The Invitational Week 28: Put It in Bee-verse

Write a funny poem using a spelling bee word. Plus compare/contrast winners.

How is a tiny Shriner motorcycle like Mike Pence’s presidential campaign? See today’s Invitational results below. (Big Dave Diode/Flickr)

Hello. Today the Gene Pool quenches your thirst for a new Invitational humor contest, Week 28, and delivers the results of Week 26. But first, as is our annoying tradition, we begin with an irrelevant Gene Pool Gene Poll. Here it comes.

You have learned that a new family is moving into the house next door. You have not met them but have been told things about them. Which of these things would make you the most concerned, at least initially? Answer A: They have six children aged 13 and younger, all homeschooled. Answer B: It will be a “group home,” six unrelated men and women in their twenties, with indeterminate jobs. Answer C: The family are members of a religious cult. They are all bald. Answer D: The family runs an Amway business out of their home. Answer E: Husband is an oil company exec. Wife is a lobbyist for the NRA. Lawn signs for MAGA.

Okay, we move on to what you really want this week. But first, some nifty orange buttons.

Ask us a question. Make an observation. Complain about something. (We’ll answer.) Do it here:

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The Invitational Week 28: Could You Put That in a Poem, Please?

It’s something that one’s been obliged to bestow.
The word, Latin-rooted, is oblatio.
It should be for a thing one might legally owe,
Not, say, for the act of fellatio.  

The current Webster’s Third International Dictionary, the 12½-pound unabridged print version, boasts more than 470,000 entries, from a to zyzzogeton. And in its ever more daunting struggle to trip up its astonishing tweens, this year’s National Spelling Bee delved into that volume’s most obscure recesses.  Let’s play with them. 

In this week’s Invitational contest, Week 28: Write a humorous poem or tell a short joke (e.g., a riddle) using any word from Round 4 or later in the 2023 Scripps National Spelling Bee. The real meaning of the word should be clear, from context alone or by definition, as in the Czar’s example above — one we’re pretty sure will never be included in the Bee study packet. The Bee’s website doesn’t supply the meanings, but you can find them at m-w.com or by Googling, or just choose a word from the sample list below with oversimplified meanings (but links to the actual listings).   

– You may use a slightly different form of the word (e.g., plural, past tense).
– Be sure to use the correct spelling of the word, which appears on the list to the left of however the kid spelled it in competition, correctly or not. 

A few words from the lists (but choose from dozens more here in Rounds 4 through 15:  
Psammophile  (silent P): An organism that prefers or thrives in sandy soils or areas (this year’s final word). 

Chumble:  To gnaw or chew.

Ovination: Vaccination against sheep-pox by introducing sheep-pox to the body

Querken:  To choke someone

Pridian (pri-DEE-an):  Relating to yesterday or a previous day; former  

Cnemis (nee-mis):  tibia; plural is cnemides

Oblatio (o-BLAY-shee-oh): A payment for something that is owed

Leguleian:  (leg-yu-LEE-an) [definition from a legal glossary] A type of lawyer who is known for being petty and argumentative. They often focus on small details and technicalities rather than the bigger picture.

Sorge (SOAR-guh): Concern, care bordering on anxiety (German for worry) 

Aegagrus (ee-GAG-rus): Another name for a bezoar,  a hard mass that can form in the intestine and once thought to have magical properties

Rommack (ROMMick): To play boisterously, to romp

Haysel (HAY-s’l): The haying season   

Eukinetics (YOU-kinetics): The science of well-controlled body movement, such as dancing  (takes a singular verb) 

Ebau​choir   (Ayy-bo-shwar):  A chisel used for rough-hewing sculpture, as for a clay model

Nudicaul  (nude-i-call):  Having leafless stems 

Opacate (either o-PAY-cate or O-pa-cate): To make opaque

Click here for this week’s entry form, or go to bit.ly/inv-form-28. As usual, you can submit up to 25 entries for this week’s contest, preferably all on the same entry form. As with all our poetry/song contests, we make an exception to the one-line-per-entry rule: Just format the poems as they ought to look on the page. If you have multiple entries, it wouldn’t hurt to add a line of *** or —- or <><><><><><> etc. between the poems, since sometimes white space disappears on this end.

