No doubt you’ve heard of those one-of-a-kind words in English that just won’t rhyme with any other words. Well, it seems that the Futility Closet has punked three of those unrhymable words: month, orange, and oblige. Let’s have a look-see at Willard R. Espy’s poem on the subject:
It is unth- inkable to find A rhyme for month Except this special kind.
The four eng- ineers Wore orange Brassieres.
Love’s lost its glow? No need to lie; j- ust tell me “go!” And I’ll oblige.
In the meantime, I’ll go searching for those four engineers wearing orange brassieres.
After coming out against Year-in-Review news stories, I thought I’d contradict myself by highlighting the stupidest people of the past year. Think of it as Stupidity-in-Review, which is not quite the same thing.
NICKI MINAJ pops right up to the top of my list. During a global pandemic, she refuses to get vaccinated because of the (unnamed) cousin’s friend in Trinidad whose testicles became swollen and became impotent as a result. Well, that goes smack against the experience of my grand nephew’s proctologist’s accountant’s client who had no problems whatsoever—except for the painful anal probe when he was kidnapped by a UFO.
JANUARY 6 INSURRECTIONISTS run a close second. If most were tried for treason and executed, there would be a lot of rental units in the basement apartments of their mothers that would suddenly become available in Red States.
GWYNETH PALTROW. Speaking of Goops, there’s this actress who is actually trying to own the term without quite understanding what it means. With her belong many nabobs in the WELLNESS COMMUNITY who don’t understand that their belief systems do not deter potentially fatal viruses.
DONALD J. TRUMP who still thinks there are 70 million idiots just waiting to do his bidding. Hey, America knows how to forget losers.
QANON, yesterday’s favorite conspiracy source, has been outed thanks to an HBO documentary series, and is now running out of steam fast. (Reminds me, I need to go to the basement of the pizzeria to munch on some fresh babies.)
In the above picture, Moldovan women athletes are synchronously showing amazement at a random consonant, in this case the letter “T.” Below, however, are some actual events planned for the next summer Olympics:
Team Parcheesi. Expect the Chinese to win gold here.
Underwater Track Cycling. Canada and New Zealand are already gearing up for this event.
Low-Jump. Exactly what it sounds like: medalists must leave the ground, but only for a few millimeters. The world record is currently held by Burkina Faso at 11.68 mm.
Ballroom Balance Beam. Ballroom dancing with a man and a woman as partners atop a balance beam. Both are expected to stick the landing … but exactly where I am not at liberty to say.
Dog Walking. Contestants must walk a pack of at least ten dogs and are downgraded for the dogs’ disobedience, toilet, and sniffing stops.
Sand Kayaking. How fast can contestants be when they have to paddle on sand dunes of various heights?
Dumpster Diving. Exactly what it sounds like. The dumpsters are filled with plastic detritus from the Pacific Garbage Patch, from heights of 10, 20, and 30 meters.
Women’s Cubic Beach Volleyball. The same as beach volleyball, but the “ball” is an inflatable cube. What matters most, however, is the skimpiness of the bikinis worn.
Blind Man’s Buff. Played on a 10-acre obstacle course.
Weight Watchers Watch Party. Judges will look for the most vapid and overweight participants in home watch parties. The U.S. is expected to win the Lead Medal at this event during most Olympics.
I find it amusing that two billionaire CEOs have decided to put their lives on the line and fly their own ships into space. First, it was Jeff Bezos of Amazon; then, Richard Branson of the Virgin Group.
Another “billionaire” comes to mind as a good candidate for space travel—even though his orange hair and facial coloring suggests he might himself be a space alien. Just to be sure, we can put him on a ship to Jupiter. You could click here to find out what would happen to Donald J. Trump on the largest planet in our solar system.
Perhaps sending CEOs into outer space would be a good way of thinning the herd. I’m all for that!
In 1985, the Coca Cola Company came out with New Coke, which never really took off. To recover from their gaffe, they decided to keep the old formula as Coca Cola Classic. In the process, they discovered that taking over more shelf space with other products bearing the Coke logo was a win-win for the Corporation. So now today you can buy Coke with exclusive new chicken liver flavor, with crushed pretzels, with overtones of sulfuric acid, and with extra corn syrup.
At the same time, all the other old brands have similarly metastasized. Ritz Crackers. Doritos. Ocean Spray. Reese’s. Cheez-It. Cheetos. Triscuit. The list goes on and on. Note, however, that the brands involved in multiplying themselves are products with a long shelf life. You can’t achieve the same success with celery, parsley, Gravenstein apples, or dragon fruit.
When I had to buy some Ocean Spray cranberry juice a couple of weeks ago (it’s good if you have a urinary tract infection), I had a hard time find just plain original cranberry juice. Needless to say, I was not swayed by the new Clam*Berry flavor or the one with sauerkraut flavoring added.
I suppose the idea is to make smaller brands scared by the multiplicity of variations—though what happens when you run out of all the popular variants?
Even Trader Joe’s has gotten into the act, with a kind of dill pickle flavored popcorn. It really wasn’t very good.
At some point, a lot of these *NEW* flavors will be duds. Then maybe we won’t be presented with so many weird options.
