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 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=de1evo_NmvM&t=12s

UTENSIL JOY

MAD REJECT 1

Last year when MAD magazine was putting together it's "20 Dumbest" issue for 2017, one of the topics they were considering covering was Sean Spicer. This is the the rough proposal I sent them, which they rejected.

Spicer’s Island

Just sit right back

And you’ll hear a tale,

A tale of a fateful trip

That started on an escalator,

On the Avenue called Fifth.

The Mate was a lyin’ briefin’ man, 

The Skipper some big wheel,  

Five sycophants embarked that day   

On a four-year ordeal,

A four-year ordeal

The politics started getting rough,

The big White House was tossed

Because of the antics of the shameless crew

The Nation could be lost.

The Nation could be lost.

The Ship of State set aground

On this uncharted new reality

With Spicer and

The Donald too,

A millionaire and his wife      

A supermodel,

The Enforcer and Kellyanne,

Here on Spicer’s Isle!

(Ending verse)

So this is the tale of our nincompoops,

They’re here without a guide.

They try to make the worst of things,

It’s a downhill slide.

The First Mate and The Donald, too,

Will do their very best

To make the world uncomfortable

With a rambling Twitterfest.                 

No votes, no rights, no rule of law

Not a single liberty

Like Benito Mussolini,

It’s fascistic as can be.

So join us here each news cycle

You’re sure to become riled

By seven useless sacks of shit

Here on Spicer’s Isle!

LARRY TALBOT AS ART

TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE XMAS

The charming people from the village were just outside my log cabin singing Christmas carols, and as I handed out mugs of hot chocolate. little Jimmy Hoople asked if I would be posting my classic yule poem on my blog again this year. How could I refuse the lad after he sang his heart out in the freezing snow? So, here it is for the fourth year in a row, for anyone keeping score.

**********

Twas the night before Xmas, when all through my pad

Naught was rhyming with Xmas, and this made me mad;

The TV was tuned to the Home Shopping Place

In hopes that St. Nicholas would not show his face;

To celebrate Xmas all over the globe

I opened a brewski from Ye Old Latrobe;

At length I tuned in to the Playboy Channel

And put on my PJ's, the ones in red flannel;

I sat on the couch like a russet potato

"Anna Nicole Smith was sure one hot tomato!"

I poured a martini, to warm me within

Eschewing dumb eggnog in favor of gin;

Then just when my loins were beginning to stir

I heard in the sky an incredible whir;

I zipped up and ran to my highrise balcony

The place where I practice my hobby of falconry;

And what to my bloodshot eyes should appear

But a huge flying saucer with a silver veneer;

Eight tiny green creatures climbed down on a ladder

And I became so frightened I emptied my bladder;

"What is it you want, if I'm not being nosy?"

I asked as they circled me, ring-around-the-rosy;

"We'd like to examine your brain's frontal lobe

And also the classic, the old anal probe."

"But I am no leader, no Martin Van Buren;

I'm just some poor schmuck standing in his own urine!"

I could not dissuade them, or bribe them with money

I offered them beer; they just thought that was funny;

They made me lie down on the dining room table

And did things involving a fiber optic cable;

A half hour later they boarded their craft

Was it all just a dream? Was I crazy, or daft?

Then I heard them exclaim, ere they drove out of sight

"Happy Xmas to all, and to all a good night!"

TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE XMAS

Due to another groundswell of indifference, I'm posting this heartwarming poem for the third year in a row, still hoping that it will eventually grow into an enduring holiday classic, if only in the privacy of my delusional mind.

**********

Twas the night before Xmas, when all through my pad

Naught was rhyming with Xmas, and this made me mad;

The TV was tuned to the Home Shopping Place

In hopes that St. Nicholas would not show his face;

To celebrate Xmas all over the globe

I opened a brewski from Ye Old Latrobe;

At length I tuned in to the Playboy Channel

And put on my PJ's, the ones in red flannel;

I sat on the couch like a russet potato

"Anna Nicole Smith was sure one hot tomato!"

I poured a martini, to warm me within

Eschewing dumb eggnog in favor of gin;

Then just when my loins were beginning to stir

I heard in the sky an incredible whir;

I zipped up and ran to my highrise balcony

The place where I practice my hobby of falconry;

And what to my bloodshot eyes should appear

But a huge flying saucer with a silver veneer;

Eight tiny green creatures climbed down on a ladder

And I became so frightened I emptied my bladder;

"What is it you want, if I'm not being nosy?"

I asked as they circled me, ring-around-the-rosy;

"We'd like to examine your brain's frontal lobe

And also the classic, the old anal probe."

"But I am no leader, no Martin Van Buren;

I'm just some poor schmuck standing in his own urine!"