Deadline is Saturday, July 22, at 4 p.m. ET. Results will run here in The Gene Pool on Thursday, July 27.

This week’s winner receives a high-quality pair of striped Wicked Witch of the East over-the-knee socks, complete with “ruby slippers” as the feet. You can reenact the scene from The Wizard of Oz: Just put on the socks and lie on your back, and put a house on top of yourself. Donated by Universal Donor Dave Prevar.

This week’s really most sincerely first prize. (sockysock.com)

Runners-up get autographed fake money featuring the Czar or Empress, in one of TEN nifty designs. Honorable mentions get bupkis, except for a sweet email from the E, plus the Fir Stink for First Ink for those who’ve just lost their Invite virginity.

As You Liken It: Winning comparisons from Week 26

In Week 26 we continued our tradition of posting a list of random noun phrases and asking how any two were alike, different, or otherwise linked. A good one offered up by too many Losers: Dryer lint differs from Mike Pence’s presidential campaign in that only one might catch fire.

Third runner-up: The difference between Handel’s Messiah and Mike Pence’s presidential campaign: In the first, the hallelujahs are transcending; in the other, they’re trans-ending. (Chris Doyle, Denton, Tex.)

Second runner-up: The difference between a bathroom chandelier and  Handel’s Messiah:  Messiah only lasts through fifty-three movements. (Frank Osen, Pasadena, Calif.)

First runner-up: A visit to Antarctica: “Oh man, breathe cold air!” A bathroom chandelier: An anagram of that. (Jesse Frankovich, Laingsburg, Mich.)

And the winner of the sandwich bags that look as if they’re infested with mold and roaches: The similarity between a tiny Shriner motorcycle and Mike Pence’s presidential campaign:  One is in danger of being squashed by a fat man in a silly red hat, and the other is ridden by a Shriner. (Jon Carter, Fredericksburg, Va.)

Tiddly Links: Honorable mentions

A tiny Shriner motorcycle and Pence’s campaign: Both are absurd, but it’s unlikely that the wheels will soon come off the motorcycle. (Mike Gips, Bethesda, Md.)

A bathroom chandelier and love handles:  Even when they’re in plain sight, Trump will deny he has either. (Jon Carter)

A bathroom chandelier: Tastelessness. Love handles: Waistlessness.  (Kevin Dopart, Washington, D.C.)

A bathroom chandelier and Pence’s campaign: If you ask a January 6 Trumpite, each offers something worth hanging. (Kevin Dopart)

A box of chocolates: Nougats. Pence’s campaign: No guts. (Neil Kurland, Elkridge, Md.)

A box of chocolates: Russell Stover. The front bumper of a ’55 Cadillac: Rust all over. (Chris Doyle)

A box of chocolates is like a tiny Shriner motorcycle: Both give you crushed nuts. (Jeff Hazle, San Antonio)

A box of chocolates: Sampler.  Love handles: Ampler. (Steve Smith, Potomac, Md.)

An AI love letter and a palindrome:  The letter might begin, “Sore was I ere I saw Eros.” (Duncan Stevens, Vienna, Va.)

An AI love letter and Pence’s campaign: They will both test the communication skills of a robot. (Mark Raffman, Reston, Va.; Jon Carter)

A palindrome and Pence’s campaign: “Stiff” fits. (Pam Shermeyer, Lathrup Village, Mich.)

