A little girl ate cookie dough.
It gave her an unhealthy glow.
Bacteria has laid her low.
She's gluten-free, six feet below.
Saturday, July 2, 2016
Wally the Whale
From the Los Angeles Times:
dead bodies towed into the sea
sounds like a first class remedy
not only for whales
but all other fails.
hey Bernie, do you water ski?
Wally the whale was towed into the sea by two Los Angeles County lifeguard boats Friday evening at Dockweiler State Beach, just a day after he washed ashore.
Lifeguards, working with the county’s Department of Beaches and Harbors, decided to tow the carcass far out to sea, where it will be clear of shipping lanes and where currents will keep it away from the beach. Natural decomposition and marine life will do the rest . . .
dead bodies towed into the sea
sounds like a first class remedy
not only for whales
but all other fails.
hey Bernie, do you water ski?
The Fitness Center
A maiden who wanted to shed
some butterfat finally said:
"My fitness club here
serves Cheetos and beer--
but helps me get out of my bed."
some butterfat finally said:
"My fitness club here
serves Cheetos and beer--
but helps me get out of my bed."
A lawyer from Inver Grove Heights
A lawyer from Inver Grove Heights
guaranteed clients their rights
to hourly rates
that only Bill Gates
could pay without holding last rites.
guaranteed clients their rights
to hourly rates
that only Bill Gates
could pay without holding last rites.
Friday, July 1, 2016
dreams of a grouchy gourmet
airplane food and hospital food and things warmed up from cans
feeds nothing but the belly tho it's cooked in copper pans.
i used to dream of brunches that would thrill my inner soul;
of dishes fused with saffron, set aflame with liqueurs droll.
cheeses of distinction and fine artisanal bread
and livers from those geese that only acorns are force-fed.
but since i am a bachelor and don't bring home much loot
my cooking is so basic that it tastes like some old boot.
my meatloaf is pedantic and my pasta falls apart,
and for making my own mayonnaise I haven't any heart.
perhaps someday i'll rob a bank and feast on courtly quail
before they can catch up with me and toss me into jail.
O death where is thy victory, o grave where is thy sting?
it's in the fact I can't tell squab from common chicken wing . . .
feeds nothing but the belly tho it's cooked in copper pans.
i used to dream of brunches that would thrill my inner soul;
of dishes fused with saffron, set aflame with liqueurs droll.
cheeses of distinction and fine artisanal bread
and livers from those geese that only acorns are force-fed.
but since i am a bachelor and don't bring home much loot
my cooking is so basic that it tastes like some old boot.
my meatloaf is pedantic and my pasta falls apart,
and for making my own mayonnaise I haven't any heart.
perhaps someday i'll rob a bank and feast on courtly quail
before they can catch up with me and toss me into jail.
O death where is thy victory, o grave where is thy sting?
it's in the fact I can't tell squab from common chicken wing . . .
I'd rather the Army play tones
I'd rather the Army play tones
on woodwinds than fly any drones.
A bomb or two less
is fine, I confess;
but please spare those long brass trombones!
on woodwinds than fly any drones.
A bomb or two less
is fine, I confess;
but please spare those long brass trombones!
Tempest in a Milk Carton
The Senior Lunch today down at the Center is roast pork, mashed potatoes, diced beets, and a large white fluffy dinner roll with butter. And a side of applesauce.
They serve it cafeteria style, so I take my plate, grab 2 cartons of 1 percent milk, and head over to the condiment table for some hot sauce.
And there I collide with one of the cranks that infest the Senior Center.
A scruffy old man, in patched overalls, with a threadbare DEKALB seed cap wedged firmly on his head, is pouring ketchup ove his beets. He says:
"Hey, you can't have two milks. You're only supposed to have one."
This is news to me. I always take two.
"Who says?" I ask politely.
"You're supposed to take one, not two." he repeats, his eyes ablaze with the unholy zeal of the stickler.
I decide that today is not the day I will be kind to idiots, so I silently turn my back on him to go to my table. He follows me.
"You better put that other milk back so's there's enough fer everbody" he grates through his long yellow teeth.
"Ah, go peddle your papers" I tell him. I have always wanted to use that phrase since hearing Victor Mature snarl it in a gangster movie.
He stands unmoving above me as I eat. Like a senile obelisk.
He finally whirls and strides away. I am left in peace, but not for long. He comes back with the Senior Lunch supervisor, an earnest young man with rimless glasses and a crew cut.
The supervisor is plainly all at sea, since I am obviously not doing anything upsetting or immoral.
"You see what I mean?" says DEKALB in triumph.
"Is there a problem?" the supervisor asks no one in particular.
I continue to eat my lunch, dipping my roast pork into the applesauce -- something I learned to do when I lived in Florida.
At this, DEKALB snorts and shakes his head in disgust, then takes his tray over to another table, where he slams it down -- startling an old woman in a flowered nightie dozing over a Nora Roberts novel.
Now the supervisor, as is the wont of supervisors worldwide and forever, decides he'd better earn his keep by annoying someone. And that someone is me.
"Just don't let it happen again" he tells me, rather uncertainly.
Now maybe he means it as a mild joke, a way to smooth over a rough patch in the day's events. But I choose not to take it that way.
I fix him with a beady eye -- I practice piercing looks in the mirror every morning, so I'm pretty effective. And I say, deadpan, "Don't let WHAT happen again?"
At this, the supervisor pretends to hear his name being called, gives me a friendly bob of the head, and skitters away.
I finish my lunch, including both cartons of milk. The pork is a bit dry, but dipping it in the apple sauce helps. Busing my tray, I notice several cartons of milk left out on the condiment table, so I ask one of the nice lunch ladies about it.
