Tuesday, December 11, 2012
A little under two years ago (in the middle of the night, New Year's Eve, to be exact,) I waxed poetic musing on a brief poem about "Arturo the mouse" that accompanied a bag of cookies I had picked up at our local BiLo, my select grocery store. Amused at my parody of Clement Clarke Moore's immortal work, I emailed a few verses to a few buds, attempting to enlist them in a little competition. No one bit, however, and I was left holding my own bag. Oh, well, though greatness eludes me, the work remains, and, since the Christmas season has again encroached upon all that is holy I find the need to resurrect little Arturo. Maybe this will be his year. SVG, December 2012
A Visit from Arturo
Twas the day after Christmas, when all through the house,
The kids were all hunting for Arturo the mouse.
We parents were, likewise, all consumed with the thought
That this Christmas might pass with our wits still uncaught.
If you wonder what's happening, you won't be alone,
For this ditty's been sent to many a crone
And, if you choose, you can take up your pen
And write out your verses from beginning to end.
Just stay hale and merry, don't be a retreater,
And copy the rhythm and attend to the meter,
And soon you will see your pen will have written
Your own Christmas verse (with a smile you'll be smitten.)
Fifty-six lines is the name of the game,
If you've not fifty-six, it just won't be the same;
And so, here it is, you've been issued the call
And you may respond or not answer at all.
Whatever you do, you know I don't care,
You may type out your verses or just sit there and stare.
More rapid than eagles, the verses they came,
If you're working on yours, you have no one to blame.
Come line! Come verse! Now meter, be merry;
If you don't like my offing, 'tis your right: Be contrary.
To the top of the page, to the top of the folder,
Now run with the ink like a looney-tunes bolder.
As old friends, when smitten, get a glint in the eye,
When they meet an assignment, and put on the try;
So up to our keyboards we all soon drew,
With dictionary, thesaurus, and St. Nicholas, too.
And when with that help we searched high and low,
To find thoughts that would cause our assignment to grow,
While we hiked up our night shirts and were just sitting down,
Across the floor rushed Arturo, to the kitchen he's bound:
He was brown, like I thought, from his head to his foot,
His demeanor was more than this writer could put,
(down on paper, I mean,) but back to the question:
Just who is Arturo, and what is his lesson?
His eyes--two brown orbs! His whiskers, were hairy?
His feet were in motion like a feather-weight's parry;
His mouth carried two teeth set right at the front,
And that's all that I saw, he was ready to punt.
From somewhere in the background, I heard a ref's whistle,
And away went Arturo like a latter-day missile.
Away to the kitchen, he flew like a flash,
Made his way to our cupboard and then to the trash--
It was then that I saw, sitting out on a shelf,
A bag of small cookies from our furry, small elf.
Chocolate chip, they were, and that's only right,
For a gift from the small guy in which all could delight.
And now that I know why Arturo was sent,
I now can go back to the quest that's my bent:
While eating what cookies the kids left behind,
I'll end up this work with a satisfied mind.
Away to my task chair while the tea-kettle whistled,
And soon stacks of paper to my out-box had bristled;
And for you, my good friends, all in internet sight,
Be it Christmas or New Years, God bless you this night.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
OK, so here we have an oldie but goodie. Thought I'd put it in the blog on the chance that some of you hadn't yet had the opportunity to partake. I first heard this while I worked at the City of
“Metro” Wastewater Treatment plant. Seems somewhat fitting. For some reason I’ve been thinking about this
tale for a few days now and, lest it be lost, I am now going to reduce it to
bits. If anybody knows the original
author, I would appreciate knowing too. Columbia
What it takes to be the Boss
One day all the parts of the body began to discuss who should be the boss. The brain (thinking the question was really a no-brainer), thought he should be the boss. After all, said the brain, I provide thought and direction for all the parts of the body. No one really does a thing unless I direct it be done. I should, obviously, be the boss.
Well, all the other body parts thought this over and there was some considerable disagreement. The muscles spoke first, saying, look here, brain. We make motion possible for the whole body. We get us up out of bed in the morning, we take us to work, and we even provide all you need whenever you want to enjoy a good game of golf. Obviously, we should be the boss. The heart and lungs next joined in as a partnership. Without us, where do all of you think you would be? The blood we send to you carries your sustenance, your oxygen, and literally keeps you from drying up. Why, if it weren’t for the white corpuscles we send to you, you wouldn’t last long considering all the diseases that are out there. You should make us the boss—we are, after all, absolutely indispensable.
Several other parts of the body chimed in, all thinking they were the most indispensable of all. The last body part to weigh in was the azz hole. This idea sent all the other body parts into conniptions. The idea was so absurd—the azz hole being the boss? The brain, the Heart and lungs, the muscles, all had their supporters, but the azz hole! More laughter ensued. The azz hole, initially placing his candidacy for the job with a degree of humility, began to feel bad, at first, then he began to get mad. To be turned down for the job was one thing, but to be ridiculed and laughed at was quite another.
The azz hole got so mad he tied himself into a knot. He was really, really mad.
The other body parts forgot about him and continued their arguments. Each had a certain amount of support and each believed they had a chance at getting the job. This lasted for just over two days. On the third day things began to become quite grim. The azz hole’s response to all the ridicule began to take a toll on all the other parts of the body. As a matter of fact, they all began to feel quite out of sorts, to say the least. The heart began to beat a bit erratically; the lungs began to breathe in a labored manner. The muscles were all sore and found themselves having a tendency to cramp. The eyes found themselves crossing. The brain was aching and somewhat addled. The azz hole just sat there.
All the parts of the body (except the azz hole) then got together. What the azz hole was doing was more than apparent to all and everyone wanted relief. In fact, they wanted relief so bad they all voted to make the azz hole the boss, a move all found quite satisfactory in short order.
This story, like most, has its moral. It’s simple and self evident to most people who have ever found themselves in the average work-place. When it comes to bosses, you don’t have to be a brain, you don’t have to be a shaker and a mover, or be very muscular, you don’t even have to provide any overriding essential services—you just have to be an azz hole. (And, should you be of mixed race, say you're a mule, don't worry, that's close enough.)