Virge's blog

I couldn't resist writing some Valentine's Day limericks to express the gentle loving spirit of the occasion. Rather than stick to the time-honored "I love you" message, I've tried to highlight some of the other guises adopted by love.

As your slave on this Valentine's Day,
I'll serve wine and expensive paté.
For the rest of the year
Bring me icy-cold beer
And a big juicy T-bone, okay?

I know you hate Valentine's Day
Since your last love was "taken away".
While he decomposes
He's pushing up roses,
So I've brought you a lovely bouquet.

What to wear on this Valentine's Day?
Would a cardigan be too risqué?
Maybe horn-rims (ideal
For their raw sex-appeal),
And my combover? No, my toupee.

I installed Pivot Blacklist today, just in time. There had been a trickle of spam comment posts being added to old posts in the VirJournal. Fortunately I finished the Blacklist installation before the relative flood of spam comments started. It's been blocking an average of a spam post per minute for the last two hours. This is probably peanuts compared with what more popular blogs suffer. Still, I'm glad I'm not having to clean them all out.

Enemy of the Faith
The Cuddly Menace
Sinister Ducks Animated
Google Mirror

Sure...

Or maybe not.

Today, The Age featured an article claiming:

German job centres are offering unemployed women work as prostitutes and are obliged to cut welfare benefits of those who refuse to work in the world's oldest profession under new welfare laws.

Do I believe it? I searched Google News for similar articles. Only one source gave enough detail of the situation that triggered the news: *cough* World Net Daily. *cough*

I read the article in World Net Daily. I remembered that newspaper's name from somewhere. Ah yes. They were the ones who published a penetrating piece on the Harry Potter phenomenon and how the books encourage witchcraft and Satanism. In fact they even went so far as to quote from an article in The Onion as support! Snopes records their error for our entertainment.

Let's get back to the German brothel question. The one example quoted in WND is of a 25 year old woman who was threatened with unemployment benefit cuts when she turned down a job working in a bar in a brothel. Of course, the fundamentalist rag tarts up the story by giving it the sub-heading, "German law forces out-of-work females to take sex jobs or lose unemployment," to inflame the issue. Since when did working as a bartender count as being a sex job?

By the time the story is repeated in The Telegraph - Calcutta, the woman is supposed to have turned down a job providing "sexual services." Strangely enough, The Telegraph doesn't quote a source for its story. The Age does at least include the name of their reporter and his supposed location, Berlin. Did any reporters really do any journalism for their articles today, or did they rely on WND's impeccable journalistic record and recycle the WND report published on the 29th?

Tell me about it when the first German actually loses unemployment benefits for refusing a sex job. Even then I'll treat what I read with skepticism.

Here's a smattering of limericks I've submitted to the OEDILF over the past couple of weeks. They're not all groaners.

Acrid (a prediction for C. J. Strolin's future)

As the Limerick Enlightenment grew
Dostoevsky was versified too.
There was venting of spleen.
Strolin should have foreseen
Rhyme and Pun-ishment's acrid review.


Ankyloglossia

"I got angry last night and we fought
'Cause she told me my frenum's too short.
I tried and I tried,
But I'm always tongue-tied."
"You've got ankyloglossia, sport."


Australian shepherd

As a sheep dog, I'll give 'im 'is due;
This Orstraylian shepherd's me crew.
But inside, when 'e's smellin',
You'll still 'ear me yellin',
"Just get the flock outta 'ere, Blue!"


Access (a fit of intense feeling)

The quack said, "This back-session's aim—"
As his wild, whacking tactics became
An access climactic
Of rage chiropractic,
"—Is either to cure or to maim."


Apart

He was rapt in his ice-painting art;
She in starting an arctic ice-mart.
You can guess how it goes,
What with life's ebbs and floes,
How they gradually drifted apart.

I updated my blog software to the latest version. It all looked good in Firefox. Then I tried it in IE6. Bleagh!