"Oh" she says, "there's always some milk left over after lunch. Take 'em if you want -- otherwise we just have to throw them out."
They serve it cafeteria style, so I take my plate, grab 2 cartons of 1 percent milk, and head over to the condiment table for some hot sauce.
And there I collide with one of the cranks that infest the Senior Center.
A scruffy old man, in patched overalls, with a threadbare DEKALB seed cap wedged firmly on his head, is pouring ketchup ove his beets. He says:
"Hey, you can't have two milks. You're only supposed to have one."
This is news to me. I always take two.
"Who says?" I ask politely.
"You're supposed to take one, not two." he repeats, his eyes ablaze with the unholy zeal of the stickler.
I decide that today is not the day I will be kind to idiots, so I silently turn my back on him to go to my table. He follows me.
"You better put that other milk back so's there's enough fer everbody" he grates through his long yellow teeth.
"Ah, go peddle your papers" I tell him. I have always wanted to use that phrase since hearing Victor Mature snarl it in a gangster movie.
He stands unmoving above me as I eat. Like a senile obelisk.
He finally whirls and strides away. I am left in peace, but not for long. He comes back with the Senior Lunch supervisor, an earnest young man with rimless glasses and a crew cut.
The supervisor is plainly all at sea, since I am obviously not doing anything upsetting or immoral.
"You see what I mean?" says DEKALB in triumph.
"Is there a problem?" the supervisor asks no one in particular.
I continue to eat my lunch, dipping my roast pork into the applesauce -- something I learned to do when I lived in Florida.
At this, DEKALB snorts and shakes his head in disgust, then takes his tray over to another table, where he slams it down -- startling an old woman in a flowered nightie dozing over a Nora Roberts novel.
Now the supervisor, as is the wont of supervisors worldwide and forever, decides he'd better earn his keep by annoying someone. And that someone is me.
"Just don't let it happen again" he tells me, rather uncertainly.
Now maybe he means it as a mild joke, a way to smooth over a rough patch in the day's events. But I choose not to take it that way.
I fix him with a beady eye -- I practice piercing looks in the mirror every morning, so I'm pretty effective. And I say, deadpan, "Don't let WHAT happen again?"
At this, the supervisor pretends to hear his name being called, gives me a friendly bob of the head, and skitters away.
I finish my lunch, including both cartons of milk. The pork is a bit dry, but dipping it in the apple sauce helps. Busing my tray, I notice several cartons of milk left out on the condiment table, so I ask one of the nice lunch ladies about it.
"Oh" she says, "there's always some milk left over after lunch. Take 'em if you want -- otherwise we just have to throw them out."
Nonverbal Dominance
The silent treatment is the way a woman rules the roost.
Nonverbal and non-anything, it first was introduced
by Eve when Adam would not taste the apple she had bit;
she stayed so anti-verbal that he almost had a fit.
To dominate coworkers, use of body language can
make them start to twitch and drain the darkest, deepest tan.
It's almost like some voodoo or a witchcraft silently
making thralls of colleagues just by bending arm or knee.
Assertive female leaders can the corp'rate ladder climb
if they will just concentrate on using pantomime.
And now that I have had my say about this hot bombshell,
I'm going home to my dear wife who's sure to give me ****
Nonverbal and non-anything, it first was introduced
by Eve when Adam would not taste the apple she had bit;
she stayed so anti-verbal that he almost had a fit.
To dominate coworkers, use of body language can
make them start to twitch and drain the darkest, deepest tan.
It's almost like some voodoo or a witchcraft silently
making thralls of colleagues just by bending arm or knee.
Assertive female leaders can the corp'rate ladder climb
if they will just concentrate on using pantomime.
And now that I have had my say about this hot bombshell,
I'm going home to my dear wife who's sure to give me ****
Dumb Laws
Dumb laws come from dumb people, and dumb people come from . . . where?
Dumb schools with dumber teachers or dumb chapels full of prayer.
Dumb parents make dumb children, who spread dumbness all around
like disease that threatens to put you into the ground.
Ev'rytime a dumb law is struck down dumb people groan,
and say the Feds are evil and will not leave them alone.
And then instead of realizing that they might be dumb
the dumb people start marching as they beat upon a drum.
They beat upon a drum so other dumb people will know
that dumb laws will not go away, in summer or in snow.
Legislatures are so dumb that they cannot be stopped;
dumbness is like merchandise that never can be swapped.
Dumb schools with dumber teachers or dumb chapels full of prayer.
Dumb parents make dumb children, who spread dumbness all around
like disease that threatens to put you into the ground.
Ev'rytime a dumb law is struck down dumb people groan,
and say the Feds are evil and will not leave them alone.
And then instead of realizing that they might be dumb
the dumb people start marching as they beat upon a drum.
They beat upon a drum so other dumb people will know
that dumb laws will not go away, in summer or in snow.
Legislatures are so dumb that they cannot be stopped;
dumbness is like merchandise that never can be swapped.
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Food Wars
You can scorn my church and party; you may sneer at my physique --
but don't you dare say anything about my cloves or leek!
It may be a free country, where all voices can be heard,
but I will start a lawsuit if you don't like lemon curd.
And when it comes to grass-fed and organic caviar
I'll gladly get into the ring and with you grimly spar.
My food must be correct in ev'ry manner, shape, and source;
and if my spouse thinks diff'rent I'll just file for a divorce!
but don't you dare say anything about my cloves or leek!
It may be a free country, where all voices can be heard,
but I will start a lawsuit if you don't like lemon curd.
And when it comes to grass-fed and organic caviar
I'll gladly get into the ring and with you grimly spar.
My food must be correct in ev'ry manner, shape, and source;
and if my spouse thinks diff'rent I'll just file for a divorce!
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