The Invitational Week 84: We Got Game

Tell us some funny ways to 'improve' a sport. Plus winning rhymes for Taylor Swift lines.

The pole that didn’t quite vault.

Hello. Are you tired of sports, yet? Neither are we. How can we be, when right in the middle of a tight pennant race in baseball, and on the cusp of the start of football season … a major Olympics event was won by a penis? No, Frenchman Anthony Ammirati didn’t win the gold in the pole vault — he missed it by roughly, uh, seven inches. But he won The Olympics’ Biggest Moment, which in this quadrennial mega-spectacle is everything. Feats, Don’t Phallus Now! What a great day for The Invitational.

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For Invitational Week 84, we ask you to humorously “improve” any sport to make it faster, more exciting, or simply somehow … better. As in:

Baseball: Require that batters’ crotches be pre-scratched before they reach the plate. (Ralph Nitkin)

Luge: Lugers slide down the track on their backs as usual, but headfirst, guided only by three rear-mounted dental mirrors. (Stephen Dudzik)

Soccer: Keep adding balls until someone finally scores a goal. (Anne Clark)

The examples above are from a similar Invitational contest 12 years ago (full results here), the last time we tried a contest of this type. So what counts as a “sport?” We’re going to be expansive about this, within reason: Most anything that is a contest involving some physical action. Rock, Paper, Scissors, sure. Tug of War, fine. Chess . . . fine! (the IOC has actually recognized it as a sport). Monopoly — no; no board games. The presidential election, no. The Invitational, no.

Formatting this week: Just our standard entreaty to make each individual entry one single line (e.g., don’t push Enter in the middle of the entry). Almost all of you have been getting this right!

Deadline is Saturday, Aug. 17, at 9 p.m. ET. Results will run here in The Gene Pool on Thursday, Aug. 22. As usual, you may submit up to 25 entries for this week’s contest, preferably all on the same form. 

Click here for this week’s entry form,  or go to tinyURL.com/inv-form-84.

This week’s winner gets this fine little metal magnetic sign, about the size of a switch plate, that would be especially appropriate if you had us over for brunch, just saying. Donated eons ago by 441-time Loser Nan Reiner.

Runners-up get autographed fake money featuring the Czar or Empress, in one of eight nifty designs. Honorable mentions get bupkis, except for a personal email from the E, plus the Fir Stink for First Ink for First Offenders.

Meanwhile, send us questions or observations, which Gene hopes to deal with in real time today. You do this, as always, by sending them to this here button:

Custom Tayloring: The Swift ‘tailgaters’ from Week 82

We asked you to take any line from a Taylor Swift song from her latest album, “The Tortured Poets Department,” and add — before it or after it — a funny, rhyming line of your own.

The results were good. We must admit we found that Ms. Swift’s lyrics do not read like poetry. They did not read like the previous models for our tailgater contests: Dylan, the Beatles, and Shakespeare. Instead, they read like this: “As I said in my letters, now that I know better / I will never lose my baby again” and “Messy top-lip kiss, how I long for our trysts.” They are almost all about the soul-shattering anguish of relationships.

In judging this contest, the Czar and Empress had a near fistfight mutually respectful disagreement over one entry that rhymed “plague” with “leg.” She, a Philadelphia native, considered this a perfect rhyme; he, a New York City native, felt this was not a rhyme at all. Eventually, she grudgingly caved in graciously and amicably acquiesced, in the interests of collegiality. We did not use the entry. (Meanwhile, Swift herself rhymes “plague” with “every day.”)

Let’s settle this now, for all time.

The results: Taylor’s own lines are in orange; click on them to see the full lyrics they came from.

Third runner-up:
I will never lose my baby again —
My number’s on his head in Sharpie pen. (Duncan Stevens, Vienna, Va.)

Second runner-up:
I can fix him, no really I can —
No need to take Spot to the pricey vet-man.  (Rob Cohen, Potomac, Md.)

