It’s very strange, since Lord knows, I am no fan of award shows,
But I thought I’d give the Golden Globes a whirl—
Then I saw a dark-haired hottie, there among the glitterati,
Now I’m in love with Fiji Water Girl.
Her eyes and raven tresses far outshone their fancy dresses
Her Mona Lisa smile was sweet and calm.
No starlet she—no fame—indeed, nobody knew her name—
Mysterious mistress of the photobomb.
How gladly I’d pursue her, fall at her feet and woo her,
And—dare I dream it—we could run away—
To some island out of reach, where upon a tropic beach,
She’d serve me Fiji Water on a tray.
I’d be drunker than on gin with my pretty Gunga Din
To bring me water that would taste like wine—
I’d be happy— no, elated! (not to mention well-hydrated),
If only Fiji Water Girl were mine!
“The US secretary of state, Mike Pompeo, has vowed the US and its allies will “expel every last Iranian boot” from Syria as he sought to reassure Middle Eastern nations it was not withdrawing from the region despite Donald Trump’s call for troops to return home.”—The Guardian
When every last Iranian boot
From Syria is well en route,
Then, not before, will up and go
The last American heel and toe.
But while Iranian footprints smear
The streets of Homs and Dayr Hafir,
There’s no GI with soul to damn
Who’d be so callous as to scram.
All you freaks who are not into girling and boying,
I find your non-binary pronouns annoying.
If you’re just one person, I won’t call you “they.”
And if you saw your classmates get blown away,
I don’t care about anything you have to say.
Today’s youth are retarded if they expect me
To be doing an act that promotes empathy.
Watch me treating the world to my cranky new schtick,
Which might seem familiar. Hey, look at this dick.
“At the stroke of midnight, such beloved classics as Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” … [may be] quoted at length or in full anywhere when the copyright expires on work produced in 1923.”—Vox
Whose words these are I’m sure I know.
But they were penned so long ago,
I now can print them without fear
And cackle as my earnings grow.
With passage of another year,
No longer must I wait to hear
From authors’ greedy progeny
Who wait around for checks to clear.
And high time—near a century
Seems rather long a time to see
Residuals from one as dead
As Robert Frost appears to be.
No longer are they getting fed,
And growing fat on unearned bread,
And I’m financially ahead—
And I’m financially ahead.
“Thirteen people apply online for divorce on Christmas Day”—The Guardian
The first pair was undone by too much punch;
The second by hot toddies, gin, and sherry;
The third by Brussels sprouts at Christmas lunch;
The fourth by “Happy,” as opposed to “Merry.”
The fifth was breakage (none accepted blame);
The sixth was MSG (Mad Shopping Gloom);
The seventh, whether “Santa” was a name;
The eighth, a sulking child in every room.
The ninth was carols (her CD or his?);
The tenth was guests, unasked, who would not go;
Number eleven was a Christmas quiz;
The twelfth pair hissed beneath the mistletoe.
The last of all was really only fun
For lawyers. Season’s Greetings, everyone!