Worth seeing again! Oh, if only. . . .
Bill Maher on How Melania can Save the World
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Tag Archives: Humor
Sixteen
Sixteen
She met him at the harvest dance.
An act of fate, they met by chance.
The very first grown man she kissed,
he was a traveling journalist,
and she had barely got love’s gist
when he vanished in the mist.
For reference, she had not any.
She had not made love with many
and those she’d had were only boys,
as unacquainted with the joys
of mature love as she had been,
for they were only kids, not men.
She found it tedious at best
to spoon with any of the rest,
and yet she tried, and kept a list
in which she rated and she dissed
those teenage lovers that were left
once journalism left her bereft
of seasoned lover who had pleased her
whereas all the rest just squeezed her
wrong, somehow. They smacked and cuddled,
yet, somehow, they all just muddled
what she’d had occasion once, perchance,
to experience at the harvest dance.
She finally devised a plot
wherein she could improve her lot.
She’d do a deed of much renown
to draw her lover back to town.
And this is why she planned the prank
wherein she would rob the bank.
Of course she’d send the money back.
The larcenous gene she seemed to lack,
but this would create so much news
that she was fairly sure he’d choose
to come investigate the crime,
and that would be the perfect time
to improve her skills of woo.
He’d be her prey and she’d count coup.
For a week, her schemes just perked.
She watched and waited, planned and lurked
watching for the perfect time
to enact her lovelorn crime.
And, finally, the time seemed good.
She donned a long-armed cloak with hood,
took her daddy’s gun and, masked,
said “Stick ’em up” when she was asked
if she was seeking to deposit,
distressing her, it seems, because it
seemed to cause so little pause,
from the teller, perhaps because
the teller, who was also masked,
gave her a sucker before she asked
what transaction she might mean
to request on this Halloween!
And so it was the plot was foiled.
By mistiming, her plans were spoiled.
She abandoned larceny
and resumed her tomfoolery
with the local high school boys
wherein they all discovered joys
by practice to bring that surcease
she’d sought to learn by expertise.
Prompt words for today are journalist, reference, tedious, list and pleased.
Tropical Gig
Tropical Gig
A cricket and a katydid in need of some excitement
when the cold winds started, and with no other incitement,
set out on upon a sea journey, their ship an old guitar.
(It wasn’t very roomy. Oh, but it was yar!)
They christened her as Lulabelle after an old amor.
They thought they’d sail the whole wide world from shore to shore to shore.
Setting off from Mexico, they drifted with the breeze,
their water and provisions stacked up around their knees.
The cricket sang such lullabies. The katydid chimed in,
a catfish as a tagalong stroked rhythms on its fin.
Guileless in their motives, they sought no fame nor riches.
From port to port they drifted, with only minor glitches.
On Isla Mujeres, they met a small land crab
that had been used in research in an oceanic lab.
It lit up in the darkness with a thousand little lights.
And so they offered it a ride to light up starless nights.
They drifted off to Cuba atop an ocean swell,
telling all the stories that they had to tell.
Traitorous loves and conquests, flight through the summer night.
The sand crab told of capture after a valiant fight.
The cricket had such stories of houses he’d been in.
The katydid could mime a leaf: long and green and thin.
When they made their music, the crab just clacked its claws.
All night they chirred and clattered—sometimes without a pause.
By the time they got to Cuba, they had a stirring act.
They drew the gulls and pelicans to listen—it’s a fact!
They got a gig in Havana, playing in a bar,
drawing folks to hear them from both near and far.
The cricket’s name is Chirrup and and Katydid is Slim.
The Crab’s name is Oblongus—based on the shape of him.
Their act can be heard nightly in the ocean dunes,
where they will serenade you with their blended tunes.
Prompt words for today are guitar, guileless, traitor, research and excitement.
Cheeto Christ Stupid Czar
OkcForgottenman sent me this newest Randy Rainbow parody. It’s as absurd as its subject.
Pass the Salt (Joseph’s Most Incredible Machine Yet.)
The Wager
The Wager
When I was a mere teenager,
my dad made a little wager.
Could I manage to exist
by guile and craft and will and fist
without allowance or assistance?
It was not at his insistence,
and in no way was I miffed
at his challenge aimed at thrift.
I packed a bag and caught a lift.
For one year I would simply drift.
Quietly would I abscond
and win my keep as vagabond.
I’d leave a life humdrum and canned
to live a life less gray and bland.
And thus I started my vacation
around our great and varied nation.
In California, I mowed lawns,
in Texas, worked at shucking prawns.
Combined wheat in South Dakota.
Then made off for Minnesota.
Washing pots and dishing curry,
worked my way down to Missouri.
In Tennessee I met with luck
and crossed the whole state in a truck,
but by D.C. and Baltimore,
grunt labor had become a bore,
so when I finally reached the ocean,
suddenly I had the notion
to make a call to dad from son
telling him his son had won.
The call I made was not in vain,
for next day I was on a plane.
Tattered, back-sore, sunburned, chapped,
I showed my dad the miles I’d mapped.
He slapped my back and said, “Well, son,
you’ve done what I wished I had done
before I did each of those things
that doing what one ‘should’ do brings.”
He slapped a check into my hand
and promised college, job or land.
I would be sent to school or hired—
whatever now I most desired.
I told my dad I’d let him know
but for just now I had to go.
