“Amid a slump in tourism, one national park in Thailand has seen a dramatic rise in visitors. So numerous are the hermit crabs thronging the otherwise empty beaches of Koh Lanta that shells for them to live in have become a scarce commodity. The Thai government moved quickly to ease the housing shortage, launching a public appeal for empty shells that netted over 200kg. … Hermit crabs rely on discarded shells to protect their soft bodies, moving to larger shells as they grow.” —The Economist
Learn a lesson from the Crab:
Claim whatever you can grab!
Though it may be gritty, damp,
And so small it gives you cramp,
Seize that empty cockleshell:
You’ve a home. You’re doing well.
As you cram your flimsy space,
Spare a thought for those who face
What your luck may keep away:
Wind, and rain, and birds of prey.
“… the safest way to celebrate holidays is to celebrate at home with the people you live with.” —Centers for Disease Control and Prevention
I’ll be home for Christmas,
per the CDC—
feeling low
that I can’t go
where I would rather be.
Christmas Eve should find me
hugging relatives,
but I’ll be home for Christmas,
where no one but me lives.
I’ll be home for Christmas—
safe at home, that’s me.
I’ll hang no
damned mistletoe;
I won’t put up a tree.
Christmas Eve will find me
where no lovelight gleams;
Home alone at Christmas—
my only choice, it seems.
While I’m home for Christmas,
maybe I’ll sleep late.
And I’ll eat
every last treat—
no need to share or wait.
Christmas Eve may find me
drunk or getting high;
I’ll be home for Christmas,
determined not to cry.
“Anti-Gay Hungarian Politician Resigns After Being Caught At Massive Male Orgy [in Brussels] In Violation Of COVID-19 Restrictions” —Daily Caller
You may act one way at home
But you know that when in Rome,
You’re advised to do the things the Romans do;
Well, in Brussels it’s the same—
So you can’t be held to blame
If they threw an orgy and invited you.
Back in Hungary your days
Have been spent oppressing gays
With the policies and laws that you produce.
But now everybody knows you’re
Quite indecent an ex-poseur
And your “family values” stance was just a ruse.
The hypocrisy looks awful,
But your bawdy Belgian waffle
Isn’t why you just resigned beneath a cloud;
No, what got you apprehended
Is the number that attended,
For your saturnalia drew too large a crowd.
In our current Covid crisis
We’re all making sacrifices,
Such that even making whoopee’s making do.
So it wouldn’t really hurt you
If your vice possessed some virtue:
Keep your gangbangs down to just “we happy few.”
There’s a cynical contempt
In your thinking you’re exempt,
That your status makes you not like all the rest.
Let the sentence fit the crime
With some solo sex this time:
You can [[screw]] yourself right back to Budapest.
“S.F. Mayor London Breed had her own French Laundry [3-star Michelin restaurant] party … while encouraging others to avoid gatherings.” —San Francisco Chronicle
The mayor’s name was London; she kept the party clean
By booking with French Laundry for non-starchy haute cuisine.
Good taste but awkward timing!—the tone of this was deaf;
The details just not credible (or only in S.F.).
by Nina Parmenter
Last-minute talks to save the UK from a disastrous no-deal “hard Brexit” in less than a month have
stalled on a few remaining issues—one of the biggestbeing fishing rights.
Hard Brexit may no longer be the wish
of weary Brits—in fact it’s almost cruel,
but still I’ll do it, and I’ll blame the fish.
Hard Brexit may no longer be the wish
of most, but how they’ll benefit! Well, ish—
it’s bound to help some chaps I knew at school.
Hard Brexit may no longer be our wish,
but still let’s do it. And we’ll blame the fish.
The officer on duty was amused
By neighbors who complained they were abused
When, on one side, a resident was drawn
To blowing leaves into another’s lawn.
While standing where the boundary divides,
He found more leaves had fallen on both sides.
It seemed the leaves were only being fair
By falling generally, and everywhere.
“The Crown Season 4: Princess Diana is Finally Here” —The New York Times
How peaceful they were, those Diana-less years,
When Britons seemed done with collapsing in tears!
How calm were those decades—it seems almost scary—
When hearing “Princess,” little girls would think “Fairy”;
The name of “Diana” had stopped raising sparks,
And “Spencer” again was united with “Marks.”
