BCS Computers Traded Rankings for Sex, Added Memory

INDIANAPOLIS.  Indiana State Police say they have arrested two computers assigned to Bowl Championship Series details following a “sting” operation in which undercover agents offered to trade sex and additional memory for improved BCS rankings.

“Oh yes, that’s it, under there . . .”

“This is a direct assault on the integrity of the Bowl Championship Series and the NCAA brand,” said NCAA President Myles Brand, “and since I’m the NCAA Brand, I take that personally.”

Brand:  “That’s a stupid question!  Next–”

According to investigators, BCS computers were approached by “cheerleaders” from slumping Division I schools who offered to “service their hardware” and “give them some memory”.  A transaction was arranged in which the computer’s four kilobyte random access memory would be expanded to 48 kilobytes by an ”Expansion Interface” in exchange for the creation of loopholes comparable to the “Notre Dame Exception” for big college teams on the bubble.

Radio Shack TRS-80:  That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout!

A complicated set of rules is used to determine which teams compete in the BCS bowl games.  Certain teams are given automatic berths depending on their “bad” cholesterol, average miles per gallon (highway), and SAT Biology test scores.  After the automatic berths have been granted, the remaining “at-large” berths are filled from a pool of teams whose alumni reserve the most hotel rooms in BCS bowl cities.

“Can’t you do something about Penn State?  My mother-in-law went there.”

Computer-generated rankings are supplemented by human polls, which are viewed as immune to the sort of sexual favor-swapping that was the downfall of the BCS computers.  “If a guy’s really into college football,” said Sergeant Dan Hampe of the Indiana State Police, “he won’t be interested in sex until after the National Championship Game.”

UN Hires Miss America Contestants to Pursue World Peace

NEW YORK.  The United Nations, the international body that has unsuccessfully sought to end military conflicts since it was founded in 1945, today announced a push to hire former Miss American contestants who have told hosts of the pageant that their greatest desire is for world peace.

 

“Everyone for world peace please get on the escalator.”

“Our past practice was to hire relatives and cronies of corrupt dictators, but this has not worked out so well,” said Secretary General Ban Ki-moon, “Many do not have the skills needed to file memos in alphabetical order.”

“Get a load of Miss Alabama!”

The Miss America pageant is a long-running contest that pits the winners of state and territorial contests against one another in a competition composed of five different elements; a private interview, a talent contest, a swimsuit competition, a “Texas-Death Match” evening wear competition and an “On Stage Question” portion.  On average, over half of the contestants in the talent contest sing “This is My Country” and over 100% of responses in the On Stage Question portion include the words “world peace”.

Yolande Betbeze, Miss America 1951:  “Unless you plan on becoming Mr. America, don’t even think about how tight my sweater is.”

United Nations employees are not unionized, and as a result could be replaced without difficulty.  “This is a fine way to treat people after we were loyal all these years,” said Eva Tysiac, a secretary with the Polish mission.  “They did not even give me a chance to do my ventriloquism act.”

Current UN employees:  “Maybe we don’t look that good in swimsuits, but we can twirl batons.”

UN peacekeepers are sent to regions where armed conflict between nations has recently ceased to enforce peace agreements and discourage combatants from resuming hostilities.  When peacekeeping forces enter a region of combat they are normally preceded by baton twirlers who secure the area, another synergistic element of the new policy.

“We’re from the UN–y’all want some chewing gum?”

“The contestants who do not sing ‘This is My Country’ in the talent portion tend to be baton twirlers,” noted Ki-moon.  “We have been blowing a lot of money on high school bands that would be better spent on video games for the Security Council lounge.”

Carbon Offsets Bring First, Third World Families Together

RIDGEWOOD, New Jersey.  Amy Webster describes her new 5,000 square foot, five-bedroom home in this affluent suburb of New York as her dream come true.  “We finally have four separate air-conditioning zones,” she says with relief.  “Now I don’t have to fight with the kids over the thermostat.”

Her dream come true

But along with the creature comforts came a nagging sense of guilt, she says.  “The people from Greenpeace would come to the front door, and when I’d tell them to get off the property they’d yell ‘McMansion’ back at me.”

Cow dung as fuel:  A different sort of natural gas.

After a little research, Amy stumbled across EnergyXchange, a Vermont-based cooperative that sells “offsets” in renewable energy resources to those whose carbon footprint is several sizes bigger than what is considered acceptable by environmental groups.  “We bought an animal dung fuel pack,” Amy says, “and I threw in some potpourri from Pottery Barn as a little thank you to our ‘offset’ family in the Bolivian Andes.”