… Or: “Dud.” (Jesse Frankovich)

A palindrome vs. a silent fart: “A Butt tuba” can be just one of these. (Laura Clairmont, Venice, Fla.; Steve Geist, Mechanicsville, Va.; Duncan Stevens)

… Not to mention: Only one can be a “toot.” (Neil Kurland)

Love handles and a palindrome: Fat AF. (Jesse Frankovich)

A visit to Antarctica and a silent fart: Both are going to be a lot more tolerable if you have thick underwear. (Jon Carter)

A visit to Antarctica and the Pence campaign: Both are good activities if you don’t like crowds. (Jonathan Jensen, Baltimore)

A visit to Antarctica may originate in Chile, whereas a silent fart may originate in chili. (Jeff Contompasis, Ashburn, Va.)

Both a bathroom chandelier and Pence’s campaign shed light on Donald Trump’s crap. (Ward Kay, Vienna, Va.)

Chat GPT 23 and the front bumper of a ’55 Cadillac:   Both will be viewed as quaint relics in 2024. (Mark Raffman)

Handel’s Messiah: Christ the Lord. Love handles: Christ, the lard! (Jesse Frankovich)

Love handles: Where you put your palms on a really good date. The space between your eyebrows: Where you put your palms on a really bad date. (Jesse Frankovich)

Love handles and Pence’s campaign: Only one is associated with the word “hip.” (Leif Picoult, Rockville, Md.)

Pence’s campaign: Asking for a job. Chat GPT 23: Axing your job. (Kevin Dopart)

Pence’s campaign and dryer lint: Someone with talent could mold the lint into something appealing. (Kevin Dopart)

The front bumper of a ’55 Cadillac and a silent fart:  Both sometimes precede skid marks. (Steve Geist; Jon Carter)

The space between the eyebrows and love handles: When you talk to women, it's better to look at the first than the second. Trust me on this. (Chris Doyle)

“The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light” is part of Messiah, but Handel probably wasn’t thinking of a bathroom chandelier.  (Duncan Stevens)

The headline “As You Liken It” is by Jesse Frankovich; Jesse also wrote the honorable-mentions subhead.

Still running — deadline 4 p.m. ET Saturday, July 15: Our Week 27 contest to say how a particular company or organization might pander to the MAGA crowd. Click here or type in bit.ly/inv-week-27. 

Live streaming for Elden Carnahan’s memorial service

If you can’t make it to Saturday’s memorial service for Father of Loserdom Elden Carnahan (more about him here), you should be able to see a live stream on YouTube at this link or at bit.ly/eldenservice. The service begins Saturday, July 15, at 2 p.m. at Laurel Presbyterian Church, 7610 Old Sandy Spring Rd., Laurel, Md.

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Now for another installment of our continuing pathetic but somehow charming entreaty: The Gene Pool is successful. We have many thousands of people around the country and globe who read us weekly for free, and many hundreds who pay us a little money ($4.15 a month). Will you take the graceful, gazelle-like leap from the first group to the second, upgrading from “free” to “paid”? We’d be much obliged, and it will help keep us alive. Here:

Okay, here come your questions and observations, with Gene’s answers.

Many of these pertain to our recent call for song lyrics that blow you away. Others, to older questions about medical stuff. Others, about nothing in particular, just interesting stuff.

Q: Great lyric: “Goodbye my friend, it’s hard to die / When all the birds are singing in the sky …” Terry Jacks, “Seasons in the Sun.  About a dying man saying goodbye to his wife and friends.

A: You are so dreadfully wrong. It is terrible and inexcusable to attribute this fine song to the one-hit-wonder nothingburger Terry Jacks, a Canadian nobody who made a fortune on it by pillaging and deforming the work of the actual songwriter, the great Jacques Brel.  Terry Jacks turned it into a dippy love song, and defended this on the grounds that the original was “too macabre.” The original had been much more complex, but was duly translated and happified for Jacks by the vomitous, saccharine Rod McKuen.  Brel had written the song while depressed in a whorehouse in Tangiers. The Jacks-McKuen sanitized version pointedly doesn’t include this verse, which Brel wrote and sang (in French). 

Adieu Françoise, my trusted wife
Without you I'd have had a lonely life
You cheated lots of times, but then
I forgave you in the end
Though your lover was my friend.

