a rheumatologist of one’s own
I was reading The House of Mirth, Wind & Fire when I spontaneously combusted. At the same time, two hair-metal bands joined together — Ratt Poison — in the Palmolive Garden behind the Julius Caesar Salad Days Inn. Go read that article in which Virginia Woolf refused to have A Rheumatologist of One’s Own, because his name was Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde the Baloney.
bernie could still be joe’s pick for vice president
I want to rent a safe sex movie, but I can’t decide between Under Extreme Emotional Durex and The Silence of the Lambskins. On the way
out of the video store, I pass the Jheri Curling Team. Yep, they’re headed to
the ice rink, with the stones, the brooms, and the activator. Bernie could
still be Joe’s pick for Vice President, if only he’d change his preferred
pronoun, quickly!
and now a poem
Cardi B
Cardi BBQ
Cardi BBQ & A
Cardi BBQ & A E I O U
Cardi BBQ & A E I O U-Haul.
J Lo & B-hold!
deus ex big machina
“You-Rippa-Deez?” is an olfactory accusation, not the name of a classical Greek tragedian, and in any event, Euripedes didn’t write the bigotry drama Seven Against Hebes. I don’t like how Greek plays depend purely upon chance to resolve their funereal plots. For example, all of their characters are just trudging along, starving to death, when out of nowhere, they spot the golden arches of McDonalds. Deus Ex Big Machina is the name of that literary device.
Yes, I know how the Achaeans won the Pubic Wars, but we’re talking about how a smuggler brings heroin in a condom through a security checkpoint. Shouldn’t it be called Trojan Mule?