First runner-up:
The jokes that he told across the bar were revolting and far too loud
Like “Your Mama’s so uncultivated — but she keeps getting plowed.” (Frank Osen, Pasadena, Calif.)

And the winner of the toilet paper earrings:
Lights, camera, bitch, smile …
I haven’t taken this cognition test in a while. (Mark Raffman, Reston, Va.)

As always, if you feel none of those is the best among today’s inking entries, shout out your favorites in the comments.

Swift Descent: Honorable mentions

And for a fortnight there, we were forever
Trying to understand team handball, or épée, or some other wacky endeavor. (Jesse Frankovich, Laingsburg, Mich.)

All the wine moms are still holding out
But the single cat-ladies support me, no doubt! — K. Harris  (Mark Raffman)

And I could see it from a mile away
But the Secret Service shrugged, “Looks okay.” (Leif Picoult, Rockville, Md.)

And you deserve prison, but you won’t get time
Aren’t you lucky now that a president can’t commit a crime? (Jonathan Jensen, Baltimore)

Beauty is a beast that roars
See, I’m married to a guy who snores. (Mark Asquino, Santa Fe, N.M.)  

But I felt a hole like this
Right after moving in for a kiss.  — D.J.T., 2016 (Mark Raffman)

But it’s gonna be all right, I did my time,
So straight into Trump’s Cabinet I’ll climb. — S. Bannon, P. Navarro, P. Manafort (Duncan Stevens)

Dear aliens who abducted me to examine my poo,
They’ll say I’m nuts if I talk about the existence of you. (Jesse Frankovich)

And no, you can’t come to the wedding
Since my bridegroom you’ve been bedding. (Roy Ashley, Washington, D.C.)

Another fortnight lost in America
Scrolling through TikTok’s esoterica. (Marni Penning Coleman, Falls Church, Va.)

I’m havin’ his baby
Unless Kamala wins and appoints some new Supreme Court Justices, maybe. (Roy Ashley)

Them’s the breaks, they don’t come gently
When you wreck your daddy’s Bentley. (Pam Shermeyer, Lathrup Village, Mich.)

You could fix (with some new zippers or other closures)
All your indecent exposures. (Beverley Sharp, Montgomery, Ala.)

I can take the upper hand and touch your body
’Cause when you’re a star,  they let you be naughty. (Michael Stein, Arlington, Va.)

But you awaken with dread, pounding nails in your head.
I kept telling you, “Fred! Try some plywood instead!” (Duncan Stevens)

If you want to tear my world apart, just say you’ve always wondered:
When God created Chinese cresteds, could it be He blundered? (Pam Shermeyer)

I know he’s crazy but he’s the one I want
I don’t care that he thinks he’s a buttered croissant. (Frank Osen)

Just say,'“I loved you the way that you were”;
There’s really no need to disinter... (Beverley Sharp)  

Messy top lip kiss, how I long for our trysts —
I miss how your spit trickled down to my wrists. (Judy Freed, Deerfield Beach, Fla.)

My husband is cheating, I wanna kill him —
Or maybe just hire a lawyer and bill him. (Gary Crockett, Chevy Chase, Md.; Jesse Frankovich)

My husband is cheating, I wanna kill him —
I’ll just ask my lover where to landfill him. (Pam Shermeyer)

My spine split from carrying us up the hill.
Next time, go fetch your own water, Jill! (Jonathan Jensen)

You crashed my party and your rental car
And I hope that it Hertz you wherever you are. (Mark Raffman)  

You said some things that I can’t unabsorb
That were cheugy, delulu, and totes unadorb. (Frank Osen)

“There’s a lot of people in town that I bestow upon my fakest smiles”
Is a grammatical construction that would give teachers piles (Frank Osen)

Listen to one more second of all this bitching and moaning —
Taylor may be gorgeous, but her lyrics have me groaning. (Rob Cohen)

You’re no Dylan Thomas.  I’m no Patti Smith.
Does AI write my poetry? I’ll have to take the Fifth. (Marshall Begel, Madison, Wis.)