(Yes, Francoise had cheated on him with Emile, the “trusted friend”to whom the dying man had just said goodbye.) 

When Tom Rapp covered the song he re-installed the original idea, but added more heat:  

Adieu Francoise, my trusted wife /  when I close my eyes this time I close my life. / I closed it before for you without a sound / and I know that your lovers all around / Will be in my bed before I’m in the ground. . . Now that spring is in the air, with your lovers everywhere, just be careful, I’ll be there. 

TIMELY TIP: If you’re reading this right now on an email:   Click here to get to my webpage, then click on the top headline (In this case, “The Invitational, Week 28….”) for the full column, and comments, and real-time questions and answers. And you can refresh and see new questions and answers that appear as I regularly update the post from about noon to 1 p.m. ET today. Readers who began on the webpage, of course, also need to refresh.

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Q: I think Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130 which you cited on Tuesday, and Bobby Parker’s “You Got What It Takes” agree in sentiment, though Shakespeare tactfully avoids addressing it to his mistress. 

You don’t drive a big fine car / You don’t look like a movie star / And on your money we won’t get very far / But baby, you got what it takes,/ You don’t live in a beautiful place / You don’t dress with the best of taste / And nature didn’t give you such a beautiful face /But baby, you got what it takes. 

A: I think making this comparison is hilarious, adorable, and reasonable!  I like it.   But it’s wrong to say Shakespeare tactfully avoided criticism.  He was quite blunt.  Read it, above.  Her breath “reeks”?

Q: I’ve been on Threads since the beginning, and so far it’s OK. It’s a pain to setup my network over again, finding all of the people I followed on Twitter will take forever. It would be great if Threads provided a tool to copy over all of your Twitter follows, but I’m guessing that would prompt an enormous law suit. My feeling is that it’s only a matter of time until Threads becomes just as awful as Twitter, because it will be inhabited by human beings and there are a lot of terrible human beings out there.

A: I hear ya.

Q: I know you are a fan of Tom Rapp, of Pearls Before Swine.  I love this lyric: 

Bodies on bodies / Like sacks upon shelves / People are using each other / To make love to themselves

A:  That’s from a song called “Love/Sex.” Tom was an almost unknown genius.  I tried to fix that once, with this piece. 

Q: The Who, from “Substitute” : “I was born with a plastic spoon in my mouth.”

A: Made me laugh.  This defines a good lyric.

This is Gene.  The following one-two reader colloquy on the great Sondheim came in as “Comments” to the last Gene pool.   I’m putting it here because it is great and many of you missed it.  The first comment is from Dale of Green Gables.

Comment: "Lyric writing, at best, is a limited art -- if it is an art at all. It's largely a matter of sweat and time consumption. Once the basic idea for a lyric has been set, it's like working out a crossword puzzle. But composing music is genuinely creative. And it's much more fun."

--- Stephen Sondheim

A reluctant and grudging lyricist early on, Stephen Sondheim claimed he was first and foremost a composer. Fortunately, he decided to do both to our lasting delight. But in fact, he was a playwright — a writer of memorable very short plays set to music. One of my special favorites, from a constellation of favorites, and a perfect example of his preternatural ability with both words and music, never made it to Broadway. It is the wonderfully poignant and evocative "I Remember," from an otherwise forgettable made-for-TV musical, "Evening Primrose." 

I remember sky

It was blue as ink

Or at least I think

I remember sky.

I remember snow

Soft as feathers

Sharp as thumb tacks

Coming down like lint

And it made you squint

When the wind would blow.

And ice like vinyl

On the streets

Cold as silver

White as sheets

Rain like strings

And changing things

Like leaves.

I remember leaves

Green as spearmint

Crisp as paper.

I remember trees

Bare as coat racks

Spread like broken umbrellas.

And parks and bridges,

Ponds and zoos,

Ruddy faces,

Muddy shoes,

Light and noise and

Bees and boys

And days.

I remember days,

Or at least I try.