I could not dissuade them, or bribe them with money

I offered them beer; they just thought that was funny;

They made me lie down on the dining room table

And did things involving a fiber optic cable;

A half hour later they boarded their craft

Was it all just a dream? Was I crazy, or daft?

Then I heard them exclaim, ere they drove out of sight

"Happy Xmas to all, and to all a good night!"

HOSSY AT THE BAT

The outlook wasn't rosy for the Mudderville nine that day;

The score stood one to nothing, with one batter more to play.

The manager was desperate, as he fiddled with his ascot;

He was out of decent hitters, so he called upon his mascot.

The crowd could not believe their eyes, as the horse approached the plate;

Was this some wacky highlight reel Marv Albert might create?

But a plan that first seemed murky, became gradually quite clear;

And the strategy looked more brilliant, with every sip of beer.

Then from a thousand drunken fans there rose a lusty call;

It rumbled past the Burger King, it rattled through the mall.

"Knock it past the bleachers! Knock it past the rooves!"

For Hossy, mighty Hossy, held the bat between his hooves.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the ozone;

It whooshed right past the batter's box, like a Corvette through a tow-zone.

But Hossy just stood watching it, as still as drying paint;

"One strike for you!" the umpire said, and the crowd called out, "It ain't!"

The second pitch was just as fast, a spheroid out of Hell;

But Hossy was as static as the son of William Tell.

The ump, who was a Frenchman, yelled pretentiously, "Strike deux!"

Sarcastically, in unison, the crowd yelled, "Sacré bleu!"

"Disembowel the umpire!" yelled a nun behind the dugout;

Though Hossy couldn't disagree, he didn't want a slug-out.

Two thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hooves with dirt;

And they knew that this time Hossy's bat woud not remain inert.

The drool is gone from Hossy's lip, replaced by an Elvis curl;

He pounds his hooves upon the plate, and lets his tail unfurl.

And now the pitcher grips the ball, and now he let's it zing;

And now the smog is shattered by the force of Hossy's swing.

Oh, somewhere in the Universe, a gaseous orb burns bright;

A TV's showing Mr. Ed, and somewhere hearts are light;

And somewhere mares are laughing, and somewhere ponies shout;

But there is no joy in Mudderville - mighty Hossy has struck out.

TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE XMAS

Due to a groundswell of indifference, I'm rerunning this heartwarming poem from last year in the hope that it will eventually grow into an enduring holiday classic, if only in my mind.

**********

Twas the night before Xmas, when all through my pad

Naught was rhyming with Xmas, and this made me mad;

The TV was tuned to the Home Shopping Place

In hopes that St. Nicholas would not show his face;

To celebrate Xmas all over the globe

I opened a brewski from Ye Old Latrobe;

At length I tuned in to the Playboy Channel

And put on my PJ's, the ones in red flannel;

I sat on the couch like a russet potato

"Anna Nicole Smith was sure one hot tomato!"

I poured a martini, to warm me within

Eschewing dumb eggnog in favor of gin;

Then just when my loins were beginning to stir

I heard in the sky an incredible whir;

I zipped up and ran to my highrise balcony

The place where I practice my hobby of falconry;

And what to my bloodshot eyes should appear

But a huge flying saucer with a silver veneer;

Eight tiny green creatures climbed down on a ladder

And I became so frightened I emptied my bladder;

"What is it you want, if I'm not being nosy?"

I asked as they circled me, ring-around-the-rosy;

"We'd like to examine your brain's frontal lobe

And also the classic, the old anal probe."

"But I am no leader, no Martin Van Buren;

I'm just some poor schmuck standing in his own urine!"

I could not dissuade them, or bribe them with money

I offered them beer; they just thought that was funny;

They made me lie down on the dining room table

And did things involving a fiber optic cable;

A half hour later they boarded their craft

Was it all just a dream? Was I crazy, or daft?

Then I heard them exclaim, ere they drove out of sight

"Happy Xmas to all, and to all a good night!"

DUELING FOLKIES

I gave my love a kidney,

that had no stones...

I gave my love a highway,

without those orange cones...

I worked my love a mojo

with a hoodoo voodoo juju...

I gave my love a baby,

with no cacadoodie poopoo.

SON OF BLAG BLOG

If you can keep your hair when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can groom yourself when colleagues impeach you,

And hold your head high with a puffy hairdo;

If you can deny all charges of soliciting bribes,

And apply more mousse and ignore the bad vibes;

If you can laugh as others try to screw ya,

And tell them "A lttle dab'll do ya;"

If that squirrel on your head invites ridicule,

Yet you stand up tall because you know you look cool;

If you can show a brave face to corruption charges,

And throw back your shoulders as your hairdo enlarges;

If everyone hates you the rest of your life,

Except Ronald Burris, and maybe your wife;

If your hairspray deflects all the wrath of Chicago,

And you staunchly remain the unrepentant Blago;

If you can comb your locks when the pain is crippling,

And add some class by quoting Kipling;

If you can coiff amid charges of pay-to-play,

And use Grecian Formula to cover the gray;

If you can defend a bad haircut that others eschew,

And not hit the bottle - except for shampoo;

If you can style your tresses like a teenage boy,

You'll be the most popular inmate in Illinois!

TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE XMAS

Twas the night before Xmas, when all through my pad

Naught was rhyming with Xmas, and this made me mad;

The TV was tuned to the Home Shopping Place

In hopes that St. Nicholas would not show his face;

To celebrate Thursday all over the globe

I opened a brewski from Ye Old Latrobe;

At length I tuned in to the Playboy Channel

And put on my PJ's, the ones in red flannel;

I sat on the couch like a russet potato

"Anna Nicole Smith was sure one hot tomato!"

I poured a martini, to warm me within

Eschewing dumb eggnog in favor of gin;

Then just when my loins were beginning to stir

I heard in the sky an incredible whir;

I zipped up and ran to my highrise balcony

The place where I practice my hobby of falconry;

And what to my bloodshot eyes should appear

But a huge flying saucer with a silver veneer;

Eight tiny green creatures climbed down on a ladder

And I became so frightened I emptied my bladder;

"What is it you want, if I'm not being nosy?"

I asked as they circled me, ring-around-the-rosy;

"We'd like to examine your brain's frontal lobe

And also the classic, the old anal probe."

"But I am no leader, no Martin Van Buren;

I'm just some poor schmuck standing in his own urine!"

I could not dissuade them, or bribe them with money

I offered them beer; they just thought that was funny;

They made me lie down on the dining room table

And did things involving a fiber optic cable;

A half hour later they boarded their craft

Was it all just a dream? Was I crazy, or daft?

Then I heard them exclaim, ere they drove out of sight

"Happy Thursday to all, and to all a good night!"

MY RETURN TO HAIKU

     After my retirement from the world of business I decided to return to my roots, creatively speaking. My colleagues on Wall Street never would have guessed it, but in college I was an English major, and in fact, poetry was my stock in trade. Specifically, haiku.

     So I put my Armanis in mothballs, donned a pair of Levis and sat down at my computer to write about, what else, love and longing. It's what I used to write about in my youth, so I thought I'd pick up where I left off. As they would say on Wall Street, let's run this haiku up the flagpole and see who salutes it!

     First, I realized I couldn't remember if a haiku started with a line containing five syllables or seven. So I Googled it. Wikipedia confirmed that the structure was a line of five syllables, then seven, then five. Okay then!

     Second problem: Do you need to be in love to write about it? After four divorces, maybe I was too jaded to write about love and/or longing. 

     I decided to just let things flow and see what came out. I poured myself a glass of wine and stared at the screen. I couldn't think of a title. Then I remembered that haiku don't have titles. Lucky break! After several glasses of wine I loosened up enough to write my first haiku in many decades:

Thank you for the date

You are much younger than I

Read me the menu

     Wow. Not exactly like my old stuff. Maybe haiku is a young man's game, I thought. No, it's anybody's game, by God! 

     That was several hours ago, and I think I've finally found my voice (and a third bottle of wine). It's not the same voice I had when I was twenty. That callow voice is gone, but I like to think it has been replaced by a wise, mature voice, reflecting "where I'm at today, man."

     Enjoy.

My upper denture

So sad it is to lose you

In my Farina

Pardon me young man

Could you direct me to the

Metamucil aisle?

I told Doctor Katz

My frequent urination

Is a stone bringdown

I read your e-mail

Blurry, blurry words of love

Hit "Make text bigger"

Sigmoidoscopy

Just a hop, skip and jump to

colonoscopy

I count my age spots

But I forget the total

And soil my diaper

Whither has gone wood?

Blood pressure medication

Has kiiled erections

Love note in the mail?

Just a goddamn newsletter

From AARP 

What's so hip about

Hip replacement surgery

Eh, Doctor Douchebag?

Is this a bunyon?

I never knew it by name

Who knew I had one?

The answer my friend

Is a-blowin' in the wind

With my combover

I can't locate my

Invisible bifocals  

Oh, how ironic

I have the body

Of a twenty-five year-old

(In formaldehyde)

You leave my knees weak

And make me swoon at evening

Sweet sciatica!

May I have this dance?

That's not dancing, Mister, it's

Restless Legs Syndrome

Though shy, I show my

Gastroenterologist

My enlarged prostate

My naked body

What genius put a mirror

Facing the bathtub?

Jimmy, Tom and Sue

Are these my grandchildren's names?

Close enough for jazz

En route to Maine, my

Turn-signal has been on since

Key West, Florida

Am I dreaming or

Have I seen this episode

Of "Murder She Wrote"?