“Christmas tree growers and company leaders are warning of widespread Christmas tree shortages
in both real and artificial trees as the 2021 holiday season approaches.” —Market Realist
Who knew that I would ever see
A $90 Christmas tree,
Proud monarch of the Arctic fall
Standing a staggering two feet tall?
I was advised—“No need to shout, Hon!”—
I’d better not come back without one,
So fools like me must go and buy
At prices God can’t justify.
“[Golfers] in West Yorkshire were given a shock this week when two huge pigs
went on a rampage around Lightcliffe Golf Club, near Halifax.” —The Times
We were out for an afternoon stroll,
Taking pleasure in woodland and knoll,
When we heard him yell, “Fore!”
And, “Beware of the boar!”
He seemed totally out of control.
Well, we couldn’t just let this go by
And turn a blind eye to the guy.
“Be pleasant to piggie”:
For us, that’s a biggie,
So we both bit him right in the thigh.
Most regrettably, action was taken,
Unconducive to saving our bacon.
To be honest, who knew
Such a hullabaloo
Would ensue, or the stink we’d awaken?
As we watched the cops race from their truck,
We reacted as one, “What the fuck!”
All we’d wanted to do
Was to gaze at the view.
Now we’re up to our snouts in the muck.
To accuse us of “rampage” is wrong.
We’re a couple of pigs, not King Kong!
What’s your beef if two swine
Like to stroll the front nine?
How about we just all get along?
“Sweden Finally Chose a Prime Minister. She Lasted About 7 Hours.” —The New York Times
Let no one hasten to condemn
The first she-Swede to be PM,
Who was in half a day elected,
Abandoned, floored, and self-ejected.
According to the global Press,
She’d never guessed (how could she guess?)
She’d blot her copy-book, or smudge it,
By just not budging on her budget.
“’Is everything okay?’ … is the question politicians, newspaper headline writers and much of social media were asking Tuesday, after British Prime Minister Boris Johnson lost his place in his notes for 20 seconds while delivering a speech… then imitated the noise of a car engine and, perhaps most bizarre of all, spent an awkwardly long time declaring his love for the popular amusement park Peppa Pig World.” —The Washington Post
Is everything OK with you, PM? Should Britons worry you have lost your grip? Embarrassed colleagues doubt your stratagem—
“Vroom, vroom, rah, rah” sounds not like statesmanship! Excessively loquacious cocky jaws Refrain from asking for forgiveness, though You did it thrice in 20 seconds’ pause— That’s why we ask: Can you still run the show? … Has Peppa Pig been bossing you around, Insisting you promote her southern fief?— Northeasterners, excused for having frowned, Greet your charade with silent disbelief! … OK, PM? … Or has your mojo gone Kaput—is that why you just ramble on?
“My father picked every single photo in this book, wrote all the captions, including some by hand.” —Donald Trump, Jr., talking about his father’s coffee-table book Our Journey Together, which will retail for $74.99 ($229.99 for a signed copy)
These are the shots the author picks.
He’s great at hands-on politics.
Check out the epic price he sticks
You with for all his hand-picked pics.
The words he writes with are the best,
As captions for his photos test-
Ify. Kim, Putin, and the rest
Will read his book and feel caressed.
“From California to Minnesota to Massachusetts, turkeys have taken a liking to university life, leading to social media stardom and crosswalk confrontations.” —The New York Times
Turkey, turkey, on the lawn,
Tell me please what’s going on.
Please don’t stand there. Let me pass.
I’m already late for class.
Turkey, turkey, in the Quad,
Surely there is something odd
In the way you make me fear I’m the one who shouldn’t be here.
Faced with your assertive pride, I’m the one who steps aside. I’m the one who wonders what
Powers your determined strut.
Turkey, tell me I am wrong.
Teach me I too can belong
With the brightest and the best.
Turkey, help me pass this test!
Locking up the store at 5 PM
in mid-November, I feel horror clutch
my throat with twig-dry fingers as I watch
an overlarge full moon, gold hoop skirt hemmed
with spidery gray lace, lurch into sight.
I know that daylight savings time’s to blame
for its too-early advent; all the same,
my body feels betrayed, as when the bite
of rheumatism makes my kneecaps hiss—
too old, too fast, too soon. Years prior to this,
I met a green man on a mountainside
who offered me eternal life if I’d
consent that very hour to be his bride.
If he returned tonight, I might say yes.
“‘Is It Okay To. . .’: The Bot That Gives You An Instant Moral Judgment” —The Guardian
The words of great philosophers, though plagued by human folly, Are moral more than merely epigram,
But only if they lived and walked among us here, by golly— Said no sage yet, I think, therefore I RAM.
“Gunther the top dog cashes in on $31m mansion: German shepherd has put his Miami home up for sale but don’t worry, he owns several more” —The Times
I have diamond-studded collars,
And a basket made of gold
(I’m worth half a billion dollars)
And for keeping out the cold,
I wear cashmere from Brioni,
And galoshes from McQueen,
The most affluent Alsatian
That the world has ever seen.
I uphold the highest standards
Of the canine upper classes,
And deplore the lower orders
Sniffing one another’s asses.
If out walking with my butler,
Should he call, I pay no heed,
It’s important to remind him
That it’s I who take the lead.
My abode has just been listed.
I’m not sure that I approve,
And I’ve doggedly insisted,
When it comes the time to move,
That I must be groomed and rested,
I will brook no ifs or buts.
Let my patience not be tested,
For I’m not like other mutts.
It’s essential that I’m treated
In the most respectful way,
If I’m not, I may get heated.
What am I, some kind of stray?
Just make sure my new location,
Be it mansion, house or flat,
Is befitting of my station,
And does not include a cat.