But as years go by

They're sort of haze,

And the bluest ink

Isn't really sky

And at times I think

I would gladly die

For a day of sky.

Response comment:

Sondheim always put the needs of the play first. The lyrics above are sung by a young woman who has never set foot outside the department store in which she has lived almost her life. That's why she compares everything she remembers from outside to things found inside.

Sondheim was also a dramatist at times, writing scripts for "Topper" and co-writing "The Last of Sheila." – Elliott Shevin

Q: From the Lennon-McCartney’s Eleanor Rigby: “Father McKenzie, wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave,/ No one was saved.” I am an ordained United Church of Christ minister, and whenever I do a funeral these words haunt me.

A: “wiping the dirt” makes it exceptional. 

Q: “I was so much older then/I'm younger than that now.” – Dylan, "My Back Pages"

A: Yes, a masterpiece of depth and concision.  This is one of my favorite videos on The Web.  Just look who got together to do this song.  

Q: “There ain’t no money in poetry That’s what sets the poet free. I’ve had all the freedom I can stand.” – Guy Clark, “Cold Dog Soup.”

A: Great lyric, great title. 

Q: In his 1989 song “Eye of the Hurricane,” David Wilcox attributes his friend’s “need” for motorcycle riding to wanting to outrun her emotional pain. But the best part of the lyric, to me, is HER explanation: She’s not running away from something, she’s running toward something. Tank is full, switch is on, 

Night is warm, cops are gone. 

Rocket bike is all her own. 

It's called a hurricane. 

She told me once it's quite a ride. 

It's shaped so there's this place inside

 Where if you're moving you can hide 

Safe within the rain.

 [Chorus] She wants to run away 

But there's nowhere that she can go,

 Nowhere the pain won't come again.

 But she can hide,

 Hide in the pouring rain.

She rides the eye of the hurricane. 

Tell the truth, explain to me 

How you got this need for speed. 

She laughed and said,

 It might just be the next best thing to love. 

Hope is gone and, she confessed, “When you lay your dream to rest, 

You can get what's second best 

But it's hard to get enough.” 

[Chorus] 

We saw her ride so fast last night 

Racing by a flash of light. 

Riding quick, the street was dark. 

A shiny truck she thought was parked, 

It blocked her path, stopped her heart, 

But not the hurricane. 

She saw her chance to slip the trap. There was just the room to pass in back 

But then it moved, closed the gap.

 She never felt the pain.

 [Chorus] 

To hear the song, scroll down to the next to last album (“How Did You Find Me Here”) on this page: https://davidwilcox.com/albums

A: Hearing it adds a lot to something already spectacular.

This is Gene.  What follows is long, and self-indulgent, and funny and interesting and worth reading, and there is a special fillip at the end. 

Q: I am an engineer. Math and science are my friends. When I can't sleep, I do MIT's open coursework calculus problem sets because nothing will inspire sleep faster than late night calculus. I learned this during many late night calculus problem sets in college. Differential equations does not inspire sleep the same way because of the intense frustration. I needed another technical elective. I had already fulfilled the meager liberal arts requirements for the more write-y electives of my engineering program, saving these technical electives in math, science and engineering for my last couple semesters. I chose a math...statistics and probability. 

This should have been a cinch for someone who ENJOYS calculus. However, I quickly learned that my brain is not wired for statistics and probability at the collegiate level. It wasn't the simplicity I had believed it to be. When my first quiz came back with a D on it and we were barreling forward into our first exam, I started to panic. I tried to pay attention in class (and even attended all of them, not the typical MO for me with math classes where I could usually skate through) but I just wasn't grasping much of anything because my neurodivergent brain could focus on NOTHING in class except the weird smooshed out part in the hair at the back of my professor's greasy scalp (as he talked directly into the chalkboard the entire class) that left me squirming uncomfortably in my seat for 50 minutes twice a week. Thus, in desperation, I decided to attend his office hours to review my quiz hopeful that with his face pointed toward me instead of a blackboard, I could think beyond his weird rear-head part and focus on whatever secret key I was missing for this puzzle. I was running a little behind and I had to run to the health center to pick up my prescription before office hours. While there, I'd agreed to pick up the RA pack for our dorm's RA which consisted of a document size envelope full of condoms to fill up the giant jar in the dorm hallway...one of the weird perks of living in a dorm... free condoms.  You may see where this is going. 

