Politickles

Feel free to publish, post, or pass on Your Weekly Politickle by F.R. Duplantier:

HOLLOW WEENIE
“I may act like Elmer Fudd
And appear to be a dud,
But I’m truly spectacular,
The awesome Count Barackula,
And I want to suck your blood.”

From the archive:

HOUSE OF HORRORS
By the demons we all have been taunted
As unnatural powers were flaunted,
But the townsfolk will rout
And then drive the fiends out
Of the House on the Hill that is haunted.
(2009)

GETTING WHAT WE ASK FOR
Halloween we all shout “Trick or Treat!”
As we hit every house on the street.
The next morning we wake
With a bad stomach ache,
‘Cause we had too much candy to eat.
(2009)

NANCYLVANIA
With the change in the House status quo, see
The new Madame Speaker Pelosi
Enduring the glare
With the crazed, glassy stare
Of a transgendered Bela Lugosi.
(2007)

NIGHT OF THE VOTING DEAD
“We’ll be summoned from slumberous state
To endorse the quadrennial slate;
Then it’s back to the grave,
Where we’ll try to behave
‘Til the conclave of 2008!”
(2004)

REGISTERED VOTERS
The polls open and who comes in?
Mary Poppins and Mickey Finn,
Then Betty Boop
And Alley Oop,
Sherlock Holmes and Gunga Din!
(2004)

THE GREAT BUMPKIN
Linus scans the nightscape scary
For a form imaginary:
There, looming tall
Like an orange ball,
Glows a pumpkin-colored Kerry!
(2004)

HILLAREEN
What compares to the horrible fright
That will haunt us on Halloween night?
Consider the fear,
As elections draw near,
Ghoulish candidates soon will excite!
(2003)

RECOUNT DRACULA
There once was a man named Vlad
Who was known for a habit he had:
With such pride in his nailing,
When he took to impaling
No one ever would challenge his chad.
(2000)

WHAT IS IT, E-GORE?
The mad doctor was testing a drug
When he felt on his labcoat a tug:
“Master, oh Master,
We’ve got to work faster
To destroy the Millennium Bug!”
(1999)

ZOMBIES
From justice they craftily fled
And avoided the sanctions they dread;
Now O.J. and Bill
Can linger at will
In the night of the fast-living dead.
(1999)

Last week’s limerick:

NEIN NEIN NEIN
All that’s needed are several swift whacks
From a strict constitutional axe:
To destroy the machine
Built in 1913,
Reestablish the indirect tax.

Mass times and readings

31A Hunt St., Brockton

This is our first house, in Brockton, Massachusetts. We lived there 1986-89. There were two families of Cape Verdeans next door who always invited us to their parties and shared their wonderful food with us. My favorite was something they called pastel, a scrumptious fried fish pie that contributed mightily to the destruction of my theretofore trim physique! One Halloween, we cut a jack-o-lantern face in an old window shade and hung it in our upstairs bedroom. We had a long driveway, but you could see it all the way from the street, and all the kids in the neighborhood loved it.

The pink awareness campaign is packaged, quite profitably, as an expression of genuine concern about women’s health. So surely it is reasonable to expect that such concern be matched by an accurate presentation of all the known risk factors, and by an insistence upon the very best corresponding prevention recommendations, right? After all, early detection measures such as screening are not nearly the same thing as solid prevention. Indefensibly, however, most awareness efforts fail to feature some factors known to reduce breast cancer risk: having children, avoiding induced abortions, and refraining from oral contraceptives. – Crisis Magazine

Race for the Cancer

Feel free to publish, post, or pass on Your Weekly Politickle by F.R. Duplantier:

NEIN NEIN NEIN
All that’s needed are several swift whacks
From a strict constitutional axe:
To destroy the machine
Built in 1913,
Reestablish the indirect tax.

From the archive:

PLEDGE
“I’ll oppose social revolution
And income redistribution,
I will take an ax
To the federal tax
And adhere to our Constitution.”
(2010)

YOURS, MINE & THE/IRS
Our bureaucracies do us disservice
When they try to coerce and unnerve us;
We must bring to an end
What no one can defend:
The Internal Revenue Service.
(2006)

TAXING OUR PATIENCE
The flat tax is best, some contend,
But the sales tax has much to commend.
Taxing income or sales
These are minor details
‘Til we limit what Congress can spend!
(1998)

Last week’s limerick:

IN USE
At Zuccotti Park we tried,
But the line was long outside.
Can someone please show
Us a good place to go
That’s not currently occupied?

