by Chris O’Carroll
“Kanye West and Bianca Censori may want to rethink their public displays of affection
after wearing out their welcome with a boating company in Venice, Italy. … In the viral images,
West is sitting down with his pants hanging low enough to expose his bare buttocks.
Censori appears to have her head in his lap in a compromising position…”
—Atlanta Black Star
The water taxi ride was fun,
But they blew their chance for another one.
by Steven Kent
“Society of authors calls use of bad reviews for book blurbs ‘morally questionable'”
—The Guardian
His cover needs a blurb; hey, that’s the biz.
I found a short review, such as it is:
I’ve never read a book like this before.
The author has no insight, wit, or skill.
He fails to form important thoughts and more;
His “best” work yet is still sophomoric swill.
Not great, but let me show you how to share
The fulsome praise that’s neatly hidden there:
I’ve never read a book like this before.
The author has . . . important thoughts and more;
His best work yet. See boys, that’s how it’s done—
I dare you now to write a better one!
by Julia Griffin
“[D]river pulled over with huge African bull riding shotgun in car:
Converted vehicle stopped in Nebraska with gigantic-horned Watusi bovine called Howdy Doody as passenger …
‘The officer wrote him some warnings,’ [police Captain] Reiman told the TV channel.
‘There were some citable issues with that situation.’”
—The Guardian
A bull—an imposing Watusi,
With horns that were quite Dr. Seussy—
Was caught sprawling wide
On the driver’s right side:
A thing no Watusi should do, see?
The officer wrote them some warnings,
As officers do many mornings:
Efficient, prepared,
And entirely unscared
By the prospect of hoofings and hornings.
The bull (he was named Howdy Doody)
Appeared quite embarrassed, or moody:
No bovine would choose
To displace, on the news,
The misfortunes of Donny or Rudy.
by Marshall Begel
“The James Webb Space Telescope recently captured a stunning new image of…
an orange formation in the unmistakable shape of a question mark…”
—NPR
For eons we have looked above
For answers to our questions
On grief and joy, on angst and love,
And followed all suggestions.
But as we begged the astral plane
To tell us what to do,
We never thought to entertain
That it had questions, too.
by Nora Jay
“Vladimir Putin sends condolences to family of Yevgeny Prigozhin”
—The Guardian
Of Putin’s condolence, though meager,
Prigozhin’s bereaved were desirous
As COVID 19-ers are eager
For sympathy cards from the virus.
by Alex Steelsmith
Tuesday, September 5th is Be Late For Something Day.
Merrily, merrily,
Be Late for Something Day
happens on Tuesday, but
never mind that;
people observing it
stereotypically
do so on Thursday or
Friday or Sat.
by Dan Campion
“Patients treated by female surgeons see better results, studies find”
—AXIOS
The sly remarks, guys, you can spare
(Well . . . sure, a girl can cut and sew).
Next time your corpus needs repair,
Remember what the studies show.
by Paul Willis
“Greta Gerwig’s Paradise Lost: [On] the Deep Parallels Between Barbie
and John Milton’s Late Renaissance Epic”
—Literary Hub
First came Adam,
then came Eve—
an afterthought,
I do believe.
But first came Barbie,
then came Ken.
When you’ve got Margot,
who needs men?
by Steven Kent
“A.I. Brings the Robot Wingman to Aerial Combat”
—The New York Times
My co-pilot’s far too controlling, it’s clear
(Efficient, but not at all brave).
I bark out an order and what do I hear?
Afraid I can’t do that now, Dave.
by Ruth S. Baker
“Return of takahē—large, flightless bird—to alpine slopes of the South Island marks a conservation victory in New Zealand”
—The Guardian
Suggestive of a globe on legs,
Its beak a boiled crustacean,
The lost takahe, plus its eggs,
Returns to glad our nation.
This flightless fowl with portly paunch
Resolves a point at issue:
However much you fail to launch,
There’s someone who will miss you.
by Steven Urquhart Bell
“Rome calls in cleaners armed with shovels to fight Colosseum’s rat infestation”
—The Telegraph
But don’t let on they’re cleaners. Tell the public
They’re members of a reenactment group,
And tool them up with swords and nets and tridents,
And play them martial music on a loop.
Then spread the word: “Not since the days of Empire
Has Rome played host to such a thrilling bout—
Voracious wild beasts and gladiators!”
You’ll rake it in—unless you’re ratted out.
by Chris O’Carroll
“Does President Biden want to limit Americans to two beers a week?”
—Fox personality Peter Doocy
Fox is ginning up the fear
That Biden wants to seize our beer.
The libs are out to harsh our mellow,
Whether Bud Light or Modelo.
As with so much Foxy news,
This is pretty low-proof booze.
by Iris Herriot
“Museum of London identifies man who raised alarm over Great Fire [of 1666]…
[T]he first witness… was Thomas Dagger, a journeyman baker… said [researcher] Kate Loveman…”
—The Guardian
“Is this a Dagger that I see before me?”
The Scholar cried. The Specter whispered: “Kate:
No one will blame you if you just ignore me.
I saw; I spoke. But it was all too late.”
by Steven Kent
“‘Rich Men North of Richmond’ singer condemns Republicans after song used in debate”
—The Guardian
Now listen to me, hoss:
Remember when The Boss
Was real misunderstood in ’84?
When Reagan tried to say
“Born in the USA”
Is rah-rah optimistic to its core?
The time is out of joint;
Again you’ve missed the point
Invoking me this way. (What else is new?)
How dare you quote my song
And get it so, so wrong—
I’m singing here about the guys like you!
by Marshall Begel
“Eggo’s ‘Brunch in a Jar’ marries booze with brunch… The sipping alcohol,
which is 40 proof, is meant to highlight all the flavors found at your typical
brunch spread ― bacon, syrup, butter and of course, Eggo waffles”
—NJ.com
I’ve found a dish that I can make—
It’s better than that protein shake—
This modern breakfast that you pour.
In fact, I think I’ll have one more.
Why go to some ol’ restaurant?
They never serve you whatchu want—
For instance… breakfasht you can pour!
I thing I’ll have myself summore.
Now every day, I’ll rise frrom bed,
No crackin’ eggs or toashtin’ bread.
For I’ll have breakfast that I p-pour…
Is thish… hic… nummer three or four?
Pleazh poke me iff I shtart to snore.