The Masters

When watching the Masters from greens,
whether in tux or in jeans,
beware of chair sharks,
glide like Groucho Marx,
and know where to find the latrines.

Poets are . . .

Poets are liars and scoundrels and drunks;
grandmas with doilies inside cedar trunks.
Truck drivers brooding on Route 51;
unwary schmendricks who think it is fun.
Waitresses hoping their tips will increase;
mechanics all covered in Bardahl and grease.
Anyone dreaming without sharp deadlines.
And especially those who wrote Burma Shave signs.

The trouble with drinking LaCroix

From the Wall Street Journal:

Most LaCroix drinkers are women—as is the case with diet sodas—but men are discovering the brand, too. Orlando, Fla., resident and former Diet Pepsi drinker Kevin Glennon dedicates much of his fridge space to LaCroix, which he calls “soda’’ for water drinkers.

“There’s no guilt for a guy like me. I can pound five or six of these a night,’’ said the 37-year-old TV ad agency employee, an avid weightlifter and runner.

The trouble with drinking LaCroix
begins when the bubbles do cloy;
after 8 or 9 cans
you have to change plans,
and bedpans discreetly employ.

Limerick for Trillin

When Trillin lampoons the array
of Chinese cuisine, some do say
he's being offensive --
and so they are pensive
(and might serve him up curare . . . )

8 Hacks on What to Do With a Black Hole

Our motto here at Hikingware.com is "Prepare for the 'IF' in Life."

In the spirit of that philosophy (and with tongue in cheek) we take great pride in presenting our Resident Expert on Just About Everything  to explain what to do about those pesky black holes . . . 

Things are going along pretty nicely when suddenly you wake up one morning to find a Black Hole in your backyard. There’s no need to panic or call 911; this is a common, everyday occurrence around the world. People have been dealing with Black Holes in their back yards for many years without turning so much as a hair, and you can too. Now if it was a Black Hole in your FRONT yard that would be a true catastrophe. But, as we say, most Black Holes pop up overnight in the backyard, and here are 8 tips on what to do with them.

1. No more recycling worries! Just toss everything you don’t want or need any more into your convenient Black Hole. We do suggest you put a fence around it, to keep anything (or anyone) from falling into it by “accident”. Ha. Ha.
2. Troll for Captain Janeway. She’s still in there somewhere, despite the Hollywood happy ending they tried to fob off on us! Rig up some 20 lbs. fishing line and bait it with a thermos of strong black coffee –she always did like her java that way!
3. Nasturtiums do very well as a border for Black Holes. You won’t need to water them; your Black Hole will manage to pull down plenty of rain clouds as they try to pass overhead.
4. Since Black Holes generate an inconceivable amount of energy, you can jury rig a power outlet that will run every electric appliance in your home. Just invite some of the boys from the Large Hadron Collider over in Switzerland to stop by for a barbeque and ask them to hook it up for you – they’ll be glad to oblige after they’ve had a couple of beers.
5. The Event Horizon is a good place to build a gazebo. The view is amazing. And you won’t be bothered by mosquitos.
6. While Black Holes themselves are completely noiseless, some of the items they suck in may make quite a racket – such as airplanes, utility lines, nervous people, or buildings. To muffle any unpleasant sound we suggest you replace the nasturtiums with a hawthorn hedge.
7. Occasionally something from another dimension may force its way out of your Black Hole and want to hang around the neighborhood. Most of these disgusting things are not malignant, just curious. It’s best to have a very large shop vac on hand, so you can clean them up as they enter our world; most landfills will take them off your hands for an additional fee.
8. Black Holes do have a tendency to meander. This means that your Black Hole may wind up in the neighbor’s yard, or even out in the street where it might disrupt traffic. If your Black Hole wants to wander you can keep it in place by offering it sacrifices while dressed in a grass skirt with your face painted deep purple. Just bow down before it, chanting “Bugawuga mufu, O mighty one!” and throw chicken gizzards into it. It’ll settle right down and become like a member of your own family in no time.

Limerick: Weddings

The price of a wedding indeed
is no matter of chicken feed.
Without any frills,
you're still paying bills
long after divorce is decreed.

Cooler and Warmer (Limerick)

Rhode Island has tried a new tack
to get some publicity back;
Raimondo intended
a motto so splendid -- 
but now she's an amnesiac. 

The devil uses flattery

Mosiah 26:6 -- "For it came to pass that they did deceive many with their flattering words, who were in the church, and did cause them to commit many sins . . . "


The devil uses flattery
to build up our iniquity.
He makes us think we are hot stuff
with words that are but empty fluff.
So when you're told you are a jerk,
remember -- it just may be God's work . . .

If the Cat in the Hat wore pompoms . . .

