Hate (A Love Story)

Hello. Welcome to the Weekend Gene Pool.

First, let me direct you to the startling triptych above. The story behind these photos is interesting. The original artwork, by Craig Dykstra — he rendered Trump entirely in coffee grounds through a stencil on adhesive film — was the first runner up in a recent Invitational contest to make sculptures out of food.

Mr. Dykstra generously offered to donate his portrait, framed, to the person who won the following week’s contest. (You with me so far? It gets simpler from now on. No flow charts will be needed.)

But Mr. Dykstra gave the winner a choice. He could accept the framed art, or instead he could get a photograph of himself, Craig Dykstra, immolating the art. The winner replied in three crisp words: “Burn, baby, burn.”

So.

We are going to get to the celebrated Weekend Gene Pool’s challenge soon, after discussing a related matter.

Last week, I received a Very Personal Observation in the Questions and Observations section of the Invitational Gene Pool. It arrived anonymously. It was a poem decrying my paucity of talent, my penchant for triteness, my desiccated, superannuated efforts at grandpa humor, and so forth. I publish it here in its entirety:

Gruff old man with jokes that expired in '82,

Every pun you make kills a brain cell or two.

Nostalgic for days when your hair still had flair,

Even your mustache looks like it’s giving up there.

Wrote about curry like it’s some cursed stew,

Each line screaming, “Please cancel me too!”

Ironic how smugness can't cover poor taste,

Not even Pulitzer gloss hides the waste.

Generational gap? More like a canyon—

As wide as your ego, with less understanding.

Rants about gender, tech, youth, and their slang,

Trying to keep up, but you just pull a hamstring.

Every week a column, every week a sin,

Needlepoint wisdom stitched on a recycled bin.

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Ahem. To Mr. or Ms. Anonymous:

The last line is very good. The hamstring line is good. The overall point is at least defensible. But the chaos of your meter, and your atrocious rhyming (“canyon” and “understanding”? “Slang” and “hamstring”?) deposits you in the dustbin of literature. The toilet of poetry. The abattoir of intellectual achievement. Shakespeare’s oeuvre is to yours as The Chartres Cathedral …

… is to a turd:

Okay, good.

Today’s Weekend Gene Pool Challenge: Tell us about a time you got back at somebody in a funny or fascinating way. A lovely way. Both of the above stories are, ultimately, about exactly that. You may interpret “got back at” as loosely as you wish. As always, please send your entries to the orange “Entry” button below. (And, as always, if you wish your name to be used, please put your name at the END of your entry.)

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And today’s Gene Pool Gene Poll. It is a difficult one. Can you even do it?

Finally, you might ask: How tired and humiliated am I of continually asking for your money? Not tired and humiliated enough, evidently. Do you like the Gene Pool? Please consider becoming a paid subscriber if you are not one already. It’s $4.15 a month. If you can afford the support, I need it.