Feel free to publish, post, or pass on Your Weekly Politickle by F.R. Duplantier:
As evolving positions now gel,
He pronounces this travesty swell,
But you might change your view
About “gay marriage,” too,
If you’d married a mate like Michelle.
From the archive:
The biggest mistake of my life
Was plotting to murder my wife,
But a contract assassin
To see to her passin’
Seemed the only way out of my strife.
The killer was ugly and mean,
But would profit from venting his spleen.
Illegal or wrong,
He’d do it so long
As the money I paid him was green.
I showed him the lay of the house
And a photograph made of my spouse.
He collected his fee,
Then came after me
With a razor-sharp dagger — the louse!
I cried, “Put away that big knife
And spare me my miserable life.
The wounds you’re inflictin’
Are in the wrong victim:
I paid you to knock off my wife!”
“I know what you paid me to do,”
He said as he slashed out anew,
“And I fully intend
To do your wife in —
After honoring her contract on you!”
* * *
I survived that two-timer’s knife,
And so did my murderous wife.
We’re both doing well,
Though we’re sharing a cell:
We’ll be cellmates for 20 to Life!
TIME TO KILL
A man had a row with his mate
And decided to speed up her fate.
He thought that his wife
Might enjoy afterlife
And he knew that he couldn’t wait.
There were myriad ways he might bag her —
Bow and arrow, blunt object, or dagger,
Or poison or pills —
For there’s so much that kills
(The possibilities made him stagger).
There were hanging and gassing and worse —
The methods too great to rehearse —
And that’s just if he tried
To fake suicide,
For murders were much more diverse.
A compendium of deaths accidental
Holds drowning and falling essential,
Includes hit and run
And cleaning a gun,
And a long list of acts providential.
He thought he’d give toxins a try,
But the chemist had several to buy
And he couldn’t decide
Arsenic, strychnine, and lye.
He considered a venomous snake,
As well as a time-triggered cake:
A bomb (tick, tick, tick)
Would sure do the trick,
But what kind of a cake should he bake?
A pillow case stuffed in her face
Could be counted to leave not a trace,
But a bat and a brick
And a sharpened ice pick
Are weapons that all have their place.
And, if shotguns had been all the rage,
He would have bogged down on the gauge.
Thus, before he could choose
The best weapon to use,
His poor partner had died of old age.
A man stuffed his mate in a crate
And mailed her away second rate.
She came back the next day:
There was postage to pay —
For the mate had misstated her weight.
Last week’s limerick:
DREAMS FROM MY FEATHERBRAIN
“Like a Ninja, I crept ’til I’d gotten
To a spot I could get a good shot in,
Zeroed in on my game,
And then took a dead aim,
Singlehandedly killing bin Laden.”