Now—thanks to the soapy but sulphurous Crown—
Once more the poor People’s Princess must go down:
The nation returns to those fantasized scenes,
And argues how much of the blame is the Queen’s;
We watch and recharge that vicarious pain,
Till angry red tear ducts are gushing again.
“Darth Vader actor Dave Prowse dies aged 85 … Prowse was in the Vader suit for much of the Sith Lord’s screen time and reputedly even got to speak his lines on set, though his west country tones were dubbed over with those of American actor James Earl Jones in post-production … Prowse and Lucas later fell out, leading to Prowse being banned from official Star Wars activities in 2010 … Despite the fame he won as Vader, Prowse said he was most proud of his role as the Green Cross Man in a long-running British road safety campaign, for which he was awarded an MBE in 2000.” —The Guardian
Here Darth Vader lies, whose bones
Were not played by James Earl Jones:
Son of Lucas, dad of Luke,
Oedipus in guise of spook,
And—in quite another mode—
Hero of the Green Cross Code.
Reader, if you’d speak his praise,
Say that, having looked both ways,
Vader crossed, with booted stride,
Safely to the brighter side.
(with acknowledgments to “Lepanto,” by G. K. Chesterton)
Red states turning like the barrel of a gun,
However many times the re-re-counts are re-re-done;
There’s laughter in the newsrooms, a voice that hoots and mocks:
It’s stirring MSNBC; it’s even stirring Fox.
Across the seas a murmur runs: “How long can he refuse?”
But down in palmy Florida,
(Golf course and private spa),
Don Don of Lostria
Is raging at the news.
The burghers of Wisconsin are standing by their votes;
The stalwart Pennsylvanians, they scorn to turn their coats;
The state that nurtured John McCain swears never to conform;
Democrats whoop Hurrah! Ra Ra and Ooh là là!—
Don Don of Lostria
Is tweeting up a storm.
The Barr’s pursuit of voter fraud has found precisely none.
(Don Don of Lostria is twittering I WON!)
Streaky Giuliani is pacing all about,
Denouncing justices who baulk at throwing ballots out;
McConnell’s lying very low, his hand is all unshown;
Eric, etcetera,
Try to recruit for Pa:
Don Don of Lostria
Is fighting with his own.
Late-night comedians are dancing on the air
(Don Don of Lostria is plumping up his hair);
The very GOP begins to recognize the score;
But now, as sure as algebra,
Don Don of Lostria
(Denied his rightful coup d’état),
Gets set for ’24.
“5 Federal Inmates Scheduled for Execution During Final Weeks of Trump Presidency” —Voice of America
Well, sure, I had to pardon that poor turkey;
“Thou shalt not kill.” That message always stuck.
Believe me, life’s a thing I’ve always valued.
So what if folks are calling me “lame duck”?
But though I value life, in certain cases
A pardon’s something that would really suck.
Before I leave, I’ve planned five executions—
Hey, since they’re humans, I don’t give a fuck!
Listening to the news with half an ear,
I am dumbfounded by the words I hear.
Abe Lincoln’s been appointed to a post
In Biden’s inner circle. Could Abe’s ghost
Have risen in our hour of greatest need?
His name’s A. Blinken, as I later read.
“The seven-inch-tall northern saw-whet, one of North America’s tiniest owl-species, was found nestled inside the base of a 75-foot-tall spruce tree that had been chopped down in upstate New York and transported by truck to … Rockefeller Plaza, to be erected as its annual iconic Christmas tree.”
—National Geographic
for Katherine
That’s not my name. I hope you’ll not confuse
My kinsfowl with some oily parvenus;
Nor would I say I’m “tiny”: seven inches
Is twice (at least) the length of many finches.
I hate to boast, but I’ve a pedigree
That might surprise you. That first hacked-down tree
The Lorax popped from? My great-grandma’s place:
A blameless victim of your axe-mad race.
That cherry tree George Washington laid flat?
Two of my foreowls were enfeoffed with that;
And that first pear tree? Auntie’s, every stick,
Till chopped and rented to some partridge chick.
I could go on. Whenever you’ve inflicted
An axe upon a tree, guess who’s evicted?
My luckless kin’s been doomed to nest in vain
Since Birnam Wood took off for Dunsinane.
“Austrian village of Fucking to be renamed Fugging” —Politico
The village of Fucking is changing its name.
Now Austria’s frickin’ map won’t look the same.
Will dropping their “Fuck” bring the Fuggingers joy?
Perhaps we should ask Effingham, Illinois.