Of course, Dante Alighieri was the first poet to give us the Grand Tour of Hell, but I am also influenced by a comic strip from my earlier years called “Hatlo’s Inferno,” by Jimmy Hatlo (1897-1963). In the same vein as Mr. Hatlo, I would like to mention a number of my pet peeves that deserve eternal punishment in the flames of Heck:
The guy who takes up a valuable parking space for what seems hours while he is finger f—ing his smart phone.
The freeway driver who has been warned by huge signs for miles to change lanes, and who does it at the last possible second with millimeters to spare.
The supermarket shopper who treats her shopping cart as an aisle blocker while she memorizes all the varieties of Campbell Soups.
The airport public address system which announces gate changes in demotic Urdu while passengers vainly attempt to unscramble what is being said.
The cyclists and e-scooter riders who insist on sharing the sidewalk with pedestrians.
The weather forecaster who’s always talking about a chance of rain, even if the probability is 0.0001%.
The guy who mumbles something about “freedom” while objecting to your wearing a face mask (naturally, they’ve never received their Covid-19 vaccinations).
The neighborhood kids who gleefully and maliciously play in your yard.
Hatlo’s Inferno: Hell for Funsies
Just let me catch my breath, and I’ll find a few dozen more things to complain about. At my age, I’m entitled.
Yes, it is possible to have fun in times of adversity. Today, I saw a YouTube video with Weird Al Yankovic (with the help of the Gregory Brothers) called, pleasantly enough, “We’re All Doomed!” I haven’t laughed so hard for weeks. Without further ado, here is a link to it:
“We’re All Doomed – Trump vs Biden”
On this Thanksgiving, I would have to say that one of the things for which I am most thankful is humor. For a while, I thought my country’s political situation was so dire that even the comedians were losing heart. But now, it seems there’s a ghost of a chance we might recover.
I would have to thank not only Weird Al, but also Trevor Noah, John Oliver, Bill Maher, and Stephen Colbert for helping to see me through these evil times—which are far from over.
So have a Happy Thanksgiving and don’t each too much turkey.
As I mentioned in an earlier post, I now consider myself a Libtard, unaffiliated with any existing political organizations. Earlier still, I dissociated myself from that circular firing squad that is the Democratic Party and—what is more—I no longer consider myself to be a member of the Caucasian Race. (A Hungarian-American, I see myself as being Finno-Ugric.)
Mighty oaks from tiny acorns grow, so I am hoping that the Libtard Party will become a factor on the American political scene. So although the National Libtard Alliance (NLA) currently has a membership of one, I see nothing but growth ahead.
Consider this to be the first White Paper of the NLA.
Let’s start with Hunter Biden, the Democratic nominee’s son. Right at the outset, I see several problems. Ukraine—that can’t be good. And again with the e-mails? Is this going to be a persistent problem for the Democrats? Trump doesn’t do e-mails. When he goes into covfefe mode, it’s usually when he Tweets. I don’t know: perhaps it would be better to put e-mail behind him. I mean, I do a lot of e-mails: Doesn’t that pretty much automatically disqualify me for higher office? (In Twitter, no one cares if you’re illiterate.)
E-Mails: Isn’t That What Sunk Hillary Clinton?
I’ve also heard that Joe Biden’s cousin Cunnegunda Milsop has run afoul of the law by dancing topless at a Wilmington titty bar. We cannot in good conscience support a man for president if is family does not radiate perfection all along the family tree.
Of course, that certainly disqualifies Trump, whose family verges on the non-human (particularly Don Jr).
Perhaps I should offer myself as a write-in candidate for November 3 as the nominee of the NLA. Drat, I’ve already voted; and I am afraid that whatever I urge, there is the embarrassing possibility that I would receive no votes.
Well, there’s always Kanye West. It would be interesting to have Kim Kardashian as first lady.
Kim Kardashian and Kanye West: Destined for Greatness?
My first love—really, a schoolboy crush—was with Laura Sowinski in the Third Grade at Saint Henry School in Cleveland. She was a pretty little girl with some artistic talent. For some reason, I thought she was Swiss, because Sowinski sort of sounded like “Swiss.” Hey, I was only eight years old. What did I know? Now I would think she was Polish, which was more likely for the neighborhood in which I had lived.
Of course, I had hoped that my feelings for her were reciprocated, though I don’t know how she knew what I felt for her, because I never communicated it.
The rupture—and yes, there was a rupture—came when I was sick at home for a few days. In the Catholic school system of Cleveland in those days, there were often days off with little advance notice. When I got better from my cold or whatever it was, I dutifully walked to school the next day. (In those days, we walked to and from school.) To my surprise, the school building was all locked up. I turned around and returned home.
My unexpected free day came to an end the next day, so I trudged to school the next day. Being the age I was, I told everyone I showed up to school on a free day. In a week or two, when the next dittoed edition of the St. Henry Golden Knights news sheet came out, the whole last page was a drawing by none other than Laura Sowinski of me walking up to the school when it was closed. The caption read “James Paris Going to School on a Free Day.”
I thereupon turned several shades of vermilion and thought of my great love as wrecked on the rocks. I don’t think I ever spoke to Laura again. Not that I had ever spoken to her before.