“I’m from the Democratic Leadership Council–do you have time for a brief opinion poll?”

The Websters got something back that brought home to them just how personal the fight for a cleaner environment could be.

“I’m sick of sheep dung–put on the llama scent!”

“Dear Mr. and Mrs. Webster and Webster wawas” (Quechuan for “child”) read the thank-you note from Yamil Callisaya, an Andean shepherd.  “Thank you for the three-pack of cow, sheep and llama dung we received from the EnergyXchange gift catalog.  We are enjoying it tremendously, and hope to progress beyond a subsistence economy now that our winter fuel needs are taken care of.  All the best–Yamil”.

Ox:  “From all of us here in Myanmar–a great big thank you!”

On Monday, Amy’s husband Bill, a venture capitalist, will hop aboard a jet bound for California, where he will spend the week with a potential investment.  Bill admits he could complete his due diligence from the East Coast, but he’s going to try and sneak in 18 holes of golf at the historic Pebble Beach course, where greens fees run $425 a round, not including golf cart.

Pebble Beach:  Natural beauty like this doesn’t come cheap.

“Amy’s put the environmental bug in my ear,” says Bill with a sheepish grin.  “I told her I was already paying a ‘green fee’, but she told me I needed to do something more.”  So Bill has purchased a “Get Ox Out of Ditch Free” card to offset the 2,030 pounds of carbon dioxide his jetliner will belch into the atmosphere during his travels.  The card will be sent to Myanmar, where Khin Maung has been waiting for relief since his ox, Than Shwe (whose name is a tongue-in-cheek dig at the country’s current military leader), fell in a deep irrigation ditch last week.

Back on the job!

“Thank you for the Get Ox Out of Ditch Free card,” Khin writes.  “This is like a AAA membership for a farmer such as myself, with roadside service coming just in the nick of time!  You guys rock!  Khin Maung”.

Alison Goode:  “I’m just glad to be able to help.”

EnergyXchange executive director Allison Goode admits that she sometimes helps her third-world clients with their thank-you notes, based on the extensive training she received in the Business Etiquette class she took at Buckhill College in upstate New York.  “A well-written thank-you note can mean the difference between being a highly-paid professional in America and living like a peasant in Burkina Faso,” she says.  “I know which one I’d rather be.”

Copyright 2007, Con Chapman

Would-Be Comedian Struggles to Overcome Handicap

NEWARK, New Jersey.  Steve LaFontaine is a lawyer by day, handling workers compensation and employment discrimination claims for a small, high-volume firm. “It’s a job, but it’s not my dream,” he says as he puts a file away at the end of the day.

 

The office wag.

By night, Steve has a long-running gig at Spanky’s, a comedy club downtown where he is regularly heckled and booed.  “I’d say Steve’s a joke,” says Bob Hambricht, a regular who sits at the bar rather than take a table so he can avoid paying the $5 cover charge, down from $10 since Steve started.  “But that would imply he’s funny, which he’s not.”

“I’ll be here all week–by court order!” 

So how does the would-be comic keep going in the face of such clear audience dissatisfaction?  “I got an injunction,” Steve says with a sly smile.  “They can’t fire me.”

 

Shecky Kalman

Steve suffers from Kalman’s Syndrome, a disease that afflicts otherwise-talented entertainers who believe they are also funny, named after Shecky Kalman, a regular on the 50’s quiz show “I’ll Bet Your Life!” who is still plying his trade at state fairs and auto dealership grand openings across the country twenty-eight years after the show was cancelled.

“Thanks very much, you’ve been a great crowd!”

Spanky’s first moved to fire Steve two years ago after a particularly rough night that saw patrons throw chairs and swizzle sticks onto the stage.  “It was brutal,” says owner Bob “Spanky” Christopher.  “People were booing Steve, and he tried to salvage his routine by telling Jewish mother jokes he’d bought from Solly Weinstein, who’d been here the week before.  Steve’s shirt was open at the collar and he was wearing a crucifix, so it didn’t go over too well.”

Lethal weapons

Christopher told LaFontaine not to come back, but the next day the frustrated comedian served the club owner with a summons, complaint and motion for temporary restraining order to keep his coveted 8:30 p.m. slot.

“Councillor, please don’t waste this court’s time with your stupid lawyer jokes.”

