you anyhow/even one's too much for me/if it's in my community!

Economic sanctions come in many shapes and sizes/but if they're used too frequently there may be some surprises/If too many countries feel the wrath of Mr. Biden/our foreign trade is bound to start a long and deep subsidin'.

Prose Poem: I am a Capitol Rioter.

 

I am a Capitol Rioter.

I was there, in the middle of things,

when it all went down.

I thought I was doing the right thing.

Now . . . I'm not so sure.

It all started innocently enough.

I was sitting on a butt-sprung couch

in my neighborhood used book store,

glancing through Goldwater's 

"Conscience of a Conservative"

when the calico cat on the counter

said clearly and distinctly to me:

"You're needed in Washington

to knock some sense into Congress."

The next day I was on the bus

to Washington, District of Columbia.

When I got there I found kindred souls

gathered outside the Smithsonian,

chanting and waving placards that read:

WE ARE NOT AMUSED.

I can't say there was any one person

or persons who organized our march;

to me it appeared completely spontaneous

and undirected. I was actually

headed down the street to get a hamburger

when the crowd surged towards Capital Hill,

and I was forced to go along.

I didn't really want to topple that

marble bust of Thomas Jefferson in

the Rotunda. Or throw granola bars

at departing legislators.

But everyone else was doing it.

So I went along.

It seemed to be my patriotic duty.

Bunker Hill all over again.

But the next day,

when reports started to circulate

that we were all being branded

as 'terrorists' and would be

hunted down and prosecuted

by the FBI,

I left town and moved to

a foreign country where my

hefty bank account assures me

complete anonymity.

And I help baby sea turtles hatching

during the full moon to make

it safely into the ocean.

That is an activity that gives me

peace and assurance of life's

basic goodness.

I'm beginning to think 

that calico cat was

all wet.

Inclusion

 

"The Lord expects us to teach that inclusion is a positive means toward unity and that exclusion leads to division." Gary E. Stevenon.

I can't afford to push away

anyone in any way;

angels come to those who seek

to always turn the other cheek.

Outsiders often blessings bear

when welcomed with both love and care.

Prose Poem: I wandered down a sandy road

 

I wander down a sandy road

while my heart is riven with doubt.

The sunlight seems to shun me.

The shadows smirk at me.

A small green lizard eyes me warily,

and then lays several brown eggs

on a rock --

mocking my sterile condition.

I can never lay an egg,

can never create something,

anything,

worth a second glance.

I know this because I wrote

a poem and mailed it to a

world famous magazine.

Then waited,

shivering like a leaf

caught in a spider web.

Their response arrived six months later.

It was bordered in black.

It came C.O.D.

There was a skull and crossbones on

the back of it.

It read:

"Dire Sir:  Your submission 

ranks as the most asinine and

discouraging piece of literary

twaddle in the sad sad annals

of misbegotten poetry.

It is so bad that we burned it

and then sealed the ashes in an urn

and sent it to

Yucca Mountain Nuclear Waste Repository

for permanent burial.

If you ever try to write poetry again

we will see to it that your fingers 

are run through a lawn mower."

So I wander down this sandy road,

and think to myself that I will use my

stimulus check to buy a commission

in the Swiss Navy, and sail away to the

Matterhorn Islands forever and a day. 

Prose Poem: The Little Trees Killer.

 

I'm known as the "The Little Trees Killer."

Or, rather,

I will be known as "The Little Trees Killer"

once my heinous murder spree is uncovered.

You see, I murdered my first husband

by grinding up a bunch of Little Tree

car fresheners and putting them in the

zucchini bread I constantly served him.

He was a very abusive husband.

He shot rubber bands at me.

He used the dog food to feed the

fish in the koi pond --

so my poor little Fluffy had

to go hungry sometimes.

He chewed celery with his mouth open.

He was just a rotten guy.

I put up with his swinish ways

for two years --

then decided to poison him.

It took fifteen more years to do it,

and the doctors said it was the bus

that ran over him while crossing the

street that killed him -- 

but I know my special zucchini

bread contributed heavily to his demise.

Just wait till the police find out!

I'm remarried now, but wouldn't you know 

it --

my second husband is worse than the first

one --

He wears a face mask to bed;

says it's the only way to slow down

the pandemic.

His mother is always coming over

and making him do handstands

in the living room when I want

to play Uno.

His left ear winks at me.

And he insists on keeping a cheap

pocket watch, that ticks so loud

it gives Fluffy a migraine.

So he's getting my special

zucchini bread, too.

And this time, to speed things

up a bit,

I'm including lard in the

recipe.

Conversion: All or nothing

 

"To be truly life-changing, conversion to Jesus Christ must involve our whole soul and permeate every aspect of our lives." Jan E. Newman.