I've changed the style sheet to screw both of them now. They're still different, but at least the text is visible in both.

[Edit: I've just tried a pre-made template. It could be a while before I have this looking the way I want it.]

[Edit again: This takes too long. It will have to do for a while. I'm getting sick of it.]

I wrote some birthday limericks last year--one that would suit a father, one that could easily be used for either a mother or a father, and one for a belated greeting. To this entry, a blog reader posted, "need a limerick for my mother on her birthday." Knowing nothing of the personal circumstances of the reader I threw together a couple of limericks.

For a true-blue Aussie mum:

May yer birthday be bonzer, ol' mum,
Fer today an' fer years yet t' come.
An' I'm reasonably sure
That you'll see plenty more
(Long as dad keeps on hidin' the rum).

For an all-American mom:

I sent you a birthday gift, mom,
But the US mail thought it a bomb.
Now I'm locked up for good;
It would help if you could
Contact get-me-a-lawyer dot com.

The humour of the next one is blacker.

What about the children?
Eye of Science
Stemming the Research
Too gay for kids
The Llama Song
Run by lying idiots *
Indecent Culture *
The aphrodisiacs of war
God Hates Cats
The necessity of torture

Chris Strolin of the OEDILF can be heard on National Public Radio's Weekend Edition. It's had its effect. Over the last 24 hours we've had about 20 new members sign up and contribute a limerick or two or three.

I must get back to writing some definitional limericks. Lately I've just been throwing in the occasional limerick in the forum discussions--the ones that take only a few minutes to write, e.g.,

I dropped the old line, "Never trust a person who can count up to 1023 on their fingers," and drew a puzzled reply. I had to elaborate:

To count up to ten twenty-three
On ten digits requires no degree.
If you're baffled then you
Should try thinking "base two"
Then the pow'r of the geek-side you'll see.

For phalangeal efficiency, you
Call each finger a power of two.
Digit up denotes "1";
Point it down to show none;
Do I need to give more of a clue?

And this one was a late night entry (the rhythm could do with some work in lines 1 and 2):

He always knows when I've been sleeping
Or if late night hours I'm keeping.
If he knows when I'm bad,
I.e., partially clad,
Then Claus is that creep who's been peeping.

[Edit: Dec 29th. Make that sixty-eight new contributing authors and several hundred limericks since the NPR interview aired on Christmas day.]

Lu-Tze likes to sit in the empty spa-bath. He loves to play with a dripping tap. When he tries to get close to where the drips burst on the base, those vexatious droplets hit the back of his head in a most provocative manner. Drips are exciting.

Lu-Tze is not familiar with large volumes of water, so I shall tell you of his Christmas Eve adventure.

After a long day of trying to make HouseOfVirge clean and safe for relatives, WifeOfVirge and DaughterOfVirge were luxuriating in the spa. We have no snow at Christmas here, but the spa-ing partners had added enough bubble-bath solution to create deep snowy landscapes with snowmen, bobsled runs, and even a possibility of a snowstorm should anyone sneeze. I opened the door to let Lu-Tze into the bathroom, to see the winter wonderland.

"Lift him up so he can see all the foam. We don't want him jumping in like he does when it's empty," said WifeOfVirge.

I lifted him and stood his paws on the tiled edge of the spa-bath. He stared at the foam and the talking heads that protruded from it. His eyes were wide. I could feel his heartbeat. I didn't want to stress him, so I lowered him to the floor and he walked away. Half way to the bathroom door, Lu-Tze turned--two bounds and a spring over the side of the spa into the foam--and vanished.

We fished him straight out--a bedraggled Santa Cat, complete with white beard. I washed his suds off in a basin then wrapped him in a towel.

Apart from the shock, I don't think he minded the dunking at all. He didn't complain during his toweling off. Once he was dry, he curled up on my lap and went to sleep.

The bathroom door stays shut for future spas.