Anyhoo... I picked up my scrip, ran to the office where the RAs could pick up the dorm packs, scrawled on the sheet that I'd picked one up for our dorm, and slipped the document size envelope into my bookbag not realizing that it wasn't actually fastened closed or that I'd put it in upside down meaning hundreds of condoms were now spilling into the bottom of my book bag as I RAN toward my greasy-haired professor's office hours. I arrived at the appointed time skidding out of breath and red-faced into his office and plopped my bag down on the chair in front of his desk to pull out my textbook and quiz to go over it with him. I said something along the lines of "I was hoping we could discuss my quiz today, I'm just not getting it and ....." as I ripped the textbook out of my bag forcefully, an entire string of condoms packets that had not been separated at the perforations went sailing through the air, hit my professor in the forehead and landed in front of him on his desk. I froze. As is typical of me in these moments, my brain disconnected the speaking module to prevent embarrassment. I had this horrifying thought that he might think I was propositioning him for a better grade. So I did the thing that came naturally to my neurodivergent brain. I dropped the textbook on the floor, grabbed the condoms and shoved them into my bag, and turned around and ran as fast as I could out of the building, leaving my textbook and quiz behind. I didn't know where to go so I ran to the engineering computer lab and sat down wheezy and out of breath and sweating profusely and tried to get hold of myself. I looked into my bag, realized I'd left the textbook with my quiz inside on his office floor and decided that under no circumstances could I go back there and so I logged into my student account and dropped the class right then and there. 

To this day, when people bring up statistics and probabilities to me, I feel my face burning and have the overwhelming urge to run away. 

I took an intro to Nuclear Engineering class the next semester to fulfill an elective. Unfortunately, it has an equally disastrous story but because it was my last semester, I had to suffer through it. It was also taught by the Dean of the engineering college and so when what happened, happened, not only did I have to suffer through 2 hours a week of staring at my desk while he taught wishing I could melt into a puddle and evaporate because I was so embarrassed, but also he was the one that later handed me my diploma on stage at graduation. 

As he did so, he whispered, "You don't have to be embarrassed, you aren't the first girl that dropped a feminine hygiene product in my office." Then we turned and smiled at the camera man. So in the photo of my graduation where I am shaking hands with the dean while accepting my diploma, I look both terrified and like I'm probably feverish. My face is tomato red. My parents have graciously agreed to never let it see the light of day and it's hidden beneath all the photo albums. 

Some day when my daughter's neurodivergence is on full display and embarasses her, I will dig it out and explain that I once hit a statistics and probabilities professor in the face with a strip of condoms and later that same year emphatically used a tampon thinking it was a pencil while arguing with the dean of engineering about a quiz answer on my nuclear engineering quiz for several seconds before realizing it was a tampon and not a pencil and throwing it across the room... and then grabbing my book and bag and running out of the room in a panic. After all, she gets that neurodivergence from me and while it provides some spectacular gifts, it also gifts others some spectacular stories of my profound awkwardness.

A: Ma’am, I have several things to say to you but want to preface it all with a genuine compliment: You tell a story well, and that is not an easy thing to do.  You may be a science person, but you are also a skilled raconteuse.  The way these two seemingly disparate excellent things coexist is by forcing something weird to the top, and extruding it, like pus. I have seen it in excellent writers, time and again.     In your case, it is spelling.  I had to correct TWENTY-ONE spelling errors in your otherwise fine account.  Many of them involved the word “embarrassed.”  And lastly, relax.  People like and respect you and enjoy your company.  You are not always on stage, to be judged. 