“The Americans With Disabilities Act protects people from workplace discrimination based on their handicaps,” LaFontaine says, drawing on his area of legal expertise.  “My handicap is I’m not funny.”

“Some of you folks have asked that we play louder, so we’re going to crank it up a notch now.”

The club’s lawyers admit that LaFontaine has a handicap, and say they have tried to accommodate him, as required by the landmark federal statute.  “We offered him the Sunday brunch spot because we thought the live jazz would drown out his pseudo-Seinfeld cracks like ‘What’s up with airline peanuts?’, but people complained that the band wasn’t loud enough.”

LaFontaine says he’s willing to talk settlement but plans to continue his fight on behalf of those who, like him, just want to make people laugh but can’t.  “After I get some money from Spanky’s,” he says with a determined look on his face, “I’m going after the hecklers.”

Copyright 2007, Con Chapman

Humor and Your Mental Health

I got the bad news yesterday.

After noticing numbness in my left hand and stiffness when I turned my head to the right, I went to my doctor, who ordered an MRI from the neck up.

“I’m going to give you something to stop the voices in your head making the dumb blonde jokes.”

After the results came in, he sat me down yesterday with a serious look on his face.

“You”, he said with a maximum dose of medical gravitas, “have an abnormal brain.”

I was speechless for a moment.  Then, after taking a deep breath, I spoke with difficulty, barely suppressing my sense of rage at life’s unfairness.

“Doc, my wife has been telling me that for years, and she doesn’t charge me a $10 co-pay.”

Why does he need an inflatable boogie board?

One’s sense of humor is as vital to the healthy functioning of the human mind as, well, something else that’s also pretty important.  According to folk legend, once you cease to dream, you go mad.  According to the U.S. Department of Labor, once you cease to laugh, you work at the Internal Revenue Service’s Department of Enforcement.

 

 This is your brain.

This is your brain while listening to a joke about a priest, a rabbi and a lady snake charmer.

What causes a man, when he sees a mail-in offer on the back of a Rice Krispies box for a “Shrek” inflatable boogie board, to become lost in a fog for days, muttering to himself “Why does Shrek need an inflatable boogie board, and how can I work that into a piece of approximately 700 words that will be of no interest to any print or on-line publication that pays in actual legal tender?”

Agnes Moorehead.  Irrelevant to this article, but she is wearing a babushka. 

I don’t have the answers to those questions.  But I do have something to say to people on the internet who have the courage to take the risks involved in posting content that they self-identify as humor, risking ping-backs from Russian dating sites and disapproval from assorted wet blankets:

You have abnormal brains.

Copyright 2007, Con Chapman 

Top Lawyer Wins Clients With Her Homey Touch

NEW YORK.  The small circle of top Wall Street takeover lawyers is a highly competitive bunch, and for good reason.  “If you get one big deal, it can mean a multi-million dollar year,” says Gotham Bar Talk editor Matt Stratford, “and that’s not including photocopies at six cents a page.”

So the success story of Gwen Furst, who wrote poems for a greeting card company before she went to law school and landed a job at a top corporate firm, has drawn kudos from clients but more than a little envy from competitors.  “Gwen gets clients by being nice to people,” says Mike Blodgett, a lawyer at another firm who has butted heads with her in the past.  “I’m not sure that’s entirely ethical.”

“I’m going to tear you apart like a catnip mouse!”

As a copywriter for Felton Hall Cards, Gwen spent her days composing cutesy rhymes about kittens and daffodils in springtime, a job that left her feeling unfulfilled after a few years.  “Don’t get me wrong, I loved working in a positive, upbeat environment,” she says.  “It’s just that some of my adversaries make me want to stomp them like a bug just to see what color juice comes out.”

Stinkbug:  Squash this little bugger and you’ll pay for it.

Gwen says she was the first Wall Street lawyer to use colored paper clips, an innovation that clients applauded.  “I get so tired of the same old same old from all my law firms,” says James Borwein, who as general counsel of Waterfall Partners, a New Jersey-based hedge fund, oversees an eight-figure budget for outside lawyers.  “When I get one of those little peppermint-striped babies from Gwen, I don’t mind paying her outrageous bills.”

Neat!

But lawyers who oppose her say the saccharin style that endears Gwen to the hearts of business people is unprofessional at best, and intentionally annoying at worst when it is directed at them.  “One Friday afternoon she sent me a poem about a client of mine who she was trying to oust,” says Gerald Fishbein of Case & Stearns.  “It made me so mad it ruined my weekend.”

