Supply-Side Economics

Everything you really need to know
about supply-side economics
can be learned by watching The Roadrunner.
Not everyone can be a roadrunner,
and coyotes are pretty much doomed
to be coyotes, but you should invest heavily
in the ACME Corporation, regardless.

Because so long as there are roadrunners
and coyotes, there will always be
an imbalance of power, and hunger,
and a nearly genetic refusal
to learn from the failures of history.

And even if it would be cheaper
to order takeout every night, roadrunners
and coyotes are tradition-bound creatures,
set by God or fate in eternal opposition--
and wouldn’t you just kill
for a pair of rocket-powered roller skates?

I Get Mail...

> From: An Infinite Number of Monkeys
> Sent: Thursday, January 20, 2007 1:42 AM
> To: itsrainingmetaflo@hotmail.com
> Subject: SPAMlet Fellas
>
> Angels and ministers of grace defend us!
Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd,
Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell,
Be thy intents wicked or charitable,
Thou comest in such a questionable shape
That I will speak to thee:
What the fuck are you doing?
You're hanging around my fuckin' neck
like a vulture, like impending death!

You think I'm funny? I'm funny to you?
I'm a clown to you? How the fuck am I funny?
What the fuck is so funny about me?
Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of
me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know
my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my
mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to
the top of my compass: and there is much music,
excellent voice, in this little organ; yet cannot
you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think I am
easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what
instrument you will, though you can fret me, yet you
cannot play upon me.

O, that this too too solid flesh would melt
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!
How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Today everything is different.
There's no action.
I have to wait around like everyone else.
I'm an average nobody.
I get to live the rest of my life
like a schnook.

The rest is silence.

A Very Blogger Christmas

The Last Post Before Christmas

Twas the last post before Christmas, when all through the land,
The atheists plotted to have Christmas banned,
According to talk show hosts, spreading the Yule love,
In hopes that their savior would make them more moola.

The Dems and the Lobbyists were hurriedly making their beds (together),
While visions of Hillary '08 haunted Republican heads.
With Ma at her scrapbook, I sat down to blog,
Armed with barrels of clichés and 90 proof nog.

While out on the tubes I dodged Britney's cooter,
It was behind every address, on every computer.
In windows and tabs, on YouTube and Flash,
It made my soul shudder, it made my snow crash.

But with filters and blockers I finally managed
To get back to surfing with minimum damage.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear?
Damnit, Britney – I don't want to see your underwear, either!

Yadda, yadda, yadda…

The term's "morbidly obese," not "pleasingly curvy."
Now finish your veggies. You're going to get scurvy.

Yadda, yadda, yadda…

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a high click-through rate!

Carl Sagan, Ten Years Gone

I don’t worship at the alter of science, but I do sometimes drink from the blood of her prophets. Carl Sagan was a prophet as surely as he was a scientist, so I offer the following in memorium:

String Theory of Divergence

If the universe, and all its properties, is composed from bits of string
and the harmonies resonating through them and between,
then life is jazz and every breath a song.
And when you leave, the quiet is deafening.

Geek Love, Modern Poets Edition

I wrote a sonnet for your mom.
She keeps it hidden in her sock drawer, sonny.
You know, I've seen it before:
She's just a poetry whore.
She's really partial to the Longfellows, honey.

She's just a different kind of meter maid.
She loves to couple with a couplet on her lips.
Not to damn her with faint praise,
But I enjamb her nights and days,
While she ignores the hipsters twixt her hips.

I wrote a sonnet for your mom.
A pornographic poem calligraphic is her downfall.
She sees the prosaic and the didactic
As a mental prophylactic,
But she'd spread it for a limerick on a bathroom stall.

I wrote a sonnet for your mom.

I wrote a sonnet... for your mom.

I wrote a sonnet for... your mom.