Mass times and readings

Between 2000 and 2010, 160 thousand Christians were being killed each year because of their faith (OCSE figures). In 52 countries across the world (35 of which are Muslim countries), followers of Christ are treated as second rate citizens. In many cases, physically eliminating them is not considered an offence. The OCSE representative for the fight against discrimination put it like this: “A Christian is killed every five minutes because of their religious faith.” The massacre of Coptic Christians took place just a few days ago. Dominique Mamberti, the Holy See’s “foreign affairs minister” took stock of the situation, saying: “Jesus’ followers are the most persecuted religious group on Earth.” – La Stampa

Complex Persecution

It all began innocently enough. In an unexpected gesture of solidarity, some buddies of mine offered to treat me to a night of epic debauchery: enough whiskey to court self-destruction and the tender ministrations of a rather fast young woman they’d brought along who took such a fancy to me that I almost doubted the magnetic effects of my looks and personality as the sole motivational force. It was quite an evening, I’m told, and one I ought to remember; still, at daybreak, I was ready to call it a night. It was at this point, however, that things began to take a strange turn.

As it happened, my girlfriend of many years had not been invited to the festivities just then concluding. To make up for that oversight, my buddies had arranged to throw a surprise party for her — that very morning, oddly enough. Odder still, it was to be a formal affair. Yes, it was short notice, but not to worry: all the arrangements had been made. Thus it was that I arrived, glad-ragged and reeling, hemmed in by six other tipsy toffs, at the site of my femme’s secret fete.

“Zissa place?” I asked.

Yes, they nodded.

“Look slyka church.”

They nodded again.

“She’ll never specta thing.”

More nods. And devilish grins.

I hadn’t realized that houses of worship could be hired out for parties, but the place was packed. The conspirators had done a marvelous job of passing the word around: everyone who knew us was there, including several out-of-town relatives and even the priest from her old parish. If only they had been rehearsed properly; then, when the big moment came, they might not have missed their cue. Alas, when my girlfriend did appear, I was the only one who remembered to shout: “Surprise!”

To be fair, the assembly was undoubtedly taken aback, as I was, by her extraordinary attire. Even for a formal affair, it seemed a bit much. Which is not to deny the loveliness of the garment, this long-sleeved, lace-bodiced, flaring-skirted, snow-white satin gown that showed off her fabulous figure to full advantage while at the same time covering her with an inexplicable aura of innocence. The getup perplexed me. I knew for a fact that she’d made her First Communion years ago. Surely she wasn’t resurrecting that outfit. It must have been a recent purchase, for this was the first time I’d seen her in it. Unfortunately, in her eagerness to show it off, she evidently had neglected to hem it properly, leaving the excess fabric trailing far behind. Thank goodness she was the last to arrive or no telling how many people would have trampled her. And the veil! Well, it was certainly pretty, but who wears veils anymore?

We’d definitely caught her off guard, I’m certain of that — even without the customary exclamation. I could tell from the look in her eyes as she came toward me down the aisle that she hadn’t expected to find me there. The rest is pretty much a jumble, though I do vaguely remember the priest offering me something. Would I take this, that, or the other thing? “Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever!” Anything offered to me free of charge I generally accept.

What a great party! Plenty of those little finger sandwiches I love so much. And, every time I turned around, somebody was thrusting another double Scotch into my hand. Did I protest? No, indeed! Some idiot wanted to take group pictures — that was a pain. Then we all had cake.

I woke up the next morning in some hotel room with a splitting headache. My girlfriend was there, too, in an unfamiliar, giddily triumphant mood. What had got into her! We were on some sort of vacation, apparently. She’d made all the arrangements. Nice place, too. Who’s paying for all this stuff? I wondered. And why is everyone speaking a foreign language? Still, it was fun, lots of fun. Everybody was especially nice to us. We had a great time.

I was anxious to get home, though, and back into my old routine. We hailed a taxi at the airport and, when we reached my place, I invited her in, for a nightcap. She must have twisted her ankle getting out of the cab, for she insisted that I carry her in. I certainly didn’t object to her staying over that night, what with the bad ankle and all, but weeks went by and she was still there. She seemed to have no intention of leaving. Worse still, she developed an annoying habit of rearranging the furniture, most of which she’d imported from her own apartment. In response to my inquiry, she replied, “But that’s what married women do.”