From the Wall Street Journal:  "Mrs. Bignelli, as it turns out, was an earlier adopter. Since her nuptials, pompoms have spun from kiddie playrooms and fashion runways to wedding aisles and just about everywhere else. This season, they can be found bobbing about the straps of shoes, clinging to curtain edges and bunched on sweater fronts. Housewares stores are selling pompom trivets.

The look, says Neiman Marcus fashion director Ken Downing, is “kind of groovy granny.” The pompom, he declares, “has become a folkloric flourish.”

If the Cat in the Hat wore pompoms, just where in the heck would we be?

And suppose Leonardo da Vinci had painted his Mona with three?

Did Washington crossing the Delaware have them upon his coat sleeves?

Or what if that wonderful Wodehouse had written them in for poor Jeeves?

The pompom was meant for small children, for toys that are stuffed and all pink;

adults who mess with them are loony, and soon in depravity sink.

If you date a woman with pompoms (I don't mean her physical heft)

she'll shatter your heart in a minute and leave you completely bereft!

The Phone Call: Another Memory of Irvin Feld.

As my LDS mission in Thailand drew to a close in 1975 I was summoned to the Mission President's office for a little chat.
Harvey Brown, President Brown to me, was a short and roly-poly sort of a man, with a pug nose and a perpetual twinkle in his eye. At least he always had a twinkle for me, the one LDS missionary in the world who put on clown white and dropped his pants as part of his proselyting efforts.

He put a fatherly arm around my shoulder as I entered his office and ushered me to a seat beside his desk.

"Elder Torkildson" he said, "have you given much thought to what you want to do when you get back home from your mission?"

This was a stumper; for I hadn't really had the time to give it much thought. I was busily engaged in what every LDS missionary does on his or her mission -- appearing at hospitals, schools, libraries, Buddhist festivals, and even prisons, to do 45 minutes of cornball slapstick -- including playing my musical saw.

I figured he wanted me to come up with some kind of serious career choice, so I blurted out:

"I was thinkin' I'd like to be a barber!"

For the first time ever, he glared at me. And shook his head.

"What in the world would you want to do THAT for?" he asked me. "You have a gift you need to share with the world! And you DON'T want to go back with the circus?"

Actually, I did -- I just didn't think it was a dignified way for a former LDS missionary to earn his bread. Lucky for me President Brown was happy to harangue me until I was convinced that returning to the big top would be right and proper. It took all of two minutes.

"And by the way" he added as I left his office, "don't delay getting married, either!"


A few weeks after that interview I was back in Minneapolis, staying with my parents, looking at a bank account that was as shriveled as a raisin found in the Pyramids of Giza.

My parents were happy to see me after a two year hiatus, of course; but they made it quite clear that nothing would please them better than a job that would take me out of their house -- preferably for years at a time.

So I  called Information (there were actual LIVE persons who you could talk to back then) and asked for the number of Ringling Brothers Circus.

I then dialed the number, asked the receptionist if I could please speak to Mr. Ivin Feld, and waited to see what would happen.

She asked my name, told me to hold on please, and in less than a minute a very familiar voice, with that inimitable all-business accent, came on the line.

"Well, Torkildson -- is it? What can I do for ya?"

I was profoundly amazed that he would pick up the phone for me, someone who had left his employ two years earlier, and not in the best of odors; he had planned something big for me, he had said at the time, but my ill-advised zeal to go knocking on doors somewhere would put the kibosh on that now.

"Uh . . ." I mumbled like an idiot, "um, I'd like a clown job if you have any openings right now."

It was the middle of April, the season was in full swing -- of course he was not going to need any clowns.

"Sure, I can use ya! Report to the Blue Unit in Cleveland by Saturday and they'll put you right to work. Have a good time in Thailand?"

He remembered that? I think I had dropped him one postcard the whole time I'd been away.

"Uh, yeah -- it was great. I got to . . . "

He cut me off: "Well then, don't be late for the Saturday morning show! Gotta go, Torkildson. Welcome back!"

I told the folks I had a job offer, if I could scrape up plane fare to Cleveland; they were happy to fork over the 45 bucks (like I say, this was a LONG time ago).

When I got to Cleveland Charlie Baumann met me, grim-faced as ever, at the arena back door.

"You are back" he stated flatly. He did not seem either pleased or surprised. "Go talk to Svede Johnson -- he is in charge of der funny men." He spun on his heel and walked away without another word.

I got a rousing welcome on my return to clown alley. Swede gave me a sour look, waggled his head back and forth sadly, and proclaimed: "We got the %##@@& pinhead back again!" He then gave me a big lopsided grin and shook my hand warmly. Kevin Bickford shyly gave me a rubber chicken that had "Welcome Back, Tork" stenciled on it. Several of the new faces, the First of Mays, were immediately told that I was the fabled Mormon Missionary, and they broke into a chorus of the LDS hymn, "Come, Come, Ye Saints" -- only they improvised some obscene and profane lyrics that caused my earwax to melt.

Gee, it felt good to be home again . . .