It matters not how fast or slow

conversion happens here below;

when Christ becomes your centerpiece

it will not take a press release

to show the world that your full trust

in great Jehovah is robust.

sunday morning musings email

 

well, here it is 5 a.m. on sunday morning -- I don't feel like doing anything strenuous, after struggling to put a turkey carcass in the stock pot to stew all morning for soup at noon. i don't even feel like capitalizing or punctuating this email.

of course, part of the reason is that I sliced my finger open this past week on a vegetable slicer that Adam gave me several years ago, which I have kept stored in a shoe box in my pantry for some reason that escapes me just now. I finally pulled it out last Tuesday to cut up some cukes for lunch and lo and behold on my first thrust I nearly severed a digit on that infernal machine. So, after much bad language and half-baked first aid that involved miles of surgical tape and a mountain of mis-applied gauze, I threw the damn thing out.  it's obvious that adam wants to kill me, the rat.

so I've been hobbled in my writing; switching fonts and just getting  the lettering right has been a huge challenge. so i've been working on my visual art instead -- i used some of my stimmie money to buy a lot of international stamps and a roll of 100 postcard stamps -- and now i'm going to town on sending postcards to everyone whose home address I have. mostly journalists.  i asked for home addresses from about a hundred journalists a while ago -- since they don't get mail sent to their office -- and only about six replied with addresses -- the rest either ignored my request or apologized for being paranoid and not wanting to give it out. several had the gall to send me phoney addresses - I wasted good stamps on them only to get their postcards back. so I send postcards to the grandkids and thepresident and mitt romney and my few and far between friends.  i'm really getting into postmodern color work for my postcards -- i love splashing around black and white and red and blue -- the resulting mess is aesthetically pleasing -- and then I add something silly from a catalog and sometimes even paste on a paragraph from a book on philosophy by Mortimer Adler.

(excuse me, but that turkey carcass smells so good I have to go take all my pills that I have to take on an empty stomach so I can have my breakfast -- beans on toast with fried eggs.)

speaking of food, sarah took me shopping twice last week -- once to Winncos and once to the asian market --  and each time i spent way more than i had intended -- i really can't control myself when i'm in a food store -- i have to buy everything i see -- among other things, I bought ten dollars worth of israeli couscous and ten dollars worth of bulgar wheat, and what the hell am i going to do with that stuff? -- so after i was done at the asian market i gave sarah my debit card and asked her not to give it back to me until the end of the month -- when my other stimmie check is supposed to be deposited -- and then i'llprobably buy hundreds of dollars worth of books for my kindle.  i'm such a putz sometimes.

also on the food front -- i'm drinking lots of ginger tea now -- it seems to quiet my borborygmus. that means 'stomach rumbling' -- it's the medical term. and also reduce my nausea and other tummy troubles i have in the morning.

it got so bad there for a while that i had to stop going to the rec center in the morning cuz i was afraid i'd have an accident.  also i got into a terrific and silly fight with bruce young, who always gives me a ride there, over his using me as a punching bag and whipping boy because he's always so nice and considerate to other people that he was taking out all his rudeness and abusive feelings on me.  i've noticed over the years as i've made new friends, or tried to make new friends, that once they learn i was a circus clown they usually begin to get verbally and physically abusive with me, like i must have enjoyed getting slapped in the face and have my pants pulled down, so they could be as rude as they wanted with me and i would thank them for it.  bruce young got to be that way with me -- he would make cracks about my weight and my slowness due to arthritis in front of other people and then he began to give me light slaps on the side of my head and playfully push me around and punch me sometimes in the shoulder or in the belly -- now if i was in prime physical condition i could roll with such things, but i'm getting to be pretty rickety and have to be careful with my balance or i'll fall down -- so i kept noticing how nice bruce was to everyone else and how rotten he was becoming with me, until i blew my top at him -- it was a ridiculous argument -- he kept insisting that he was an abusive person with  everyone else, not just me, and i kept insisting that he was always an angel to everyone else, even complete strangers, and only a devil to me.

so weparted ways. but i inivted him over yesterday to finish the thai rice porridge i had made for breakfast (nobody in the whole building wanted to try any) and we had such a pleasant visit that i decided what the hell this is stupid and asked him if i could start getting rides again. he was very happy to say yes. so i think i'll get a ride from him to the rec center each morning and then walk myself home -- in the past he always seemed to get more unruly and abusive after swimming than before.

so anyway

today i'll spend my time creating new poster paint masterpieces to mail out to unsuspecting journalists presidents and friends, and continuing to read The Second Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, by stephen r donaldson, and napping -- i've been up since 4 a.m.

and, hey, my finger doesn't seem as sore, so maybe i'll start up withmy poetry again . . .

stranger things have happened . . .

ever thine,  

Wooster P. Dowdling the Third

the mask mandate ends here in utah on monday, by the way.