Q:

Paul Simon, “The Sounds of Silence”

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said, "The words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sounds of silence"

A: Yes.  Also, 

A man walks down the street
He says, "Why am I soft in the middle, now?
Why am I soft in the middle?
The rest of my life is so hard
I need a photo-opportunity
I want a shot at redemption
Don't want to end up a cartoon
In a cartoon graveyard"
Bonedigger, Bonedigger
Dogs in the moonlight
Far away in my well-lit door
Mr. Beerbelly, Beerbelly
Get these mutts away from me
You know, I don't find this stuff amusing anymore\

And also, “Mama Pajama rolled out of bed… ,” just that.

This is Gene.  Belated, but related: As I said, I am contemplating leaping from Twitter to Threads.  Near as I can tell, you can’t choose who you follow, on Threads.  You are assigned people to follow, including vapid celebs.  If you have an active Instagram account, you can automatically follow the people you follow there, but I do not have an Instagram account, and though I will get one to participate in Threads, I will not use it like Instagram otherwise.  I will not follow hundreds of Instagrammers. I do realize that people I do want to follow will also leap to Instagram the way I will, and presumably be findable, if tediously.   So is this thing for me, or not?  Please respond in comments, or even better, here.

Q: I disagree with you that the problem with the Supreme Court is mostly Trump. It goes back to Nixon running for President against the Supreme Court and the subsequent rise of the radical judicial right who single-mindedly supported only justices and judges with their single minds about judging. It took them close to forty years to mostly win, and fifty years to almost completely win. And here's the thing: they ran against the ABA as a group for vetting judges (because that was undemocratic) and replaced it with their own, much narrower group, the Federalist Society (and a few allies).

A: Read This New York Times story on Roberts court.  It is chilling. 

Q: “To really be a saint, you gotta really be a virgin. Dry as a page of the King James version.” It makes me laugh every time. (It’s Josh Ritter he’s got lots of good ones).

A: A good line. The rhyme is a little wince-inducing.

Q: Answering your call for medical anecdotes: I was in the hospital for several days, recovering from a lower spine fusion. The staff got me up to walk up and down the hall. A middle-aged nurse, a woman, held my left hand. My right hand held onto a wheeled rack the held the bag to my Foley catheter. The catheter line poked out from under my Full Moon hospital gown, and ran up to the urine bag. As we walked, the nurse asked me if I was having any difficulties. "Yes," I said, "I can't find any shoes to match the bag." She lost it.

A: Thank you. 

Q: I also think one of the reasons the pharmacy tells you it will be ready in “about half an hour” is to get you to amble around the drugstore and pick up some useless items that you don’t really need, but that speaks to you: “ you don’t need me now, but you might in the next month, so better pick me up now.”

A: Not likely, but the idea was interesting enough that I just wrote a Barney & Clyde episode based on your premise. Will be out an a few days. Clap clap. Take a bow.

Q: Missing from this discussion of cluster bombs is that Ukraine has promised to use these only inside Ukraine. This means that only Ukrainians will be threatened by the duds. This is quite different from bombing another country and leaving duds there. That’s the only reason I would vote that this was justified. Using them in a foreign country would be inexcusable. 

A: “Promised.”   

Q: My insight to cluster munitions is based on Special Force fighting tactics. Our forces tend to be involved in more countries than others, with more probing SF and CIA incursions. A tactic for small squads is to set up defensive boobytraps at perimeters with CM. Then pick them up when they break camp. Or don’t, if they are being pursued and need a (deadly) diversion. These actions aren’t pretty. But it’s a tactic that makes our SF more successful and risks their lives less.

A: I do not understand much of what you just wrote, but accept that you are an expert and declare it, officially, correct.

This is Gene. I am calling this one down. Good questions. Please keep sending them in and I will pounce on them on Tuesday, or before. For secret reasons, next week will feature a HIGHLY active Gene Pool. Here’s the handsome orange button

where you send questions: