I’m too old to be a neophyte. There’s nothing left to do. So please do not suggest that I do anything that’s new. Don’t want to go to parties with folks too erudite.
Safaris do not tempt me. I hear those lions bite.
Bungee jumping? Please. No thanks to fun at such a height. Aerial adventures I’ll leave to Wilbur Wright.
Wild evening adventures simply do not excite. I’ll skip the latest dance craze. I don’t go out at night.
I’ll never take up kick boxing for fighting’s not my sport. I’ll say the same for pickle ball. I’m not the tennis sort. In short, I have done everything that I could find exciting. It simply is too late for me to do my neophyting!
If I had a bit more moxie, I’d be Kardashian by proxy. I’d be less studious, more frocksie and trade these garments long and boxy for a mini dress that’s foxy, wear heels less Oxfordy and soxy, hang out with girls named Tess or Roxie, more cool and definitely less poxy. I’d be a cockette of the walksie!
Caught in baby’s neck creases, clinging to Grandpa’s cuff, escaped from Mr. Teddy are these little bits of fluff. These airborne little clumps of fuzz go anywhere they please. They catch in Daddy’s nose hairs, causing him to sneeze. They wind up in the pancakes–an artistic swirl of blue. A few of them are tracked outside under Billy’s shoe. When he climbs onto the school bus, they go along with him, and everywhere that Mommy goes, to grocery store or gym, a piece of Teddy comes along to be left behind somewhere in the wide wide world, but he doesn’t mind. He has so many fluffy parts that he can share a few. And when you come to visit, you can take some home with you!!
I’ve never had much interest in sports played with a ball. Of games with pucks or shuttlecocks, I have no need at all. Gym workouts, laps and chin-ups do nothing for me. I simply have no talent for touching chin to knee. The body part I work out with is of a different kind. I like the sort of games requiring exercise of mind. Dominoes or Mastermind, Bridge or Chess or Scrabble are aspects of the sporting life discounted by the rabble. Yet if you want to hold my interest, team sport is absurd. Just woo me with a domino, a die, a card, a word. Lay your mind upon the table, dear, I’ll trump it with an ace. The contact I like in a sport is merely face-to-face.
The Guardian: A judicial review this week will decide whether it was right for Sport England to have ruled that the card game is not a sport. … “Europe has said [sport has] to be physical, but the International Olympic Committee is prepared to include mind sports. … The IOC, for instance, recognises chess and bridge as sports – the respective federations have applied for them both to be included in the 2020 Olympics; https://www.theguardian.com/sport/shortcuts/2015/sep/22/a-bridge-too-far-card-game-considered-a-sport
You’ve shown us through your policies as well as how you feed
that the only real emotion you experience is greed.
Everything you come upon you brand with the name “Trump,”
Yet lack of compassion still labels you a chump.
In all your machinations, you attempt to spin the pulley.
Like other gleeful little boys, you have to play the bully.
What you have written on the world is not, Sir, what will last.
The image history makes of you you have no power to cast
unless it’s by your actions, and it’s clear what they have been.
How many evil actions have you endorsed with your pen?
Those fed their pablum with golden spoons may not develop empathy,
but that’s no reason why they couldn’t exercise some sympathy.
Things Donald Trump has named after himself: (Thanks, Wiki.)
The prompt word today is sympathy. (Donald Trump during Launch of Trump Steaks at The Sharper Image at The Sharper Image in New York City, New York, United States. (Photo by Stephen Lovekin/WireImage for Hill & Knowlton)