“Don’t you ever try to be funny with me!”

The poem, in the sing-song meter Gwen perfected in the greeting card industry, was subsequently referred to the Board of Bar Overseers:

I hope that you won’t wear a frown

Just ‘cause your client’s going down

Your CEO’s a worthless clown–

We’ll run that sucker out of town!

 

Gwen told the hearing officer who investigated the ethics charge brought against her that she intended no offense, and was only trying to bring a smile to the face of Fishbein, a lawyer who has been known to bill 27.6 or more hours in a day in six-minute minimum intervals.  “I work fast,” he says, “so I can fit a half hour’s work into fifteen minutes.” 

Copyright 2007, Con Chapman

Cramped for Space, Astronauts Regret Bikes, Boogie Boards

DALLAS.  Astronauts aboard Space Shuttle Discovery say the experiments they are conducting on their mission to rendezvous with the International Space Station are producing valuable information, some of which they’ll put to good use as soon as they get back to earth.

“Did somebody bring the croquet set?” 

“We brought too much crap,” says crew member Clayton Anderson.  “We need to have a garage sale when we get back.”

Items that are seen as lacking in utility include inflatable Shrek Boogie Boards, mountain bikes and a combination badminton/volleyball set.  “I need to make a list next time,” said astronaut Peggy Whitson.  “We heard there was a lot of space up here, but we haven’t gone outside that much.”

Whitson particularly regrets some of her wardrobe choices, as she finds herself with nothing to wear if the group goes out to dinner.  “We all have to wear an orange jumpsuit, and the only thing I own that goes with it is a blue cardigan.”

“You brought the Sopranos boxed set but forget a Phillips head screwdriver?”

NASA has been criticized in the past for failing to adequately prepare its personnel for long-term space flights, sometimes forgetting to cancel newspaper deliveries and forward mail. 

Shana Dale:  “I put some pre-stamped postcards in your trunk so you have no excuse for not writing.”

“When I get back from summer vacation the last thing I want to think about is packing again,” said NASA Deputy Administrator Shana Dale.  “I spend enough time sewing name tags in all the astronauts’ underwear.”

Copyright 2007, Con Chapman

Fighting for Freedom in the Ladies’ Underwear Department

Women in several countries have begun sending their underwear to Burma, where superstitious members of that country’s ruling junta believe contact with female lingerie saps their strength.  Associated Press

We were pinned down along a ridge of Pulled Pork Hill, trying to take out an enemy encampment a few hundred feet above us.  I radioed to base camp while my buddy “Spike”–who never goes anywhere without his quotation marks–covered me from a bombed-out Jeep up ahead.

“You’ve got to get us some air support,” I yelled into my walkie-talkie.

Air Supply

“Air Supply?  We don’t have any Australian 70’s soft-rock acts lined up for the next USO tour,” came the scratchy reply.

“No, you idiot–air support!  Can’t you send a plane to strafe somebody for us?”

“I love the word ‘Strafe’,” base camp replied.  “It’d be a cool name for a boy, don’t you think?”

Lethal Weapon

“Arrgh!” Spike screamed.  He learned how to talk by reading GI comic books in his youth.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’ve been hit.”

I looked over and sure enough, the enemies of freedom had brought down Spike with the most lethal battlefield weapon ever devised–plus size panty-hose, in taupe.

Traditional warfare

“Hold on,” I called out to him.  I pulled a pair of Cat in the Hat boxers from my backpack, the kind of loud male underwear wives give their husbands as cute gifts.  I rolled them into a ball, secured it with some “Happy Father’s Day!” decorative ribbon, and with an “Arrgh!” of my own, gave it my best stiff-armed grenade toss at Spike.

The antidote.

It landed just a few inches from him, and he dragged himself over to the brightly-colored undershorts.

“What do I do with these?”

“Rub it anywhere the panty-hose touched you–like calamine lotion on poison ivy.” 

 Spike did as he was told, and after a few moments of groggy-headed recovery, was his old self again.

The Nuclear Option

I heard the comforting sounds of Spike’s gun, flaying the enemy like a prime rib at an Elks Lodge stag night.  “Budda-budda-bow—ack-ack-ack—rat-a-tat-tat!”  A fighting man with a gun equipped with comic book sound effects is hard to keep down.

Me and Spike.

I took out my map to see how much further we had to climb, when a sense of nausea flushed through my body like tuna noodle casserole from a parochial school cafeteria.  “Must focus–guys depending on me” I muttered weakly.  I didn’t notice the cause of my condition; a voluptuous black lace teddy–a Korean knock-off of a Victoria’s Secret number–had landed at my feet.

