Jingle Jangle Jingle

Compliments of the Season

Well it’s Christmas, just barely, here in CST, as if anything anymore could be Central and Standard.

                          You’d think we all could agree

                          On a few certain tenets that we

                                      Find jointly orthodox.

                                      But are they a la Fox

                          Or MSNBC?

It can’t hurt to take stock of the state of things by way of limericks. Here’s a Christmas one:

                         A secular fellow named Harold

                        At Christmas never has caroled.

                                    But just try and stop him,

                                    Let alone top him,

                        At being, year-round, gay-appareled.

A little more of a down note:

                       There once was a fellow named Mark

                       Whose life lacked a narrative arc.

                                He would mosey along

                                Humming this song:

                       “The Herald Angels. Hark.”

A couple of philosophical items:

                      They say some fellow named Grant

                     Has kind of a different slant.

                              Says life is a sphere

                             And trouble is we’re

                    Trying to square it and can’t.

                   “I’m cursed,” says a fellow named Pat.

                  “My head is too big for my hat.”

                          Some say it’s all

                          In his hat being small,

                  But Pat will not listen to that.

Let us all strive to work, between now and next Christmas, on gender issues. This work will require speaking frankly.

                    “I rejoice,” says a sportsman named Ken

                    “In the company of men.

                              Men and fish.

                              And beer. I wish

                   To God though that Bo here was Gwen.”

Which brings up an issue that few of us may have taken on board. I’m talking about those trophies you bring home from hunting and fishing. The formerly live animals, that’s one thing. But how about:

                    A frustrated fellow named Paul:

                    “I give taxidermy my all.

                                I stuff and I stuff,

                               And it’s never enough.

                   Just one more dead fish for a wall.”

Who can say how many issues we should brace ourselves for that haven’t arisen yet, publicly. For instance, do you think people who appear in limericks are happy about it?

                  “I feel,” says a fellow named Wade,

                  “That I am being portrayed

                            Superficially here.

                           I’m not given near

                  Enough scope. And don’t I get paid?”

Here's something: what about the decline in the authority -- or at least in the air of authority -- of higher-educationists? It used to be that scholars could be twitted, as in Clarence Day's verse, "When eras die, their legacies/ Are left to strange police./ Professors in New England guard/ The glories that were Greece." But now:

                  A deconstructionist, Tabby,

                  Felt this was by no means too shabby:

                            She’d done, while in London,

                            With underwear undone,

                  A can-can at Westminster Abbey.

Solemnity is something not to be frittered away. One thing I would urge people to be cautious about: banking too much on what seem to be breakthrough spiritual insights.

            One morning a fellow named Clark

            Was inspired, somehow, to remark,

                         “I am the Word!”

                        Nobody heard.

            At any rate, no sign of a spark.

            So he tried it again the next morning.

            Still nothing — except for a warning

                       That only Clark heard:

                       “Lay Off the Word!”

            Thus Clarkism died out aborning.

After all, the fruits of inspiration are hard to manifest without marketing:

             An online divine, Brother Porter,

             Disdains all bricks and mortar:

                        “Who needs a church

                        When there’s God’s own merch

             At your fingertips to order?”

In the search of truth, best stick to the laws of science. For instance, the objective aspects of post-holiday hangover:

             The day after too much wassail

             Is a re-evolution’ry tale:

                       Our tissues tranzish

                      From amoeba to fish

            And gradually back up the scale.

Or we could take a longer look:

            A head-hurting fellow named Bert

            Lay three whole days inert.

                     Was that enough rest?

                     He said he guessed

           Ten minutes more wouldn’t hurt.

One bit of advice holds true, across the board:  don’t eat irresponsibly. Otherwise:

           “I tell you I pity old Bubba.

          His spirit’s so cumbered by blubba,

                    When Delilah swings by

                    With that look in her eye,

          He can muster no more than one ‘Hubba.’”