I hit the bank and cashed his check,
bought new clothes and washed my neck.
Grabbed my passport, kissed my mom,
let her feed me, dropped the bomb.
Hugged my dad, then counted coup
and hopped a plane for Katmandu.
I hadn’t traveled my last mile,
but from now on, I’d go in style!
The prompt words today are drift, humdrum, abscond and wager.
Tongue in Cheek
Tongue in Cheek
If you cannot still your tongue and it tends to flutter,
my remedy’s a sandwich of bread and peanut butter.
It is the perfect cure-all. If your problem is your stuttering,
it quickly turns your dialogue into a slower muttering.
And if your daily habit is reorganizing clutter,
a palate full of pb gives a different way to putter.
Although you may be jealous that I have a sure solution
for stuttering and puttering, please grant me absolution.
Don’t hold my thoughts against me as I offer resolution
to problems such as famine, global warming and pollution,
then give my sure-fire remedy for war and revolution.
I simply cannot help that I’m ahead in evolution!
I tend to wax nostalgic when I think of all the times
I’ve solved our planet’s problems within my daily rhymes,
for as I view predicaments in all the different climes—
political maneuverings and other selfish crimes—
all the foolish misdeeds best abandoned in our primes—
I feel I owe it to the world to dish out paradigms!!!
If my constant words of wisdom set your stomachs churning,
cause regret to fill your minds and set your eyes to burning,
if you reject solutions, thereby all my wisdom spurning,
considering “unfollowing” and never once returning,
please reconsider doing so. Try being more discerning.
And let me be your guru—your font of further learning!!!
The prompts today are putter, jealous, nostalgic and return. Here are links:
https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2019/05/26/rdp-sunday-putter/
https://fivedotoh.com/2019/05/26/fowc-with-fandango-jealous/
https://onedailyprompt.wordpress.com/2019/05/26/your-daily-word-prompt-nostalgic-may-26-2019/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2019/05/26/return/
Naked Towel Dance. Hilarious.
Music is great and dancing precise.(Nothing to offend anyone)
TrackRbravo Lament
TrackRbravo Lament
There was a little gadget I bought two years ago
but when it came to using it, I was a little slow.
Since instructions were too difficult, I maintained the status quo
and continued, when I lost my keys, to seek them high and low,
looking in the old way by fumbling through my purse,
perusing tabletops and hooks and wastebaskets and worse.
Every time I lost my keys, I’d fuss and swear and wheeze,
searching drawers and closets on my tiptoes or my knees.
But recently I found the box where I’d stowed the appliance
and decided that I’d make another try at an alliance.
I tested its small battery and found plenty of juice
to assure its assistance in my tracker’s use.
After struggling to get the battery inside
the little TrackRbravo disk where it would reside,
I fetched the brief instructions which accomplished not a thing.
I could not pair it to my phone, and it refused to ring.
I made a trip to YouTube which helped a small bit more.
When I pushed the button, I heard a small faint roar.
And after just an hour, I’d linked it to my phone.
No more would my keychain roam this earth alone.
At first I searched and searched and searched, and I searched in vain
for the spot upon my phone where I could complain
when I could not find the place where my keys had hidden
so I could find them in the spot to which I had been bidden.
When I finally found the spot—a paltry little dot,
where I had never thought to look, although I looked a lot—
I pushed the button and I heard for the initial time
my keychain’s piping little voice––it’s initiation chime.
As hard as this procedure was, I knew it could be worse,
and I felt a sense of power tossing keys into my purse
full of reassurance that I’d not be late
due to searching for my keys before my luncheon date.
But hours before I had to go, I heard a little buzz
making more disturbance than a mosquito does.
I tracked it to my table, then tracked it to my bag.
insistently, it whined at me––an annoying little nag.
I went back to my phone and found the place to quell its stammer,
then settled down to work again, relieved of all its clamor.
But then, alas, five minutes more, and it went off again.
It seems that it can’t wait for my request to start its din.
And so now, five hours later, I’ve been out and came back home.
I’m sitting at computer, composing this dumb poem.
I feasted with three favorite friends and I enjoyed it so,
but, alas, my TrackRbravo didn’t get to go.
I removed it from my car keys and stashed it far away
thinking that a quiet place its panic would allay.
But hear that little buzzing sound coming from my closet?
No matter what I try to do, I cannot seem to pause it.
And though I know what’s causing it, I cannot make it freeze.
It just goes off at random, whenever it may please.
Perhaps it’s looking for my keys and does not have a clue
and instead of just one problem, I find that I have two!
The prompt words today are closet, paltry, fetching and feast. Here are the links:
https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2019/03/24/rdp-sunday-closet/
https://fivedotoh.com/2019/03/24/fowc-with-fandango-paltry/
https://onedailyprompt.wordpress.com/2019/03/24/your-daily-word-prompt-fetching-march-24-2019/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2019/03/24/feast/
Southern Expressions That Will Crack You Up!
Okay, this goes so well with my earlier post of Southern Discomfort that I have to reblog it. Thanks, Joyfultobeeblogs for bringing it to my attention.
I saw this video today and have to share it. Not all Southern women are the same but these ladies are saying a lot of the expressions I have heard from Louisiana to North Carolina. We don’t all talk like these women but most of us have used some of their expressions in our life. This and other videos of the same name were first shown on the Southern Women Channel. I just wanted to share them with you.
You will laugh!