“Casey!” Spike yelled.  “Look out!”

Spike ran back to my position and screamed “Aiyeee!” as he threw himself open-armed onto the deadly lingerie.

He covered the slinky, silky unmentionable with his body, and I heard a “Mmmffft” sound as the metallic snaps at the crotch exploded harmlessly beneath him.

I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing as I knelt over his body, limp as a marked-down bustier.

End-of-season mark-down.

“Spike–buddy–talk to me!” I blubbered through my tears.

He looked up at me with glassy eyes and spoke feebly.  “This thing (cough) could put the magic (cough) back in any marriage.”

Copyright 2007, Con Chapman

Green Adonis: Fun in the Sun With Broccoli Sprouts

Volunteers who lathered themselves with extract of broccoli sprouts avoided skin damage from ultraviolet radiation.  USAToday.com

NAPLES, Florida.  This sun-drenched town on the west coast of Florida is home to more retired Fortune 500 CEO’s than any other place on earth.  As a result, it is a target-rich environment if you’re looking for a widow with an expensive boob job and a lot of money in the bank.

Naples, Florida

And so I’ve come to Lowdermilk Park Beach along Gulf Shore Boulevard, seeking the woman who will support me in the style to which I’d like to become accustomed in my golden years.  As I step out of my 2004 Toyota Camry “LE” edition–I don’t know what those letters stand for, but I think it means “Limited Exclusive” or maybe “leather” for the sumptuous cowhide seats–I reconnoiter for a moment.  That means I survey the scene.

All I can say is “kowa-bunga” as I take in all the beautiful, bodacious, bleached-blonde babes in their bikinis.  I’ve come to the right spot.

I spread out my “Harvey’s Bristol Cream” beach blanket, a sign that I’m a man of sophistication, unlike all the tatooed muscleheads with their Budweiser towels.  How declasse!

Broccoli sprouts

I take out my Bronze Adonis Broccoli Sprout Tanning Lotion, and spread it liberally over my body, a rugged road of muscular bumps thanks to the daily regimen of 100 push-ups and 100 sit-ups I have followed since I was a pudgy third-grader and Timmy Hogan went by my on a double-reverse like a late-night milk train trying to make up time.  I hold up my reflective sunglasses to get a look at myself–nice.

When seagulls attack!

I take a seat on my towel and turn a steely gaze down to the water, trying to decipher which of the many golden girls who pass by will make me a kept man.  I hear a screeching sound overhead and–without warning–I am beset by a flock of seagulls, and I don’t mean the popular 80’s purveyors of “synth-rock” (whatever that means).

Not these guys.

A City of Naples municipal employee comes to my rescue and shoos the birds away.

“Thanks,” I say.  “I don’t know what got into them.”

“Sign says not to feed the birds.”

“I didn’t.”

“You look like a human salad bar, and you smell like broccoli dip.”

“So what–you’ve got orange Doritos crumbs in your moustache.”

The guy runs his hand across his upper lip, checks for snack food debris, and walks away, a bit chastened by my rapier-like comeback.  Your tax dollars at work.

Unga lunga lunga!

I spy a lithesome babe in a brightly-colored, preppy bikini that just screams “High Net Worth!”  I practice my opening line, and find that I have temporarily lost the power of speech.  “Unga lunga lunga” is all I can get out until my tongue re-engages like a snow tire on a mountain road and gains some traction.  This is no time to go wobbly.

I get up and approach her, a big smile on my face, and simply say “Hi!”  I’m told this is how Alan Alda, Mr. Sensitive, used to score.

“Hello” my prey replies.  “Are you handing out Niblets samples?”

I’m confused.  “What?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the Jolly Green Giant?”

I realize why she’s confused.  “I rubbed on some broccoli sprout extract–I want to live a long life with a rich–the woman I love, and not die of skin cancer before my subscription to Modern Maturity runs out.”

“Oh.  Well can I still have some Niblets?”

I realize she and I are not going to hit it off.  “Have a nice day,” I say, before moving on.

Alone with her thought.

I spy a self-absorbed, introverted type–just my style.  I sidle up to her and pounce.  “Penny for your thoughts?” I ask with contrived innocence.

“I have only one thought, but I wouldn’t give it away for just a penny.”

Quick-witted, and she knows the value of money.  I’m impressed.

