“Nigel Farage has defeated Count Binface to win the Clacton byelection, in a contest boycotted by every other major political party” —The Guardian
Farage, MP, Got 63 While Binface ran for kicks And still got 26. Yet Britain would be better off With tin man, not that sleazy toff— Reform will truly never rest content Until they make things Right in Parliament.
“When US intelligence allegedly found a credible threat that Iran plotted to kill him last month, Trump left Air Force One in a catering truck.” —The Guardian
On Air Force One, the catering’s surprising: The truck is now a Presidential stall, Thus proving there are sights less appetizing Than Last-Row Chicken Pasta after all.
“Netflix stuck a guy in a billboard to promote a new movie” —Entertainment Weekly
For those of you who can’t afford to pay your monthly room and board, a well-known streaming corporation will gladly fix your situation: they’ll build a billboard just for you with AC and fantastic view (though to be honest and forthcoming, it’s possible it won’t have plumbing). They promise you’ll be captivated! Privacy? That’s overrated! It’s almost like a paid vacation … till the series’ cancellation.
“A Baltimore, Maryland, police officer avoided service calls by claiming he was on traffic stops when he was in fact ‘sitting idle in his car,’ according to an indictment filed by city prosecutors. … On one occasion, when Houchins reported being unavailable, he was allegedly ordering a smoothie…” —The Guardian
The Maryland PD just likes to moan; The charges filed are frankly overblown. They allege I’m “sitting idle,” A complaint at which I bridle: Inside my car, I’ve orders of my own.
I counter-charge my so-called fellow cops With strangely misdefining “traffic stops.” I was driving, then I halted. I don’t think that can be faulted— I’m sure I only missed four murders, tops.
“A Mars rover just saw Earth dance with a Martian moon—then disappear behind it.” —BBC Sky at Night Magazine
A little spying rover “Was just chancing” to look over At a dark and private corner of the sky, When it heard (“I never listened!”) Something sung which, though it isn’t Fully polished, has gone viral up on high. It’s the love song of a planet, And it’s much too late to ban it So we might as well enjoy it, on the sly.
I believe I’m struck by moonlight! You have caught me in a swoonlight, I’m in retrograde, but yearning to advance: Will you tango with me, Phobos, To a tune by Villa-Lobos? Shall we boogie to Boötes? Shall we dance?
Every forest, each sierra, All that makes me Wholly Terra Is a-quake; Peru’s colliding into France: Your effect on me is tidal— I can feel my tropics sidle: Shall we do the Astral Spiral? Shall we dance?
I have never seen such luster In the Virgo Supercluster, I’ve no earthly, but I have to take my chance: Though I know you’re Mars’s satellite, You’ve set my thermostat alight: So how about it, Rockstar—shall we dance?
“Michelin-starred restaurateur faces jail for using ants as dessert garnish” —BBC
In Seoul it’s considered OK
to garnish a bingsu sorbet with a two-spotted cricket (you won’t become sick), it
will please gastronome and gourmet.
But a chef believed he could enhance l’intermède (as they call it in France). Now he might lose his stars and end up behind bars— Hélas! for a sprinkling of ants!
“By the time they are airborne adults, they are interested only in mating and don’t eat that much … ‘The males, once they’ve done their duty, that’s the end of their life cycle, [a horticulturalist] said. ‘The females are going to lay their eggs in the soil again.’ Then, it’s lights out.” —The New York Times
Don’t bother me with tempting food. There’s one thing on my mind: the only thing that’s right and good, which is, of course, to find
A loving mate who’ll love me so the moment that we meet there will be nowhere else to go, and I won’t need to eat!
“US officials push back on reports of dangerously low munitions supplies Experts warn that low stockpiles of air defense interceptors as a result of the war on Iran leave the US vulnerable.” —Al Jazeera
Thucydides, Themistocles— Commanders always fib, An occupational disease Old as Sennacherib. I’d study up on Plutarch, friends. Officials push back? Duck. They’ve reached their limited wits’ ends. Attacked, we’re out of luck.