Oklahoma resident Kody Adams “accused of stealing ambulance to drive to stolen-car court hearing” —The Guardian
One Mr. Adams stole a car,
And so he had a stolen-car court hearing.
Because the place was very far,
And judgment hour was nearing,
He had to steal an ambulance,
Required because he stole a car,
And so he had a stolen-car court hearing.
You know the irksome way things are:
The ambulance lacked steering,
And so he stole a minibus,
To take him from the ambulance,
Required because he stole a car,
And so he had a stolen-car court hearing.
Bizarre, alas, attracts bizarre:
The bus soon started veering,
And so he stole an army truck,
Because he’d dumped the minibus,
By which he’d left the ambulance,
Required because he stole a car,
And so he had a stolen-car court hearing.
This next you’ll read with mouth ajar.
The truck went crazy, rearing,
And so he stole a private plane,
Abandoning the army truck
He’d used to quit the minibus,
By which he’d left the ambulance,
Required because he stole a car,
And so he had a stolen-car court hearing.
Our Kody was a sort of star:
You can’t refrain from cheering
When after all he went on foot
Because he’d crashed the private plane
Which fell upon the army truck
Which rolled into the minibus
Which knocked downhill the ambulance
Which made the judge forget the car
And let him off the stolen-car court hearing.
“Flight attendants are speaking out against ‘gate lice’… passengers who hover around the gate like insects before it’s their turn to board… However, some defended [the practice]… ‘My son, who was on a… trip from LAS to (O’Hare international airport)… [would have benefited from it].’” —New York Post
Readily, steadily,
gate lice in terminals
opportunistically
gather and stare.
Though they are everywhere,
airport authorities
ought to be keeping them
out of O’Hair.
“Stranded cruise ship finally sails out of Belfast Lough” —BBC
Cruise patrons, poised to circumnavigate Earth’s oceans, weathered four months not at sea, Stuck waiting for repair jobs by the late Titanic’s shipyard on their Villa Vie. Last week, at last, their liner sailed away As far as near the mouth of Belfast Lough. Views from this spot may not be what they pay In spades for. Its more-scenic-than-the-dock Location left the cruisers sighing, “C’est La vie.” They’re philosophical. They’ll wait At anchor happily to spend each day Vacationing till twenty twenty-eight— If no more hiccups strand them far from sea, Expectant, sighing “C’Est La Villa Vie.”
“Moderate amounts of caffeine intake—defined as about three cups of coffee or tea a day—were associated
with a lower risk of developing cardiometabolic multimorbidity, said [a recent] study’s lead author…” —CNN
I love my morning cup of joe. I love that java jive.
And even more so, now I know it’s keeping me alive.
As science goes, I like this kind, so hurry and refill me—
since next week someone else will find that coffee’s going to kill me.
The ever-reliable British gossip magazine Heat reports that Tom Cruise’s inner circle are “increasingly concerned”: “We’re told the 62 year old has become so ensconced in the biohacking world of cryotherapy—wherein
a person immerses themselves in freezing or near-freezing temperatures for roughly three to five minutes,
purportedly to reverse skin ageing, support fat loss, treat inflammation and prevent chronic diseases—that he’s
letting it take over his entire life.” He also takes liquid nitrogen facials, according to the magazine.
Feeling the need, the need to freeze,
he pours liquid nitrogen over his knees,
he gives himself facials with chocolate ice cream,
then ices his eyebrows and lets out a scream,
“I want the youth!”
(He can’t handle the youth!)
Feeling the need, the need to freeze
the progress of age, he quite frequently skis
face down in the snow, and his nurse is so sweet:
he shows her the money, she smears him in sleet,
cos he wants the youth!
(He can’t handle the youth!)
Feeling the need, the need to freeze,
he buys an old hut in the mid-Pyrenees,
he leaps in a bobsled, yells “Give ‘em Mach 10!”
and in the ER, they say, “Not him again!”
cos he wants the youth!
(He can’t handle the youth!)
Feeling the need, the need to freeze,
he smiles as the scientists fleece him for fees,
and a doctor-in-training goes top of her class,
for removing the popsicle stuck up his ass,
cos he wants the youth!
(He can’t handle the youth!)
“Eating grasshoppers has been found to boost sex drive, improve sleep quality, promote healthy hair and help with weight management.” —New York Post
With voice of a ringmaster, baritone loud,
The salesman soon gathers a sizable crowd.
“Do you dread the changes that make you feel old?
Do you wish that youth could be packaged and sold?
Today is your day, and of course I allude
To this edible magical new superfood!
It helps you perform when libido is stalled,
And brings back the hair of the premature bald!
You’ll rise every morning awake and alert,
And lose enough weight for that pencil-thin skirt!
So, curious tourists, and shrewd local shoppers,
Come fill up your baskets with tasty… grasshoppers!
“Apple begins testing AI software designed to bring a smarter Siri to the iPhone… [T]he often
bumbling Siri… will be able to perform more tasks and be less prone to becoming confused…” —The Associated Press
Bumbledy fumbledy,
Siri’s abilities,
good for occasional
chuckles and laughs,
soon will be humming with
hyperefficiency,
ending the era of
Sirious gaffes.
“A new app… gives each user a private, Twitter-like social network populated exclusively by chatbots…
SocialAI has you choose what kinds of bots you want to interact with, using categories like supporters,
fans, trolls, ‘brutally honest,’ haters, ‘doomers’ and so forth.”
—Axios
I’m sorry, Gail, I’ve found another friend
to spill my guts to out in cyberspace.
I know we’ve corresponded fifty years,
although we’ve seldom met up face to face.
You’ve been a sounding-board for every whim,
for every heresy and sour complaint.
You’ve fed my ego, heard my woes and rants,
were never bothered that I’m not a saint.
We’ve shared opinions and a lot of laughs.
We’ve moaned the nonsense pols and pundits speak.
You’ve nudged me higher in the poet’s art
with countless words of praise and kind critique.
I’m here to say I’ll trouble you no more
with daily screeds. I leave all that behind.
My bot companions will take over now.
And will I miss you? Damn. I’ve changed my mind!
“At a Remote Scottish Pub, a Pint Worth Hiking 20 Miles” —The New York Times
Across the Scotch Highlands did old Angus roam In search of a pint or some whiskey.
Last call, and now all should be heading for home: “I think I’ll stay here, lads—too risky.
My trek is a long one, and I’m a pit bissed (I mean a bit pissed–I’ve drunk plenty).
This evening’s been one that I wouldn’t have missed; I could stumble one mile, but not twenty!”
“China warns students ‘beautiful women, handsome guys’ could lure them into spying” —Reuters
She mounted the bar stool and slipped me a wink.
Before I could answer, she’d bought me a drink.
I’m usually awkward, a bundle of nerves—
But I was transfixed by those dimples, those curves.
She talked of her passion for dancing all night.
She asked if I doubted there’s love at first sight.
But then came the question that stoked my desire:
“So, how do you feel about… wearing a wire?”