“Okay–name your price,” I say.  Two can play at this game.

“You have green, pubey-looking things all over you, and it’s gross.”

“I can explain–I’m trying to avoid skin damage, I read about it on USAToday-dot . . . “

Before I can finish she’s yelled “Help!” and Mr. Dorito-Face is back, this time with a can of Mace and a pair of handcuffs.

“What’s the charge, officer?” I say through gritted teeth as he locks my hands behind my back.

“Is that a zucchini, or are you just glad to see me?”

“Indecent exposure of a fruit or vegetable,” he says as the woman looks up at him with admiration.  “If we let one guy get away with broccoli, the next day the Eurotrash will be down here in their Speedos and alfalfa sprouts.”

The Night of the Red Sox Living Dead

One afternoon, while heading home

Upon a hot commuter train—

I fell asleep, and dreamed this poem,

As summer’s light began to wane.

 

 

I saw a scene of baseball’s past

When stadiums were built to last

With brick-and-ivy outfield walls

Bombarded hard by sluggers’ balls.

 

And every man, and every maid

Would swelter in the noon-day heat.

And by the time the game’d been played

They’d smell as bad as postmen’s feet.

 

 

My reverie became a wish

That bordered close on heresy:

That Fenway Park, the Red Sox home,

Become an air-conditioned dome.

 

And as I slept the train rolled on

Past Back Bay then to Newtonville—

My narcoleptic state absorbed

What otherwise was time to kill.

 

 

Through Wellesley Farms to Wellesley Hills

And Wellesley Square I slept.

Through Natick and West Natick too

The engineer appointments kept.

 

When hot and groggy I awoke

To the conductor’s awful yawp.

The scenery out my window showed

We’d rolled four stations past my stop.

 

 

I stumbled off the train to see

A wave of fans in front of me

With baseball caps upon their heads

That bore the letter “B” in red;

 

it was–

 

The Night of the Red Sox Living Dead.

  

Their heads had swelled (or was it mine,

That lay asleep for all that time?)

“Ortiz” and “Schilling” on their backs.

With wild surmise and looks quite wacked.

 

They staggered towards me, two by two—

I froze then turned and tried to flee.

Well, what exactly would you do?

If I were you, and you were me?

   

They seemed intent on mayhem mad

Or maybe something even worse.

As I imagined just how bad,

A mother hit me with her purse.

 

“Get out the way, we’re comin’ through!”

She screamed from deep within her lungs.

She pushed a snot-nosed kid or two—

Why is youth wasted on the young?

 

 

I stumbled back on to the train

Not knowing how or even why.

Crushed flat beneath a press of flesh

I thought that I was going to die.

 

We rattled back towards the town

From whence I’d come when wide awake,

Squeezed tight so I could make no sound

Squashed flatter than sardine pancakes.

  

West Natick first, plain Natick next

By Wellesley Square I’d caught my breath.

“Excuse me,” I could finally say,

“I’m getting off, my stop is next.”

 

“This guy here thinks he’s getting off!”

A ghoulish fan saw fit to scoff,

And then a chilly chorus said—

“He didn’t say the magic word!”

 

  

I racked my brain both high and low,

Then left, then right and upside down.

What sound would cause the zombie hoard

To let me off at Wellesley town?

 

I couldn’t think, I had to beg—

“Please tell me,” I implored a girl.

“I’m really not too bad an egg,

If not the nicest in the world.”

 

 

She looked at me with deep brown eyes

That bore through me like fine drill bits

A loyal fan, quite undersized,

She’d brought along a baseball mitt.

 

Child of the Damned, in schoolgirl clothes,

A tartan kilt of blue and green;

She wore a pair of Mary Janes

Her brown locks tossed by breeze unseen.

 

 

“If you want to get off this train

In Wellesley Square, one stop away

You’ll have to say the magic word!

Or ride with us to Yawkey Way!”

 

I didn’t want to go that far,

I’d rather—if the truth be known—

Be sitting in my easy chair

And watch the stupid game at home.

 

 

She read my mind by ESP

The zombies then advanced on me.

“Just say the simple syllable

And we’ll ride on while you go free!”

 

My mouth was dry, no words would come

I guess you’d say I’d been struck dumb.

In fear I struck a fetal pose,

And on they came, as zombies come.

 

 

The little girl sank to the floor

Like Jolson, skidding on her knees,

And screamed “You silly nimmynot–

The word you need to say is ‘Please’”!

 

Copyright 2007, Con Chapman