“Busker reunited with lost guitar in hours thanks to ‘power of social media’” —The Irish News
It’s heartening to see that social media
Is good for more than publicizing cack,
But would there be the same concerted effort
To help a busker get their bagpipes back?
“Honda is recalling more than 750,000 vehicles to fix faulty passenger seat air bag sensor… The recall
covers certain Honda Pilot, Accord, Civic sedan, HR-V and Odyssey models from the 2020 through
2022 model years, as well as the 2020 Fit and Civic Coupe. Also included are the 2021 and 2022 Civic
hatchback, the 2021 Civic Type R and Insight, and the 2020 and 2021 CR-V, CR-V Hybrid, Passport,
Ridgeline and Accord Hybrid. Affected models from the Acura luxury brand include the 2020 and
2022 MDX, the 2020 through 2022 RDX and the 2020 and 2021 TLX.” —AP
The models that Honda’s recalling are plenty;
the number appears to be something like twenty.
So what are the chances that others exist
that have the same problem, but aren’t on the list?
We shouldn’t assume they remembered them all;
perhaps there are some that they didn’t recall.
“Our human ancestors often ate each other, and for surprising reasons.” —New Scientist
Well I can think of lots
For putting folk in pots;
A friend gone out of favor
Is truly one to savor,
And partners wed in haste
May still be good to taste.
But best of all, partake
Of loved ones at their wake—
There’s nothing quite as sweet
As fully seasoned meat.
“Canterbury Cathedral defends silent discos against ‘rave in nave’ criticism … The sell-out events… will see clubbers take to the nave in a ’90s-themed disco” —The Independent
A rave in the nave?
When there’s souls they should save?
We’re wishing our bishops knew how to behave!
Were there balls in the stalls
Of the Abbey or Paul’s
When parishioners swished in their tailcoats and shawls?
Defiling the aisle
Causes Satan to smile.
“They’ll wreck it!” thinks Thomas à Becket, with bile.
These raps in the apse
Show the faith’s in collapse:
We’re urging our clergy: Act clerical, chaps!
“After Humiliating Result in Nevada, Haley Goes After Her Own Party” —The New York Times
“None of These Candidates” raked in the chips.
My bluffing was perfect, like one of the boys’,
So why did I lose like a whale? Read my lips:
The party confused things, all mirrors and noise.
“Chaos,” that’s what they keep dealing. Bad bets.
The RNC folded, betrayed by a tell,
And dragged me down low as a prop player gets,
That bunch of stand-patters bewitched by Don’s spell.
Read ’em and weep? Not a chance. Count me in.
Stuff happens in Vegas. It stays there, they say.
I’m on to the next game, and aiming to win.
My home state will greet a shark eager to play.
“World Monuments Fund Transfers Management of Angkor Sites to Cambodia… [E]fforts to preserve the precious relics were imperiled by the Cambodian Civil War of the 1970s…” —Artnews
The artifacts of Angkor Wat
were once imperiled; now they’re not.
Where once there raged a discontent,
we now have Angkor management.
“One in four French aren’t having sex, poll reveals.” —The Times
“Chéri, do come with me to bed.”
“Lapin, you know I would,” I said.
“But though you’re hungry for amour,
And I’m entranced by your allure,
I feel an even greater need
To check up on my Facebook feed.”
Une autre nuit, and we are free
For some romantic revelry.
I hear you whisper, “Je t’adore.”
Your négligée falls to the floor. Je t’aime, aussi, but on the whole,
I’d rather watch the Super Bowl.
Au lit I lie, un homme alone.
Since you walked out, I’m on my own.
Though désolé that you have left,
I’m not entirely bereft.
There’s so much more to life than sex. Adieu, I must get back to X.
Bring bonbons to the desert; later leisure
will prove that God made chocolate truffles sweet.
At dinner with your date, refuse to eat.
Contest the line dividing guilt and pleasure.
Pour glitter on your head; lament its excess.
Attend the Mass to help your pewmates flirt.
Write sonnets and love letters in the dirt
and sign with not your name, or Os, just Xs.
Become your own admirer, then repent.
Let passion make you pious; saints will swoon.
Distribute flowers every day of Lent.
Put ashes on whatever you adore:
the teddy bear, the cards, the pink balloon
now sinking to the dusty kitchen floor.
“Some people are more famous for their contributions to music than they are for being late to their own concerts. Axl Rose is not one of those people.” —Vice
Happy Birthday, Axl
Could’ve been days ago. But:
He just now showed up.
