I never watched American Idol. I don’t think I ever will.
What’s on your mind? Got something you’d like share? A joke? Something that’s been on your mind? It’s Thursday Night Open Thread.
Who wants to start?
I never watched American Idol. I don’t think I ever will.
What’s on your mind? Got something you’d like share? A joke? Something that’s been on your mind? It’s Thursday Night Open Thread.
Who wants to start?
♩
Indictments might happen,
Never reaching the end,
Letters are written,
Never meaning two cents.
Duty is always missed,
Decreased ICE before;
Just what the truth is
I can’t say anymore.
‘Cause of lawsuits
Oh, yes, the lawsuits
Oh, how I love suits.
.
Gazing though peepholes,
Some had a hand,
Just what we’re going through
I can’t understand.
Some try to sell me
Thoughts they cannot defend,
Just where they want me
They’ll be in the end.
And the lawsuits,
Oh, yes, the lawsuits
Oh, now the lawsuits.
Oh, now the lawsuits.
.
Breathe deep
The gathering gloom
Watch rights fade
From every room
Sad bitter people
Look back and lament
Another day’s useless energy spent
Impassioned losers
“Resisting” as one
Lonely man cries out for proof
And has none
News mutterers mix-up
And suck in person
Senior citizens
Wish they were hung
Cold hearted web
That rules the night
Reproves our colors
And our sight
“Reds” and “gays,” and
“Yellow Whites”
But we decide
Which is right
And which is collusion
♩
Becoming an Irishman…………………
Seven-year-old Mohammed entered his classroom on the first day of school. “What’s your name?”, asked the teacher.
“Mohammed,” he replied.
“You’re in Ireland now,” replied the teacher, “So from now on you will be known as Mike.”
Mohammed returned home after school. “How was your day, Mohammed?”, his mother asked?
“My name is not Mohammed. I’m in Ireland, now my name is Mike.”
“Sooooo are you ashamed of your name? Are you trying to dishonor your parents, your heritage, your religion?
Shame on you!” His mother beat the hell out of him. Then she called his father, who beat the hell out of him again.
The next day Mohammed returned to school. The teacher saw all his fresh bruises. “What happened to you, Mike?”, she asked.
“Well, he said, “Shortly after becoming an Irishman, I was attacked by a couple of those damn Muslim fanantics!”
Hilaire (pronounced “Hillary”) Belloc, author and friend of G. K. Chesterton, was born July 27, 1870, in La Celle-Saint-Cloud, Seine-et-Oise, France. One of the things that he wrote was poetry. Here is my favorite poem by Mr. Belloc:
The Frog
Be kind and tender to the Frog,
And do not call him names,
As ‘Slimy skin,’ or ‘Polly-wog,’
Or likewise ‘Ugly James,’
Or ‘Gape-a-grin,’ or ‘Toad-gone-wrong,’
Or ‘Billy Bandy-knees’:
The Frog is justly sensitive
To epithets like these.
No animal will more repay
A treatment kind and fair;
At least so lonely people say
Who keep a frog (and, by the way,
They are extremely rare).
“Do I creep you out?” is soon to follow…