by Alex Steelsmith
“Princeton University invites students to make ‘art’ with condoms: ‘LatEXHIBITION’…
The condom-inspired artwork will be judged on the evening of Feb. 14, when a ‘National Condom Day’
event will be held at the university… [One student calls the event] ‘crude and undignified.’”
—Global Herald
Higgledy-giggledy,
National Condom Day
spawns an exhibit that
causes dissent;
students condemning the
latexhibitionist
spectacle feel it’s a
seedy event.
by Steven Kent
“Italian Sexism Row Over Job Advert Asking For Bathing Suit Image”
—The Guardian
You’re trained to keep the books and type at sixty words per minute?
No need; the job is simply to look pretty.
Your resume? Whatever. Just a photo with you in it
Will do if your bikini’s itty-bitty.
by Julia Griffin
“Robot vacuum cleaner escapes from Cambridge Travelodge”
—BBC News
The robot rumbled with disgust.
“That does it! I am bolting.
They will not see me for the dust:
I’m like this floor—revolting.
“I’m heading for the great outdoors
Where tree-lined streams meander,
Away from all these floors of floors
Engrained with crumbs and dander.”
Now watch that little vacuum go!
It’s thereby demonstrated
They do love nature, even though
It’s not reciprocated.
by Anna M. Evans
I put my first guess in—no squares go green;
just two go yellow; all the rest are gray.
It’s not the best, and not the worst I’ve seen.
I put my next guess in—one square goes green.
Words scroll my brain like credits on a screen.
I think of all I’ve got to do today.
I put my next guess in—now two squares green,
another yellow, and the last two, gray.
A stack of bills to pay and rooms to clean.
I put my fourth guess in—still two squares green.
Of this, at least (I think) I could be queen—
and rule the Facebook share that brings cachet.
I put my fifth guess in—all squares go green!
Farewell ye yellows!…now to face the gray.
by Kevin Ahern
The police report said,
And I quote:
“Those Levis are
truly of note.”
by Catherine Chandler
“Meet 190-year-old Jonathan, the world’s oldest-ever tortoise”
—CNN
Whoopily, schtupily,
ancient chelonian
Jonathan celebrates
nine score and ten.
Though his libido is
antediluvian,
still, he can get it on
time and again!
by Mike Mesterton-Gibbons
A grandma, Jean, was right to be a mite
Suspicious when her grandson called from jail,
Explaining he had driven drunk. His plight
Now needed her to find eight grand for bail …
It’s just too bad her grandsons are so young,
One knows they’re still in driving quite unversed—
Rogue scammers who want grandmas to get stung
Should do their homework on their victims first! …
Ms. Jean informed the crook she wasn’t short
Of cash, to lure him, but supplied in lieu
Mere paper towels, and two police, to thwart
Escape … The moral’s clear: Don’t misconstrue
Near-sounding words, or they may foil your plot—
Though Jean is senior, senile she is not!
by Steven Kent
“Irishman Faces 20 Years In Jail After Exposing Himself On Flight To New York”
—The Guardian
Your honor, I respect your point condemning my shenanigans,
But have a heart, your lordship, set me free!
I really thought It’s just another Friday night at Flanagan’s
(I had a few before the flight, you see).
I didn’t plan to hit that man or moon the angry stewardess;
The Dewar’s made me do it, don’t you know.
So be a bloke—I swear that in the future I’ll fly fluid-less.
Hey judge, how ‘bout a drink before I go?
by Steve Bremner
“Today, virtual real estate sells for hundreds of thousands of dollars of cold, hard cash (though converted into cryptocurrency). … But, before you can buy, you have to connect your wallet to the platform.”
—”How to Buy Virtual Land in the Metaverse,” MUO
(with apologies to Joni Mitchell)
Cozy cottage, built just right,
A picket fence of whitest white,
A view of Menlo Park at night,
I looked at land that way.
But how to get there? Where to go?
They say, “It’s in the blockchain, Bro,”
And what that means, I don’t quite know
(I’m not so young). Oy vey.
I’ve searched the Cloud from all sides now,
From up and down, and still somehow
It’s Cloud illusions I recall,
I just can’t find my plot at all.
by Geoffrey Basking
“Woman rescues animal and no one can work out what it is”
—The Independent
Are you a dog, a wolf, a fox?
What is your taxonomic box?
The virtuosos went all out
To classify those ears, that snout,
But this was all its features told:
I am alone, afraid, a-cold.
UPDATE (from early Saturday):
I am alive! awake! away … !
by Alex Steelsmith
“Give Green Her Boots Back… These overtures at progressivism
often comically fold back into the retrograde ideas they claim to eschew.…
[I] would rather them keep their pseudo-progressive piffle to themselves…’”
—Opinion in The Washington Post, on planned changes to M&Ms
Wrigledy-piggledy,
M&M makeovers
snooker consumers, warns
WaPo’s review;
folks at Mars Wrigley are
pseudo-progressively
biting off more than they
claim to eschew.
by Bruce Bennett
“‘Casablanca’ had a rocky start.”
—The Washington Post
Humphrey, Ingrid, that whole crew
had no notion what to do.
Though the script was full of “corn,”
Lo! a Classic had been born.
Nothing seemed to go quite right.
Yet they carried on, despite
Grave misgivings, rewrites, doubt.
Et voilà! It all worked out.
What’s the moral? Forge ahead.
Don’t assume the whole thing’s dead.
Don’t give up. No! Give a damn!
Play it, play it, play it, Sam,
Till the stars and stars align.
Just persist. You will be fine.
Love will conquer. Carry on.
You’ll survive, though she is gone.
You will fret, but what the hell?
You succeeded, played it well.
Played it up, man, played your part.
Never mind about your heart.
by Jean L. Kreiling
I want to shout that I’m not one of these
maniacal too-anxious shoppers, here
for bread and milk and eggs—necessities
they crave whenever a nor’easter’s near.
They seem to think the storm will last forever,
or else the thought of one day with no bread
alarms them, and not one of them is clever
enough to plan more than one day ahead.
I hold my tongue, though; after all, I’m in
the store with them, crowding the narrow aisles,
subjected to the jostling and the din,
soon on a checkout line that goes for miles.
And I myself don’t look so very smart:
fudge brownie mix and cookies fill my cart.
by Clyde Always
“Gas stoves leak climate-warming methane even when they’re off”
—NPR
Reekity, leakity
now climatologists
gather to kindly in-
form us en masse
Citizens hoping to
rescue the planet who
switch to electric are
cooking with gas.
by Phil Huffy
Nasty weather has pummeled the Cape
and Boston is down on her keister.
Reporters are out in the outlands
to cover another Nor’easter.
When the blow has been dealt with again
and storm clouds have somewhat abated,
wily sellers of all sorts of things
will advertise, weather related.
A Floor’easter is sure to be held
by some outfit excelling in floors
and a Snor’easter bedding event
will bring folks in through mattress shop doors.
A tavern where business is lacking
may apply to its windows a sign
proclaiming a “Pour’easter Hour”
with a whimsical, windy design.
And Chore’easter specialty pricing
will be touted by maids near and far,
while Store’easter discounts—enticing!—
will propel me to dig out my car.