“Canadian groundhog Fred la Marmotte found dead before planned prediction Status of spring undetermined in northern Quebec after rodent prognosticator discovered dead in burrow during festivities” —The Guardian
Let’s mourn the Canadian groundhog,
Fantabulous Fred la Marmotte,
That ever-predictively sound hog
Who knew what forecasters do not.
His secret researches were thorough,
He never delivered on spec,
But now he lies dead in his burrow
And all are perplexed in Quebec.
It’s minus sixteen and descending;
On Sunday some say it will snow;
But what is the point of pretending?
It’s winter, or not. We don’t know.
“[Chancellor] Jeremy Hunt weighs up tax breaks for retired people who return to work…” —The i
I portered in a hospital, the biggest in Dundee;
I often went for hours without a seat.
And when it got less busy and I finally could pee,
The recoil nearly knocked me off my feet.
So what would tempt me back is if they let me glut my taste
For dresses with the crinoline inside ’em;
Then fit me with a catheter and hang around my waist
Collection bags—the dress will serve to hide ’em.
Now when it comes to portering, I’m not a man for joshing:
Not only will the urine bags not show,
The petticoats will rustle, which will hide the noise of sloshing,
And sweep the floor of rubbish as I go.
” … Republicans have insisted that they want ‘structural’ fiscal changes in exchange for voting to raise
the borrowing cap, but they have so far declined to offer a cohesive plan outlining what programs
they would cut.” —The New York Times
Lord, we cry out in despair.
We have tried to trim expense:
Should we cut back on defense?
Take an axe to Medicare?
Now we turn to You and plead:
Waive the laws You have decreed!
Grant the miracle we need!
Even in a balanced budget,
Many handouts must remain,
Or our voters will complain.
We can find no way to fudge it—
Calculations make us sick.
Teach us, Lord, some simple trick!
Save us from arithmetic!
First came Donald Trump and then came Biden,
and lately to the list we add Mike Pence.
Top Secret papers need a place to hide in,
like houses owned by these distinguished gents.
It’s time we searched the homes of Rockefeller,
Van Buren, Gore, and Colfax for a few;
John Adams’ attic, Agnew’s musty cellar—
and now George Santos claims he has some too.
You shine out with a radiance I ought to have seen.
I was blind, and I followed the party routine, So I shunned QAnon— Now the blinkers are gone.
How I blush for my past! What a fool I have been!
Here’s my pledge—I won’t leave you, sweet Marjorie Greene.
You’re a vision transcending the humdrum and mean,
Gulping cash like the fanciest Vegas machine. (I admire, I confess, Your fundraising success,
And I’ll punish those critics who think it obscene.)
Let us share all our bounties, sweet Marjorie Greene.
I’ll do penance for sin till my conscience is clean.
I’m on fire with the zeal of a love-stricken teen. I’ll no longer dissemble, I flutter and tremble.
How I long to embrace you and crown you my queen!
We shall shake up the world, my sweet Marjorie Greene.
“Restaurant responds after woman spots dead husband in new promo footage… Lucy Watson was certain she saw [her late husband in the video, eating at the Indian restaurant.] … ‘The moment I saw the thing I thought, ‘Oh my God—that’s Harry’. … He’d be eating a chicken korma because that’s all he ever ate.’” —LAD Bible
“I know that man—I was his wife!
It’s Harry—lately ‘late’”
Cried Mrs. Lucy Watson, sparking drama;
So can this be his afterlife?
Is “all he ever ate”
His lot henceforth—a ghostly chicken karma?