Imagine my shock. I’d had no idea she’d gotten married. She’d been hanging around my place for two weeks or more now, and any minute her enraged husband was liable to come bursting through my front door, shotgun blazing! That was 25 years and six children ago, and she still hasn’t gone home. I just hope her husband doesn’t mind.

. . . and a million years ago!

OCTOBER 18, 1986
I had covered quite a span
As a 30-year-old man,
But I have to say
My wedding day
Was when my life began.

I was thirty years old when I finally tied the knot. There was hardly any unexplored territory left for me at that point: I could either turn queer or get married. That was about it. Those were my only options. Having always liked a challenge, I settled on the latter.

It wasn’t an easy decision, though. Sure, I’d always hoped to get married some day, but marriage is a big step for anybody, and the model I knew best — the one my parents had presented — was not inspiring. I dreaded winding up with a union like theirs, but feared I was doomed to replicate it. Maybe I wasn’t meant to get married, after all. And bachelorhood wasn’t so bad, at times.

Then, there was that other question, the one every person, male or female, has to ask himself: Have I found the right person? What if I marry this person that I think is the right person and then, having made that commitment, find out that the person I thought was the right person is not the right person? What if I meet the person who really is the right person after I’ve married the wrong person — years later, months later, minutes later (at the reception following my wedding)? Bummer, man! That would be exasperating! And to think, if I’d only waited another hour!

Even more tragic: What if she is the right person, and I propose and she says no? Why ruin a perfectly good noncommittal relationship?

The girl I was dating in 1983 had said to me: “You and Evann would make a nice couple.” What a bizarre thing for a girlfriend to say! The thought had never crossed my mind, as such thoughts often did. Shortly after New Year’s we were dating.

Then, in 1986, I moved to Boston for a job. Evann and I were separated. She came up from New Orleans to find a job of her own, found one, and prepared to join me. Uh oh! Now what?

It was like the moment of truth, or something.

But I couldn’t make up my mind, because of all those qualms, reservations, and misgivings mentioned above.

Then I saw the “Magic Picture.” One of my sisters, who also lived in Boston at the time, invited me over to see the pictures she had just gotten back from her wedding reception — and there, in one of them, was Evann. Standing off to the side, away from everybody else, because she wasn’t really part of the family.

There was something about that picture. It made me think. And this was the thought: If I let this one get away, I’m a bigger ass than anyone ever imagined.

But was she the right one? I stayed up half the night deliberating, trying to look at it logically. Talked on the phone for an hour with another sister. It was dreadful.

Unable to sleep, I woke up early the next morning, six or seven o’clock — resolved, more or less, to make the fateful phone call. Evann answered groggily and listened patiently as I hemmed and hawed and beat around the bush. Finally, she got my drift: “Are you asking me to marry you?”

“Well, yeah,” I responded, and she accepted.

It hadn’t been that hard, really. And it felt good afterwards, at first. Then I started having second thoughts. Oh, my God, what have I done? It had been early, though. She’d been half asleep. Maybe she wouldn’t remember.

I called back. “Did I call you a little while ago?” I asked, tentatively. “You know damn well you did,” she responded, “and I’ve already told everyone.”

Well, that was that. But I soon realized, and reaffirm with each passing year, that it was the best “decision” I ever made.

Feel free to publish, post, or pass on Your Weekly Politickle by F.R. Duplantier:

IN USE
At Zuccotti Park we tried,
But the line was long outside.
Can someone please show
Us a good place to go
That’s not currently occupied?

From the archive:

USEFUL IDIOTS
There were businessmen, kids, and their mommies
Joining ministers, imams, and swamis –
There were people galore
Shouting no to the war,
Giving aid to Saddam and the commies.
(2003)

DAY-O VOLENTE
On occasion he loses his way-O;
Belafonte then causes dismay-O.
But he never goes wrong
With “Banana Boat Song.”
Why not stick to the singing of “Day-O”?
(2002)

Last week’s limerick:

SOLARCENY
Barry’s Bandits have found a new way
To get rich without working a day:
They’ve no need for a gun,
‘Cause they just use the sun
To get ‘loans’ that they’ll never repay.