The scandal was contained, the bullet had just grazed.
If someone doesn’t use this lyric line, I’ll be amazed. (Jonathan Jensen) [Indeed, we got several couplets that included this line; they were less than sympathetic to the grazee.]

And Last: “Out, out, out, out, out, out!
“What rot!” the Czar and Empress shout. (Jesse Frankovich)

The headline “Custom Tayloring” is by Chris Doyle; Dave Prevar wrote the honorable-mentions subhead.

Still running — deadline 9 p.m. ET Saturday, Aug. 10: our Week 83 contest to explain what various sound-phrases mean, including “Tock-tick, Tock-tick” and “Fee-fi-fo-fump.” Click on the link below.

The Invitational Week 83: Stop, Hey, What's That Sound?

Now we enter the real-time portion of the Gene Pool, where Gene will take your questions and observations, and respond to them, in real time. Today, there is a lot of politics. Send your stuff to this awesome Creamsicle-colored button:

Also, you might want to register your distaste for Donald Trump by clicking on the link below and doing what you know is The Right Thing to Do.

Q: What is with all the short surnames of candidates? Harris, Walz, Trump, Vance. Twenty total letters and five total syllables for the two major parties. 

The only real syllabic breakthrough in history was Eisenhower.

A: Whoa. You have totally tweaked my presidential-names nerd button. There is a highly weird fact about all this.

Through history, longer-named candidates have been vastly more successful than shorter-named candidates in presidential elections.

From 1789 to 2020, there have been 59 presidential elections.

In 45 of these, the leading candidates have had names that differ in the number of syllables they possess.

And in those 45 elections, the candidate with more syllables in his name has won 31 times out of 45 -- 69% of the time, in other words.

According to The Name Effect at the statistical website anesi.com:

If a candidate were equally likely to win regardless of whether his name had more syllables than his opponent's, the probability of the candidate with more syllables winning 31 or more times out of 45 elections would be 0.008047180016, that is, about 0.8%.

And yes, Eisenhower is the only four-syllable president. There have been no four-syllable presidential election losers.

The long-short name gap has been undergoing a transformation. When I was a kid, I was astounded by this fact, which I just now confirmed by counting letters: From 1892 to 1960, the candidate with the longer name (by letter count) won 16 times out of seventeen! (In 1908, in the only anomaly, Taft beat Bryan.) After 1960 to the present, the trend reversed. The numbers have split 7-4 in favor of the shorter name. I hereby predict, though, that Harris will turn it to 7-5.

The Name Effect postulates an odd reason for the historic long-name advantage:

“Single-syllable names carry baggage. They are almost always verbs or common nouns, and they often have unpleasant connotations. Consider Clay, Cox (cocks), Bush, Dole, and Gore as examples (Trump is an exception in generally having positive connotations.”

“Second, multi-syllable names are generally considered more aristocratic in their cadence. There are obvious exceptions to this rule -- Dukakis, which sounds alien and barbaric to a native English speaker, is the most notable.”

I don’t buy any of that.

So what does this all mean? Probably not much. Sadly, it intrigues me.

Q: I’m a little late to the game here, but I think Harris really missed a trick when she didn’t pick for VP this guy.

A: Indeed.

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TIMELY TIP: If you’re reading this on an email: JUST CLICK ON THE HEADLINE IN THE EMAIL AND IT WILL DELIVER YOU TO THE FULL COLUMN ONLINE. Keep refreshing the screen to see the new questions and answers that appear as I regularly update the post.

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Q: I beg your pardon and present to you:  The bioluminescent pigbutt worm

A: Thank you.  The best part is that they use their snot to hunt prey. 

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This is gene. Back to politics. This is absolutely splendid:

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Q: Re: Taylor Swift's lyrics. Another female songwriter (whose name escapes me) once explained why all her songs were about breakups: "When I'm in a happy relationship, I'm out doing things and being happy. When we break up, I'm moping at home with nothing else to do but write songs."

A:  Good point.   There is a whiny sameness to it that does not impress me. And When I say she is not poetic, I mean her lyrics tend to be utterly straightforward, with no tantalizing ambiguity of meaning, metaphoric beats, etc. Not that Ms. Swift needs my approval. She’s doing pretty well on her own, without my feedback.

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Q: Your comments about the White Sox  were enough for them to break their streak. They won 5-1.  – HawkRapids

A: I know! But they lost again last night, breaking the long-lived paradigm that when a streak is finally broken, the next day it won’t start again — whatever it is that was done to break the streak will happen again. I think these Bite Sox may come through for me.

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Q: FYI, “DOJ says 'Google, nope'" is a Googlenope. - Kevin Dopart

A: Excellent observation.

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Q: Gene, I have a fear that I don’t want to put on any of my social media, because it makes me a real party pooper. I have electoral optimism the likes of which I haven’t had since 2008, but I don’t trust the polls. People lie. They lie about their willingness to vote for a woman or a person of color, and they lie about their unwillingness to vote for a felon and a traitor. Can you say anything that will make me feel better?

A: Not really. Because all that you say is true.  I will add this, though:  I cannot recall a moment of the Trump era where he appears to be such an incompetent buffoon. Since the assassination attempt, every morsel of news and commentary about him has been humiliating, particularly the selection of JD Vance, and the excruciating followup.   Trump has always looked childish and vindictive and ignorant, but these two weeks have turned him, in the public eye, into a sputtering, desperate loon who knows he is suddenly losing.  

That cannot be good for Trump Turnout.

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Q: Is there any truth to the rumor that the vice presidential debate will be held in Davenport, Iowa?

A: This is an immature couch joke. I will not dignify it with a response.

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Q: My husband and I have taken up archery. He was laughing at the french pole vaulter video and he said "see, large assets can be a handicap." And so I pointed out that I understand this being a female archer with different style but equally unruly assets.

A: Thank you.

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Q:  Before you continue to defend the practice of rebranding lies about couches as jokes, you should read this article by Casey Newton on Platformer: 

(especially this paragraph:)

"... sharing weaponized misinformation in the form of lazy jokes has quickly come to define the developing presidential campaign between Harris and Donald Trump. Across social networks, Democrats and Republicans are flooding the feed with obviously untrue statements about one another and calling it a joke. Welcome to the shitpost election."

A:  Jokes often reveal truths in valuable ways.  Everyone knows the sofa gig is untrue, but the joke is that everyone looks at him and just KNOWS he is the kind of guy who would have sexual relations with a sofa.   

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This is Gene, again. So much excellent visual stuff is coming in:

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Q: I grew up in a conservative Christian school that was very anti-halloween. I remember asking my mother when I was a small child if celebrating Halloween was sinful. She apparently didn't want me to shun the holiday and told me it was originally a Christian holiday and was started by St. Haloweenie a saint that would feed homeless children. I repeated this to people through most of my  childhood and into my pre-teen years until I was disavowed of the fantasy of St. Haloweenie to much ridicule. Don't lie to your kids. But the shocking part of the story? She did not lie to me about Santa Claus. Everyone else believed in Santa and I was over here spouting off about how Santa is just a game we play and the real conspiracy is how people tried to turn Halloween dark and stole a holiday born from charity right out from under the holy St. Haloweenie. – April Musser

A:  I was also never lied to about Santa. I didn’t believe in Santa. But my grandmother once told me that the German language was a corrupted Yiddish.   I think she was hoping that I would tell this to my German friend, and he would tell his parents.  He did, and his ma set him straight, and he told me, matter-of-factly, that his ma said I was going to Hell.  I told him I didn’t believe in Hell.  It worked out great, all around. 

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This is Gene. We are out of here. PLEASE send in more questions and observations. I need them. Send them here:

Also, earlier in the chat I gave you an orange button called The Right Thing to Do. It was misdirected. So I am sending it again. It is a button you can hit to register your distaste for Trump, and it will tell you The Right Thing to Do. Here is the real button: