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What rhymes with ''Orange''? Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 2012 Archive

Following are collected verses of doggerel that were written during the year 2012. Some verses may be accompanied by notes that were originally included when e-mailed to a few family members and friends, usually within a few minutes of the verses having been completed.

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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 01/01/12


Oh, her family and friends all do so solemnly swear
That, yes, yes indeed, it had always been right there
But now that the feature is suddenly certainly gone
They rationalize that, perhaps, a national telethon
Might help the hapless victim once again get a grip
By raising sufficient funding for a cosmetic tuck-'n'-nip
To surgically replace the feature missing from her face
After someone filched the philtrum from her upper lip
A light-fingered felon filched the philtrum from her lip


NOTE: For whatever reason this afternoon, my muse insisted I use the word "philtrum" in a chunk o' doggerel. Why? I haven't a clue. I suppose I should at least be thankful that I was not also compelled to have to end any lines with words that rhyme with "philtrum." Oy.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 01/14/12


Well, the MLK Day speaker had intended to speak
of Dr. King and his grand dream.
But those two points merged for a moment
and what he said was not what he meant.
So, dear Dr. King and his dream were spoonerized
and became the name Dr. Cream,
Like some over-the-counter brand of ointment
sold for self-prescribed anointment
When self-medicating while awaiting the week-away day
of a doctor's appointment.
It's good for blisters, burns, abrasions,
and infectious space alien invasions.
Treat the oozing, stop the itching, ease the pain
and, yes, quit your bitching.
'Cause when YOU scream, I scream, we all scream,
"Lube yourself with Dr. Cream!"


NOTE: The muse for today's convoluted doggerel was discovered while encoding, for both local cablecast and worldwide Internet dissemination, a new video documenting the latest iteration of Indiana's annual Dr. King commemoration at the state house. One of the presenters had some neurons momentarily misfire, such that "Dr. King" and his "dream" merged to become "Dr. Cream." While the speaker instantly recovered and corrected himself, the otherwise-insignificant gaff was sufficient to inspire my most-recent attempt at rhyme. Sorry.

DISCLAIMER: Today's installment of "Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day" is not intended to constitute an endorsement of any product or service bearing the name Dr. Cream™. Nor has Brother Dave or his representatives received any compensation whatsoever for the mention of Dr. Cream™ herein. If, indeed, the name Dr. Cream™ is an actual trademark for a real product or service, that trademark remains the property of its respective holder, and is used here only 'cause, hey, that's the way the freakin' cookie crumbled. So there!


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 01/16/12


Jesus Christ, Christians say, was crucified for our sin.
MLK died for a workday holiday so we all could sleep in.
Black 'n' white folks sleeping together, in separate beds,
Having the dreams that we dream in all-too-human heads.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 02/13/12


O, in ancient Greek theater, a play's final scene
Might ultimately define the work as comic or tragic.
Would the poor hero go down in inevitable defeat,
Or receive a last-second reprieve via godly magic?

Pilgrim, please be hip to these ploys of old Euripides.
Odds are that no god or gods will invalidate this motto:
Don't tempt the Fates by awaiting a deus ex machina
— Not without also buying lots of tickets for the lotto.
.

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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 02/18/12


Dear Friend, when I cannot be fully supportive,
I just trust that, at least, I can be quietly kind.
So, if you may claim an out-of-body experience,
I won't immediately say you're out of your mind.

(As usual, I will bite my lip so that I don't quip,
"No, you are out of your goddamn freakin' mind!")



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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 03/03/12


In lists of the world's worst films, and failing filmmaker in each case,
"Plan 9..." and Ed Wood very often are uncontested in first place.
But, just to ensure that no one else could ever be his awful equal,
Wood should have subsequently made a still more wretched prequel,
Called "First-Eight-But-Soon-Rejected Plans From Outer Space."


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 03/05/12 - #1


She launches herself into each new day
as if being fired from a trebuchet.
But it's my belief she'd have the same result
if she employed a catapult.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 03/05/12 - #2


I think of my cold drink for a moment
and consider its cubes of ice.
Each is a temorary, temperature-changing,
simple, cold-storage device.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 03/09/12 - #1


In the springtime we lose an hour, then in autumn we regain it.
So, a conundrum now occurs to me. If you understand, explain it.
Mom passed away on a summer day. Please excuse my sullen glower.
But, don't the Time Lords over D.S.T. still owe my Mom an hour?

In no small crime, Daylight Savings Time stole my Mom's final hour.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 03/09/12 - #2


Hey, I'm certainly no fashionista,
But still I feel it's safe for me to say,
"Hymen or not, it is A-Okay
For a bride to wear white after Labor Day."


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 03/10/12 - #1


Lying in bed late this morning, sleeping in, while in a waking dream state,
I was hazily, lazily, but intently listening for some message from my muse.
Due to cares or solar flares, there's static and, thus, reception not great.
Interference and crosstalk from a nearby channel kept playing "Deacon Blues."
I doubt Steely Dan ever hatched the plan to steal into my mind to obfuscate.
So, what if my muse… er… was calling me a loser: Deacon Brother Dave Blues?

(All the poor, paranoid souls among us now can
Once again begin all the reactive knee-jerking,
Declaring because I don't suspect Steely Dan
Merely means their nefarious plan is working.)



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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 03/10/12 - #2


O, those old-timer terrorists are sloppy-drunk again.
Man, I really hate when this sort of thing happens:
Reliving their glories, telling loud 'n' gory stories,
Plotting out new plans on Molotov cocktail napkins.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 03/11/12


Having just returned from resetting
the TV station's ancient master and slave clocks,
I've survived the time travel, without creating
a single life-changing temporal paradox.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 03/18/12


In the dark woods on the fifth planet out from Forlorn,
The world most spacefarers out there call Forlorn-Five,
Among low-hanging branches of the Gray Grimlock tree,
There lurks one of the creepiest parasitic creatures alive.

It awaits and anticipates the next passing humanoid,
To attack: mind-probe to spine, fangs anchored to bone.
The victim is reduced to no more than a meat-puppet
As the parasite assumes its host's lifeforce as its own.

A zombiefied host provides food and improved locomotion.
But scientists suspecting further motives can now relax.
It has recently been proven that the parasite's behavior
Is a survival ploy to avoid paying Forlorn-Five income tax.


NOTE: Yeppers, this is another instance of rhyme that came to me in a Waking Dream, during that gauzy state somewhere between being sound asleep and wide awake. And this particular bit of doggerel formed in my mind as I lay in bed late this morning ...very late this morning, just a few minutes remaining until I would have been, to quote Tom Waits, "sleeping into the crack of noon." So, hey, not bad productivity-wise. Right? I mean, with just another verse or two, or maybe with only the addition of a bridge, I might have the makings of a song here — a strange little song, but a new song nonetheless. Hotcha!


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 03/24-26/12


Were his eight obsidian-black eyes all blinded by love, or by lust?
Did he fantasize post-coital cuddles and lying languidly beside her?
Did he suspect in the least he'd soon be slain, then be her feast?
Well, a male's first sex act is often fatal in many species of spider.

He momentarily disarmed her with sexy moves, and he charmed her
With his hairy, fangy, eight-eyed face only another spider could adore.
On the morning after their sex fest, his lover made him breakfast.
That is to say, she made a breakfast of him, and not a breakfast for.

Well, there's the World Wide Web, with its male enhancement spam.
Vintage TV's Jack "Dragnet" Webb saying, "Just the facts, Ma'am."
The web printing press, webbed duck feet and, yes, truly a web of lies.
Spidey, find yourself a hidey-hole. And take a vow of celibacy, kid.
Or, succumb to the same dumb fate that your arachnid brothers did.
It's a female's wedding night web where many a male spider dies.

If he had survived the loving, would he have dared to once more try
To win her tender affections, braving certain death after searing pain?
He'd no need of a love potion, or an aphrodisiac such as Spanish Fly.
But he might've curbed her bloodthirst first with juicy flies from Spain.

Well, there's the World Wide Web, with its male enhancement spam.
Vintage TV's Jack "Dragnet" Webb saying, "Just the facts, Ma'am."
The web printing press, webbed duck feet and, yes, truly a web of lies.
Spidey, find yourself a hidey-hole. And take a vow of celibacy, kid.
Or, succumb to the same dumb fate that your arachnid brothers did.
It's a female's wedding night web where many a male spider dies.

(She has no breasts to give milk, but her butt sure can spin silk!)

Sure, it's Mother Nature's cruel plan that you were born a "leg man."
And a female's wedding night web is where many a male spider dies.


NOTE: Although it had been my intention to sleep-in this morning, I had to get up and unload at least some of the busy 'n' buzzy stuff from inside my mind. You see, I had an essay AND a verse of doggerel both vying for realization at the same time in my foggy, groggy noggin. Because the doggerel was already more fully-developed and, yes, much shorter, it won out over the essay for now, at least. And so, the doggerel is what it is. The essay, if I ever get around to actually actualizing it, will be called "The Spider Eaters" or some variation thereon, I think. The essay will be about the urban myth which claims that, on average, we each inadvertently eat a certain number of spiders over our lifetimes while we slumber. And it will consider the dangerous sex lives of spiders as, perhaps, being the underlying motivation for those among them who choose to commit apparent suicide by crawling to their doom in the nearest gape-mouthed maw of a soundly sleeping human being. And it will compare Spider Eaters to Jesus, because just as Jesus is alleged to have died for our sins, surely there are Spider Eaters who are eating our spiders for us. Bless their hearts. (I mean, really, I am unaware of any evidence to suggest that I've ever eaten a spider during my sleep. And I don't know anyone who has claimed that he or she has even once suspected that a single spider may have been ingested during his or her slumber. And so, if, say, an average of seven [Count 'em, 7!] spiders supposedly are consumed over a person's lifetime, but neither I nor anyone I know can attest to spider consumption, then there must be some unknown and unsung person or persons eating a helluva lot of spiders to make the averages balance out. Why, a Spider Eater could be accidentally eating a spider every few minutes or so. Jeez. Q: "Waiter, what's this spider doing in my soup?" A: "Hmm, looks like the backstroke into your spoon." And blah, de-blah, blah, blah, blah.) Anyway, that's the backstory for today's doggerel. So now, m'Dear, I'm outta here. Be well, be happy and, oh yeah, be sure to sleep with your mouth shut. TTFN.

PS: Think I'll go back to bed now. Oy!

PPS: This morning, March 25th, The Muses provided me with a second verse to accompany yesterday's doggerel. So the day-older work is repeated above, immediately followed by the new.

PPPS: Later this morning, March 25th, The Muses provided me with a third verse to accompany yesterday's doggerel. So work from yesterday and earlier today is repeated above, immediately followed by the new.

PPPPS: This morning, March 26th, while still in bed, a bridge was built inside my head. Cool. Add it to the verses of doggerel from yesterday and the day before and, presto change-o, there's enough stuff for an actual song. Word-wise, at least. (Maybe I can come up with a tune during some future waking dream. And, oh yeah, maybe a title, too. How 'bout "Sex Kills"? No? "Loving You Brings A Tear To My Eye And My Other Eye And My Other Eye And My Other Eye And My Other Eye And My Other Eye And My Other Eye And My Other Eye"? Not quite? "When I Asked You To Eat Me, Darlin', I Didn't Mean Like This"? No, I don't think so. "Why Aren't More Male Spiders Arachnophobic?" Perhaps. For now, I'll just wait and see what comes up.)


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 03/26/12


She asked, "Whose rhymes are these?"
I said, "I'm the guy who wrote 'em."
I asked her, "So, what do ya think?"
Then,… she kicked me in the scrotum.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 03/31/12


Well, one time when I went insane,
and was so lost and alone in my own brain,
I'd close my worried baby blues
and witness alien shapes in non-Earthly hues.
Each foreign form I'd perceive
surely had intended functions I couldn't conceive.
Nothing that I saw, as far as I could see,
had any assuring sense of familiarity.
Only the lighting was as close as it got:
Each scene was lit like a glamor shot.
My muddled mind, by some quirk,
had tapped the Galactic Home Shopping Network.

PS: Even if I had wanted to purchase an item,
I sincerely doubted that I ever could get it.
Beside my meager financial worth, being Earth-
bound limits one's extra-terrestrial credit.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 04/01/12


Pete was killed and eaten by a grizzly bear.
Poor and unfortunate guy, he died so young.
With nothing else left of his Earthly remains,
His casket contains a pile of ripe bear dung.

The Moral:
For total mortification, it's more than ample
To have one's life reduced to a stool sample.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 04/02/12


Some people say the glass is half empty, and they despair that the little liquid that's there is in the process of evaporating.
Other people say the glass is half full, and they fantasize pouring in more, up to full and overflowing in well-intended wishes.
Me? I see that the glass is twice as big as it needs to be to contain all the fluid that went into this particular experiment.
So it occurs to me that, to illustrate the dichotomy, the one who chose the glassware is likely not the one who washes the dishes.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 04/07/12


Reverend Brother Bertrand Brown founded the new old-time Gross religion.
No, it is not so-called due to being more repugnant than any other faith.
"A single deity couldn't screw with us this much. Surely, it takes more."
So Grossers are polytheistic and their gods total one hundred forty-four.

As Brother Bert says with a sigh, "There but for the gross of gods go I."


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 04/14/12


Around my long 'n' lucious neck, by heck, I wear a medical alert necklace.
It is meant to discourage any vampire from doing with me as it pleases.
Regardless of being red, a cross is a cross is a vampire-repellent cross.
Engraved on its back, I claim several unappetizing blood-borne diseases.


PS: What's that? You say the symbol on your medical alert necklace and/or bracelet looks more like a red asterisk than a Christian cross? Well, I suppose that might work, too, but I am dubious. If you're ever confronted by a vampire while wearing your med-alert bling, let me know whether it was helpful in warding off a possible attack. (If you are attacked and killed, I realize that my request will be pointless. If, however, you are attacked and turned into a vampire yourself, then I still look forward to hearing from you — by phone or in writing, but not by face-to-face [or face-to-neck] contact.)


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 04/15/12


It's a heart-breaker that someone stole Tom Petty's guitar.
A thief or thieves took what was taken, and left what's left.
Why, the worth of a vintage twelve-string Ricky by itself,
Tho' purloined from Petty, takes this crime past petty theft.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 04/26/12


It was twenty-three years ago today
That Lucille Ball, 78, passed away.
She might still be alive, or so I say,
If she had been on a daily regimen
Of bonbons and Vitameatavegamin.

Yep, conveyor-belt bonbons and then
A belt or ten of Vitameatavegamin.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 04/28/12


When stumping for votes on the campaign trail,
Know there are no ifs or ands or buts or maybes:
You can't get confused and commit the Epic Fail
Of kissing constituent hands and shaking babies.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 05/05/12


My situation suggests I may be a zero as a super-hero.
Because when the cops caught me and read me my rights,
They did not charge me for well-intentioned vigilantism,
But for appearing in public while wearing Spandex tights.

Life's hard since the media named me The Unitard Retard.
Public humiliation is excessive, beyond all sour grapes.
So if, like me, your bag is to dress in super-hero drag,
Know Spandex (or stretchy Brand X) is for svelte body shapes.

Who knew such grief could stem from wearing one's briefs
Outside the rest of one's form-fitting foundation apparel?
Who knew that ferreting out varmints in one's undergarments*
Could put one's selfless service over the proverbial barrel?

My lumpy body is unfit for the job, though my mind is willin'.
Still, any hopes I once had of being super-heroic are dimming.
Because I'm a zero as super-hero, I think I'll turn super-villain.
I'll be bad and black-leather-clad. And, hey, black is slimming!


* Here, I'm referring to engaging in typical crime-fighting action and derring-do while wearing a super-hero outfit that looks more like long-johns and tighty-whities than, say, common pants and shirt. I do not mean to imply that the varmints were in my underwear. (That's a whole different story, a tale I may tell at some future time.)


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 05/06/12


O, I took a look into the long-lost and ancient holy book,
Perchance to find immutable truths I 'd long been seeking.
But my hopeful heart sank and was sorely vexed
By what my weary, disbelieving eyes noted next:
The indecipherable words within that sacred text
Were of no archaic tongue, just typographer's greeking.*


* Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipisicing elit,
sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna
aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation
ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat.
Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse
cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat
cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt
mollit anim id est laborum. Amen.


PS: Today's doggerel is based on a dream I had immediately before waking and rising very late this morning. In my dream, I caught a fleeting glance of the scripture on a single page in a very large (6-feet wide, 8-feet tall) and very ancient holy book. But in that one glance, I instantly recognized that the text was typical typographic greeking, rather than being from some long-forgotten foreign language. I was both disappointed by not finding some ultimate truth and, yet, very appreciative of the keen sense of humor of some bygone scribe who had created the joke. Then, I woke up and set to work writing and editing my dream-inspired doggerel. Oh, and I'm talking 'bout actual sound-asleep dreaming this time, rather than my usual waking-dream dreaming. So there!


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 05/07/12


I slept-in on this Monday morning.
I'm taking the day off from my job.
I awoke dyslexic at eight-oh-eight.
Clock display seemed to say, "BOB."


True Story: 8:08, and BOB, and spontaneous doggerel this morning. And stuff like this has happened to me at other times, although not necessarily accompanied by the unpremeditated act of rhyming: A True-Life Microsecond Melodrama


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 05/08/12


Yes, I confess it's a fact I was actually caught in the act.
And so I needed a compelling excuse and I needed it quick.
"My birth certificate proclaims my middle name's Richard.
Sometimes that's just license enough for my being a Dick."


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 05/09/12


Fifty years ago today, scientists bounced laser light off the Moon.
Let's hope that it did not — somehow, someway — promote the genesis
Of lunatic, lunar-born, man-eating monsters sent down to menace us,
Who, if they are not already here among us, could be arriving soon.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 05/10/12


Legendary Mother Maybelle Carter was born one-hundred-three years ago today.
She was one of country music's founding pioneers, who was best known to play
"Scratch" style guitar or autoharp, and to sing "Wildwood Flower" as none other.
I'll never be such a pioneer. But like Maybelle, I, too, have been called a mother.

Dear departed Maybelle Carter and I, yeah, we've each been called a mother.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 05/12/12


Sometimes he's amused by just how much irony
A single, quiet moment of reflection reflects.
But he has survived to become a sexagenarian,
Though it was so long ago he gave up on sex.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 05/13/12


Now that the Amish have finally won the international space race,
They're too humble yet to blow their own horn, so I'll give it a toot,
In praise of their handcrafted, hardwood, tallow-fueled spacecraft
And planetary rover drawn by a horse in its own patchwork spacesuit.


Note: Today's doggerel will be written in the future, precisely one hundred years from today, 2112CE, by what remains of my current essence that will at that time reside within a powder-blue android body — mostly humanoid-looking, I'm told, but also sporting some cool 1950s-style Cadillac fins and a state-of-the-art death-ray third-eye. The doggerel will commemorate actual current events. On that distant day, I will compose the rhyme and then send it wending its way back through time so that it will be (and was) transferred to my foggy, groggy noggin during that lazy, hazy phase of fuzziness somewhere between being sound asleep and wide awake, all on this Mother's Day Sunday in May, 2012CE. Imagine that!


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 05/14/12


If all the tallow-based rocket fuel supply were prematurely depleted,
I'd freak out or, at best, try to quell my upwelling fear and petulance.
But Amish astronauts would rally to the cause, never to be defeated,
And ignite course-correcting burns of their on-board horse's flatulence.


Note: It appears that today's doggerel could potentially follow somewhere after yesterday's verse in a future, longer work. It boggles the mind, dosen't it?


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 05/17/12


Dear Readers, I beseech forgiveness from you each.
My hat is in my hand and my old head is humbly hung.
I am quite contrite for this verse that I've contrived
Simply for the sake of saying the phrase "iron lung."


Note: On NPR this morning, when talking about the Iranian Prime Minister deposed by the CIA-supported coup in 1953, the British-accented reporter mentioned that the Prime Minister had been a hypochondriac who was prone to fainting spells and who occasionally spent some time in an "iron bed." While the initial image in my mind was of a conventional box-springs-'n'-mattress bed with iron bedposts, the context caused me to suspect that the reporter was actually referring to what I — and most Americans my age and older, I imagine — would call an "iron lung." Well then, that phrase, "iron lung," got stuck in my head. Oy. So in an attempt to unload it, I wrote the rhyme. Because today's doggerel is apolitical — taking no stance, either pro or con, with regard to any coup anywhere — I am reasonably confident that I'll avoid unintentionally calling down a fatwa on my fat ass. So there!


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 05/19/12


Dear Readers, I beseech forgiveness from you each.
My hat is in my hand and my old head is humbly hung.
I am quite contrite for this verse that I've contrived
Simply for the sake of saying the phrase "iron lung."

I'm what's called a "side-sleeper" by the bedding biz.
Slept on one side or the other ever since I was young.
So old dog, new trick: I don't think I'd sleep a wink
While forced to lie flat on my back in an iron lung.

But if I slept while lying flat, I'd be prone to snoring
At Wagnerian decibel-levels, before any fat lady sung.
Caregivers mothering me may consider smothering me
Or giving a tug on the power plug of my iron lung.

It makes me wince to think how a patient's flatulence
Containing explosive methane naturally found in dung,
If insufficiently vented from that air-tight metal chamber,
Could concentrate to make a firebomb of an iron lung.

Since iron machinery is so susceptible to oxidization,
And inhaling rust particulates does not engender zeal,
If physicians commission an iron lung for my condition,
Please request, instead, one made of stainless steel.

Or of plastic, or spun glass, or carbon-fiber filament.
But anyone suggesting going old school needs a firin'!
Perish the thought of my two all-natural, organic lungs
Being replaced by one steampunk-type lung made of iron.


Note: Sure, it's weird-ass nonsense. But, hey, it rhymes. The first verse is the one that popped into my head on Thursday morning after listening to a Brit-accented reporter on NPR speak the phrase "iron bed" to mean, I surmised, an "iron lung." Then, late this morning while still lying in my regular ol' non-iron bed, outlines for the four middle verses coalesced in my foggy, groggy noggin while I was in that lazy, hazy phase between being sound asleep and wide awake. Why? Who knows? Apparently, the sixth verse sneaked up, marked its territory, and established a homestead while I was busy being distracted by the job of nudging and niggling the other verses into their respective places. Oy! Oh, and just in case you're curious, no, I am not aware of having any particular problem with my own lungs at this time. Hey, it's just doggerel.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 05/20/12


Emulating catch-phrases of Hollywood Heroes,
as said just before or after a bad guy dies,
I'm writing my own list of clever and/or ironic phrases
to which I'll someday give voice.
Thus prepared, I'll avoid that awkward silence
that tends to pervade unscripted violence.
And I'll have deferred to my list when selecting
methods of murder and weapons of choice.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 05/22/12


I tranq bald eagles with downer-darts for the Indiana D.N.R.
I note sex, age, health, wingspan, and whatever they weigh.
Before they are freed, I need to apply ID-bands to their legs.
And then, to each bald eagle head, I glue a wig or a toupee.

Often I think to myself, "Ah, it must surely stick in one's craw
Or stick in another birdy innard part, like, perhaps, the gullet,
To catch one's own reflection when swooping to catch a fish
And see a once-regal bald eagle now forced to wear a mullet."


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 05/25/12


The playwright Oscar Wilde was sentenced and sent
To two years of hard labor and harsh imprisonment
Exactly one-hundred-and-seventeen years ago today,
Simply for the bloody, sodding crime of being born gay.

If he'd been born a century later and in the U.S. of A.,
And if certain God-fearing Christians had their holy way,
Wilde would be deprogrammed, freed of Satan's stamp,
Or herded off with other queers to concentration camp.

And some people think there's no such thing as progress.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 05/26/12


Once, Pop and I agreed about the crystal-clean quality
of Karen Carpenter's voice.
But he seemed to think it was her own fault
for the anorexic end that she ended at.
Pop seemed surprised when I said she'd been mentally ill
and, thus, had little choice.
Her dying thought likely was, "I suppose my burial clothes
will make my ass look fat."


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 05/27/12


Well, it is once again "Race Day" here in Indianapolis.
I wonder when the Speedway folks will finally face this:
While the "Indy 500" brand name still has some cachet,
The term "Race Day" sounds sort of divisive and racist.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 05/28/12


This morning I awoke to the sound of seemingly-joyful birdsong from outdoors.
I imagine that's more pleasant than being awakened by squawking pterosaurs.

Evolution: Don't Leave Home Without It!
Especially when your home is a warm, shallow pool of primordial goo.



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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 05/30/12


Lock up all of your goats in the barn.
Bar the doors and windows of su casa.
To the Holy Virgin, keep candles lit
From dusk to dawn in the candelabra.
Sleep with one eye open, if you sleep.
Because, amigo, you're wholly fucked
If your throat and goats get sucked!
¡Es la noche espantosa del Chupacabra!*


*TRANSLATION: "It's the dreadful night of the Goat-Sucker!"

PS: I imagine "Night of the Chupacabra" would be a suitable title for a new indie, monochrome, low-budget, retro, campy, sci-fi/horror, B-movie film project. It would be a period piece, of course, set in the 1950s. And the killer chupacabras would be determined to be horrifying mutants created by atomic radiation.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 06/03/12 - #1


For many basic leavened breads, yeast is mixed with flour, water, and salt.
The yeast ferments carbohydrates, so that the dough may rise to perfection.
Then the dough is placed in an oven to bake. Barring some unforeseen fault,
The bread survives its test of fire, yummy and cured of its yeast infection.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 06/03/12 - #2


Hey, I'm okay with dining on Soylent Green.
Just keep it gray-matter-free, if you please.
I don't want to wind up with a case of Kuru,
Creutzfeldt-Jakob, or other cannibal disease.

Of all of the various Soylent flavor options,
Surely, the Green is most worthy of pickin'.
Yes, it's made from processed human remains.
But it tastes great, kinda/sorta like chicken.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 06/04/12 - #1


Yes, it's tried and it's true: Breaking up is hard to do.
But accept the process, even if it is to be lamented.
Overwhelming rifts occur; bodies shift and drift apart.
And that's how prehistoric Pangaea was fragmented.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 06/04/12 - #2


Carmen Tisch expressed her views on a
thirty-million-dollar expressionist painting.
The next time she feels like an art critic,
she should write an essay or pen a sonnet.
A judge sentenced Tisch to two years' probation,
alcohol treatment, and counseling
For drunkenly sliding her ass up against the art
and for brazenly trying to piss on it.


Source of Inspiration: Abstract Expressionist Urinator Sentenced To Probation


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 06/04/12 - #3


Though it's early June, an online vendor touts a "Start of Winter Sale!"
And if you are like me, the sense of such a phrase will initially fail ya.
But further investigation reveals the fault to be my hemispheric bias.
Because, even though it's June, Winter's coming on soon in Australia.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 06/09/12 - #1


If your car key abandons you in some public place
and leaves you in the lurch,
You may frisk yourself discreetly,
but conduct no full body-cavity strip-search.
If a cop stops to ask what's up,
"please-and-thank-you,-sir" him or "-ma'am" her.
Don't let the next key that you may see
be the one that locks you in the slammer.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 06/09/12 - #2


Flowers dazzle you with scent and color,
As if with a heady, hypnotic, magical hex.
They so beguile you into almost forgetting
They are tarted-up for immoral, floral sex.


PS: I have warned of this before. Plants will flirt with you, don't think they won't. And during their sex-crazed orgy of springtime reproductive madness, they don't care one whit where or with whom their naughty pollen parts get deposited. Hey, I'm just sayin'


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 06/14/12


The Bible says that Jesus walked upon the water.
As magic tricks go, that one's pretty freakin' nice.
Now, don't get cross and want to see me crucified.
But I can walk on water, too, tho' only when it's ice.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 06/23/12


Forty-something-million years ago, two turtles died while having sex.
Lethal coitus interruptus: Consumation unfulfilled and no babies born.
Still joined together, their corpses sank to the lake bottom. And next,
They were buried in mud, eventually turning them into fossilized porn.

Source of Inspiration: The First-Ever Fossils Of Vertebrates Who Died During Sex


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 06/24/12


Of all the wacky world religions,
One wonders whether the craziest
Help make as many true believers
As they do enlightened atheists.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 06/25/12


Consarn it, dagnabbit, and tarnation!
It surely and sorely causes vexation
To have the ol' Conestoga wagon fail
Just one day out on the Oregon Trail.

(For The Kiddos and The Cat heading West)


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 06/28/12


The last time it got nearly this hot in Indiana
on this particular month and day,
The year was Nineteen-Thirty-Four, long before
residential A.C. held any sway.
Down on the farm, rare was an electric fan
to vaguely cool one's stifled breath.
And my Mom was less than four months along the line
between her birth and death.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 06/30/12 - #1


Although taking a handgun to a knife fight,
Generally speaking, will more than suffice,
I much prefer also packing a small 'n' light
'n' practical tactical thermonuclear device.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 06/30/12 - #2


Although I try to be both tech savvy and New Age,
When I meditate I always get the 404 Error page.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 07/01/12


Townsfolk emptied chamber pots out front-facing windows,
Down to the gutter below that served as an open sewer.
How could one care if the neighbors saw one's dirty linen,
When they could not help but see one's fresh manure?


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 07/02/12


The gas of an aerosolized bug-bomb poison attack
Is fatally respired into a cockroach's spiracles,
Leaving it fallen and flailing and flat on its back,
Vainly awaiting its deity's last-minute miracles.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 07/04/12 - #1


Say some someone (hypothetically and not me),
Awakes in the wee hours because he has to pee.
And during the deed a verse pops into his head.
Should he choose writing or returning to bed?

Regarding word derivation and phrase etymology,
I am often quite curious, if not flat-out enthralled.
So it excites me to think that I've hit on the link
As to why the "wee hours" might be so called.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 07/04/12 - #2


"The 'God Particle' was imagined half a century ago
by theoretical physicist Peter Higgs."
*

If, like for me, there is something about
That statement that leaves you somewhat uncertain or even leery,
It should be clarified to remove any doubt:
Higgs is a "theoretical physicist" in point of fact, not theory.

*A quoted headline or subhead or opening sentence as seen somewhere on the Internet on this particular day, but source information has been lost in the interim.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 07/04/12 - #3


I wonder if that fairy is very small,
Or if her mushroom bed is humungous.
Either way, I think it's kinda kinky
To fall asleep atop a phallic fungus.

NOTE: This verse was written in response to viewing a fantasy painting depicting a fairy in quiet repose, as posted by a friend on Facebook.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 07/05/12


A male priampiumfish's genitals are not located where one might expect.
They're not down-and-tailfinward, but on his chin! Isn't that freakin' weird?
So, its fishy missionary position equivalent is a lot more like giving head.
In polite company, any man likewise arranged would always wear a beard.

Inspirational Source: Zoologger: The Fish With Its Genitals On Its Head


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 07/07/12


This morning in bed, in that hazy-crazy place in my head,
between being wide awake and sound asleep,
I wrote and recorded a new song, then scripted and shot
the music video with a young Ms. Meryl Streep.
Gwyneth, Scarlett, Angelina, Halle, Renée, and Cameron
wanted the role. Whatever. Meryl is no slouch.
Though A-list talent compete for parts in D. Lister projects,
I've no need for a Hollywood casting couch.
I'm not consumed with thoughts of conquest and seduction,
sex and possible reproduction. No, instead,
I obsess on pre-production, production, and post-production
— in my groggy, foggy noggin while in bed.

(Hey, that's today's BD doggerel. If you wanted something more,
Perhaps it lies all a-tangle on the cutting-room/bedroom floor.)


NOTE: Reflecting on this morning's reverie has me thinking now that, just perhaps, I should consider getting a baby-shit-yellow T-shirt printed-up that says something like: "My waking-dream self got a brand new Brother Dave song and a fantastic music video featuring the best actress in the country. But all I got was some freakin' doggerel and this crappy shirt." That could caption the front of the shirt, along with an idealized portrait of my waking-dream self, who is much more good-looking and younger than me and who, when I think about it, probably doesn't look like me at all. Oy. On back of the shirt, I might have the above doggerel reprinted. Oy, again.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 07/09/12 - #1


Regardless of life's wide diversity,
it overwhelmingly shares one fateful distinction:
Ninety-eight percent of all species that ever lived
have all dead-ended in extinction.
Large-scale species erasure occurs via sudden,
sharp shock to a long-stressed biosphere.
Twenty mass extinction events came and went
these past five-hundred-forty-million years,
Some future doomsday, a nearby nova, supernova,
or gamma ray burst could be at fault.
But mass murderers thus far have been
asteroid impact, volcanic pollution, flood basalt,
Deep-ocean anoxia, global warming, widespread
glaciation, and worldwide sea-level drop.
No matter the method, once a deadly event begins,
an era may pass before it can stop.

Between terminal times of five major
and fifteen-or-so lesser mass extinction events,
Individual species still slip into oblivion,
though it's less frequently and less intense.
Surely, there were countless cases
where predator and prey were so closely linked
That when all prey died off through predation,
all of their predators then went extinct.
How many species die off in silence
when their sexual violence crosses the fine line
Between first appeasing hunger and waiting
until after mating before beginning to dine?
And how many species exit existance by being
so lethargic, as opposed to running amok,
Who lose all sexual desire, passion, and fire,
then die off 'cause they don't give a fuck?


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 07/09/12 - #2


Here's a bit of delicious irony for all of you music trivia junkies:
Forty-five years ago today, Jimi Hendrix opened for The Monkees.

*****

Above, I used the phrase "delicious irony"
To allude to some poem I read years ago.
"What poem and by whom?" you well may ask.
Truth is, I've forgotten and no longer know.
However, I grant any and all Hendrix fans,
Now, before they start to jeer and titter,
The option to change, as they may choose,
The potentially-offensive "delicious" to "bitter."


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 07/12/12


Stephen Hawking's physical paralysis is damn-near complete.
Can mind-reading gizmos return to him some real-world control?
In preliminary tests, he's made a computer both write and speak.
Let's hope his stray thoughts create no spontaneous black hole.

Inspirational Source: Stephen Hawking Trials Device That Reads His Mind


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 07/14/12


O, The Second Great Flood is forthcoming
— Forty days and nights of rain, non-stop.
Build an ark or float a loan for a big boat.
Or, face the rising tide with bucket and mop.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 07/15/12


If Bro. Joe had shot all of those bullet holes in his guitar himself,
Legally speaking, there might never have been any actual crime.
But, no, a drunken music critic fired the multiple gunshots through
The axe that our now-dear-departed Joe was playing at the time.

To re-coin a phrase: "Those who can, do; those who can't, critique."
Regardless of repertoire, audiences accepted Joe's music as a treat.
I doubt Joe's killer could four-four flatpick-strum chords C, F, and G.
That asshole assassin couldn't empty a 9-mil clip with a steady beat!


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 07/16/12


What's your first thoughts regarding Saint Valentine's Day?
Love, romance, heart-shape-boxed candy, red roses in vases?
Am I alone in first thinking of massacre, Chicago, Al Capone,
Bloody puddles of liquor, and machine guns in violin cases?

NOTE: As it often happens, the muse for today's doggerel came to me while still in bed, while in that groggy, foggy phase somewhere between being sound asleep and wide awake. My thread of thought did not originate with the sentimental imagery of romance, nor with some gruesome tableau of Roaring Twenties mass murder. Nope, for inspiration having more potential for rhyme than for reason, per se, I awoke wondering whether a typical machine gun, circa 1929, really could fit handily into a violin case or if, instead, a viola case was actually more accommodating. Hey, I think of these arcane (Inane? Insane?) things so you don't have to. Anyway, I was compelled to get out of bed, turn on the computer, and write a few lines that logically (or even quasi-logically) led up to and rhymed with the phrase "machine guns in violin cases."


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 07/20/12


Today is three-years-to-the-day when Marguerite Lister passed away.
At least, that is what most of the funeral attendees would likely say.
Me? Being her firstborn child, I have seen her both up-close and often.
And I was never completely convinced it was really Mom in that coffin.

Mom is too kind-hearted to be a co-conspirator or a willing participant
In such a cruel hoax, as to feign her death and leave behind a replicant.
So, it's obvious to me that she was abducted by aliens from outer space,
Who had unintentionally left a nonviable pod-person's body in her place.

Though I've no interstellar intel nor the means to mount a rescue plan,
My hope is Mom can distract her guards by causing feces to hit the fan.
So she can escape her laboratory cage on, say, planet Simulacrum Five,
Then hot-wire a starship, pilot it home, and reveal that she is still alive.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 07/22/12 - #1


Let's freakin' forget and withdraw from Pakistan and Afghanistan.
For better slapstick situations, bring back Laurel-comma-Stan,

And, of course, b'gosh 'n' b'golly. bring back Hardy-comma-Ollie.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 07/22/12 - #2


On planet K-9, a dog boy and a dog girl
Collaborate in composing bad doggerel.*
Is that the best way to make time pass?
Hey, their usual diversion is sniffing ass.

* "Bad doggerel," you say, "why, that's entirely redundant!"
Well, it may only seem so 'cause good is less abundant.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 07/28/12


Although it may sound sort o' silly, Daniel Boone's little brother, Billy,
Was an animal-rights pioneer who would never kill for a coonskin cap.
So, indeed and instead, Billy trained a pet raccoon to sit on his head,
As a living hat that he'd need to feed and literally put up with its crap.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 07/29/12


If Rupert Murdoch's minions try to print-publish a recap
Of verbatim quotes from me, gleaned via illegal wiretap,
Regardless of the transcription's accuracy, I still will sue
If I'm purported to have ever said "colour" with a letter U.

Don't say I said, "Torch, lift, lorry, spanner, boot, bonnet,
Knickers, biscuit, chips, crisps, or willy with a welly on it,"
Unless actually true and all from my American point of view.
And never allege that I ever said "labour" with a British U.

Conversely, if England's Queen is quoted in The Indy Star
As saying, "We favor and savor the flavor of rotgut from a jar,"
I'd suspect that's untrue unless also quoted, "In deference to
Tom Hanks and rest of you Yanks, we omit each useless U."

"Hereby, thanks to you Yanks, we will purge each useless U."


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 07/30/12


"What rhymes with 'Orange'?" he wondered. "It has to be a perfect rhyme."
If only he'd settled for a slant rhyme, he could've saved himself his lifetime.
He quested on, tho' everyone knows there's no prefect rhyme for "Orange."
Ultimately, he failed. And now he's deader than a doornail in a door hinge.

PS: Although there is no grammatical or technical reason for the phrase "slant rhyme" to be italicized in today's verse, I just couldn't keep myself from slanting it visually. I mean, hey, that phrase was just begging for it. So there!


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 08/04/12


The petite Miss Buffy Anne Summers is The Vampire Slayer.
Her birthright is to fight all monsters, demons, and vamps.
She endures many occupational injuries, even dying twice.
She never once has claimed debilitating menstrual cramps.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 08/05/12


We all call him Brother Bob.
But contrary to the rest of us,
His lover calls him "B.B."
Because it's less incestuous.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 08/06/12


Chinese engineers intend soon to send men to the moon.
But might moon monsters track them, attack, then devour?
Will lunatic lunar beasts gorge themselves when they feast
On their Chinese cuisine, then be hungry again in an hour?


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 08/11/12


Sometimes my dreams are vivid, surreal, and enthralling scenes.
Other times they may seem so pedestrian, trivial, and humdrum.
But the restless ones I would group as having a faulty logic loop,
Often pose a nearly-painful, insoluble, meaningless conundrum.

No matter how compelling, a puzzle ultimately defies resolution
When based on a false premise that leads to no valid conclusion.
So, the solution I'm too many iterations in when I finally take up
Is to realize the folly of my dream and force myself to wake up.

NOTE: I stayed up into the wee hours this morning. I meant to sleep-in till late this morning, maybe even till early afternoon. But my sleep was restless due to a recurring dream. Because it was a scene I dreamed over and over and over again in quick succession, one might expect that I should easily remember the imagery and action of the dream now. But I do not. I only know that it was another of those dreams in which I feel compelled to solve some insane puzzle and I get stuck in a logic loop until I finally accept that the puzzle is illogical and, finally, I wake up. Sometimes the waking up takes care of the matter, sometimes the same damned dream sequence begins again as soon as I fall back asleep. O-C-freakin'-D. Oy. Anyway, I had to get up early to write the above doggerel because, even though the dream had finally stopped, it left me with the rhyme-pair of "humdrum" and "conundrum" repeating over and over and over again in my groggy, foggy noggin. Oy, again. It has taken a lot longer than I would have expected to mold today's doggerel into its current shape, but that's the way the world goes 'round sometimes. And blah, de-blah, blah, blah, blah. Hey, I'm going back to bed now. To sleep, perchance to freakin' dream. Nighty-night.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 08/18/12


I heard of this space alien dude who is so rude that he won't even ask
Permission before slicing off your face and then wearing it as his mask.

Then, with your face well in place, that alien from outer space will appear
To any casual observer to clearly, convincingly be [insert your name here].

Face the facts while you still have a face. Let fear fuel your imagination.
Erect a dome to protect your home from illegal space alien immigration.

Dome, sweet dome. Be it ever impenetrable, there's no place like dome.

NOTE: Today, doggerel is sponsored by Plexiglas®, whose new BD-authored corporate slogan is: "Protect your ass with Plexiglas®!" Ask for it by name!


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 08/20/12


Now, it's hard to believe that we were so naïve
As to not titter at the name "Beaver Cleaver."
Whereas, the word "titter" itself, I do believe,
Would have had us tittering at our TV receiver.

QUOTE: "Leave It To Beaver ... starring Barbara Billingsley, Hugh Beaumont, Tony Dow, and Jerry Mathers as The Beaver." (Introductory voice-over for popular sitcom TV series, 1957-1963)


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 08/22/12


Would I try to buy some online something via the Vatican and the Pope?
Well, since I'm unlikely to confuse Paypal with papal, I will say, "Nope."


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 09/03/12


"No, zees eez not mah normahl voize,"
Said one Hoosier friend after a stroke.
"Eet eez zee Foreign Accent Syndrome,
Not zee fake-out 'Frog' in zee throat.

NOTE: Fantastic psychic phenomenon, or mere commonplace coincidence? For reasons unexplained and inexplicable, I awoke this morning thinking I should write a few lines of doggerel in which the phrase "frog in the throat" would be re-purposed to refer to an English-speaker who is speaking with a fake French accent. Yeah, go figure. But just before I got around to writing, I noticed a brand new tweet by io9 that pertained directly to my intended doggerel theme. Imagine that! Anyway, if you care to read a short introduction to the malady known as FAS, Foreign Accent Syndrome, check this out: The Psychological Syndrome That Causes You To Speak With A Fake Foreign Accent


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 09/04/12


When I'm asked to moderate
The gubernatorial debates,
There's one thing I will do.

To set the public straight,
I'll give "guber" an update
With two O's instead of a U.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 09/07/12


If Dubya soaked in gasoline, then set fire to his tush,
Would the voice of God call out from that burning Bush?

Even if I were a true believer, I'd still have some doubt
God would ever scream, "Put it out! Put it out! Put it out!"

NOTE: Remember, Kids, Smokey Bear says, "Don't play with matches! But if you do play with matches and set yourself on fire, don't go running into the freakin' forest, fer chrissake!."


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 09/08/12


All around Olde London Towne,
poor sodding Rodney Anonymous fans developed typhus,
Crying, "Take our tainted water dippers.
Let Jack the Ripper mercifully knife us."
Now, The Yard wonders how victims got such whims
to drink raw water from the Thames.
The Queen, via BBC TV and sans her usual grins,
said, "Drinketh NOT from the Thames.

London's like a painting by Bosch (Hieronymus).
Who's to blame yet remains Anonymous.


NOTE: The doggerel above was originally a series of five tweets sent to Rodney Anonymous. He is a songwriter, lead singer, and keyboard player for The Dead Milkmen, a punk-rock band that's heavy on offbeat humor and social satire. Initially, Mr. Anonymous had tweeted:

     Some of the information in our new song "It's OK to Drink From the Thames"
     may be inaccurate. Drastic changes will need to be made. #whoknew

To which I responded:

     @RodneyAnon ... Without changes to the song, you could inadvertently
     wipe out all of your London-area fans, one tragic gulp at a time. Oy!

Rodney Anonymous answered back:

     @brodavelister Fun Fact: "I Want To Hold Your Hand" was originally
     "Want To Drink From The Thames". Then Ringo contracted typhoid.

Soon after that exchange, I took a short nap. (Hey, it was a nice lazy Saturday afternoon.) And when I awoke, I got up, wrote the doggerel, and tweeted it to Rodney Anonymous in a quick sequence of five tweets.

"While 'typhoid' means 'typhus-like,' the two diseases are separate and caused by different species of bacteria." (See "Typhus" at Wikipedia.com.) So, yes, I did invoke my poetic license (which needs to be renewed on or within 30 days of my next birthday, by the way) to alter the original diagnosis simply because "typhus" rhymes with "knife us," and "typhoid" does not. So there!

PS: I'm really looking forward to the next new album by The Dead Milkmen, whenever it's released — potential exposure to typhoid notwithstanding. Hotcha!

PPS: In the few months since I wrote the September 8th doggerel, note, and postscript, The Dead Milkmen have released two new singles, each with a bonus track, for a grand total of six new DM recordings. Cool! The eponymous A-side of the single Dark Clouds Gather Over Middlemarch is the song that mentions the Thames. I imagine Rodney Anonymous was kidding when he tweeted that one of their new songs suggests untreated water from the Thames is potable. If he wasn't kidding, he must have changed the lyric because the current reference to that river is in the line: "They found your body floating in the Thames." Either way, Don't Drink The Water, People! But, hey, check out the music!


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 09/22/12 - #1


As the various variations of pornography go,
Synth Porn* may well be the most pathetic.
Yeah, you can fondle knobs and diddle keys.
But in the end, my friend, it's all so synthetic.

* Synth Porn: product glamor photos of electronic musical synthesizers and/or keyboard MIDI controllers. For chrissake, keep them away from the children!


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 09/22/12 - #2


Except to the perverts and to the prudes,
Nudity is not necessarily sexual.
Differences between art and porn nudes
Are all intrinsically contextual.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 09/22/12 - #3


One valuable genetic commodity is pedigree
prize bull or thoroughbred racehorse semen.
"How is this jizz collected?" you ask.
Well, not from nocturnal emission wet-dreamin'.
Nope. A human being gives the bull or stud
a hand-job and collects jizzum in a bucket.
It's cheaper to disseminate and inseminate
by mail than bring each female in to fuck it.

NOTE: Even though I already knew how I'd resolve the problem in the end, I still performed some Google searches to ascertain the most popular spelling for the word "jizzum." Following are the results:

                                      jizzum:    172,000 Google hits
                                      jizm:        535,000 Google hits
                                      jism:    24,800,000 Google hits
                                      jissom:      25,900 Google hits
                                      gizm:       714,000 Google hits
                                      gizzum:     68,700 Google hits
                                      gism:       114,000 Google hits

So, while "jism" would seem to be the preferred spelling by a an overwhelming margin, I chose the "jizzum" spelling due to an excerpt from "The Big Space Fuck," a short story by one of my favorite authors, Kurt Vonnegut:

The word “jizzum” had an interesting history, by the way. It was as old as “fuck” and “shit” and so on, but it continued to be excluded from dictionaries, long after the others were let in. This was because so many people wanted it to remain a truly magic word — the only one left.

And when the United States announced that it was going to do a truly magical thing, was going to fire sperm at the Andromeda Galaxy, the populace corrected its government. Their collective unconscious announced that it was time for the last magic word to come into the open. They insisted that sperm was nothing to fire at another galaxy. Only jizzum would do. So the Government began using that word, and it did something that had never been done before, either: it standardized the way the word was spelled.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 09/22/12 - #4


Happy Birthday, you dear old coot!
Go celebrate, and holler, and hoot!
Casual attire is cool. But holy shoot,
Don't go out in just your birthday suit!

NOTE: This birthday verse was written and posted on a friend's Facebook wall.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 09/23/12


Yeah, we do wackadoo stuff here in my land.
But the skin-lightening craze over in Thailand
Is inane and insane, both totally and at once:
TV ads beseech women to bleach their cunts.

Source of inspiration for today's doggerel: Thai Vulva Bleaching Product


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 09/24/12


O, there are those who smash their guitars
In scripted slapstick theatrics on the stage.
And there are those who trash their guitars
In childish tantrums fueled by unfounded rage.

And there are those who destroy their guitars
Because they are drunken fools on a bender,
Who imagine it's funny or perhaps kinda cool
To wreck a work of art by Gibson or Fender.

As Mom cited starving kids when we wasted food,
I now imagine potential players who never got far
Because they didn't have a decent axe to grind,
Like some poseur rockstar's vainly-wasted guitar.

Send that guitar-breakin' goof to detox, rehab,
Or the psych ward before he gets any goofier.
And if that poor guitar has any music-life left,
Send its salvageable parts to a master luthier.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 09/29/12 - #1


Did the name "Nova Scotia," meaning "New Scotia,"
Originate in a nefarious plot so calculating and cold,
Meant to make Middle-Aged Scotia seem past prime
And to make poor Old Scotia seem particularly old?

If "Nova" means "new," then "Scotia" means what?
Frankly, I don't give a damn. But if you get the notion,
You should pose your question to some New Scot,
Which is to say, "Go away and ask a Nova Scotian."

NOTE: I awoke this morning with the name "Nova Scotia" in my head. Why? I have no freakin' idea. I have never been to Nova Scotia and, being a Hoosier hermit and homebody, I have never felt the desire to visit there. But the name itself is pleasant enough to say, to hear, to read: Nova Scotia. Anyway, I awoke this morning with the name "Nova Scotia" in my head. And what else could I do other than use it in some new doggerel? I mean, what would you do in similar circumstances? Well?


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 09/29/12 - #2


The Bible lacks equivalent words for a lot modern things.
No scriptures mention: iPod, Mars Rover, or lobotomy.
Butt,… (Oops!)
But, your recent med procedure is in The Word Of God.
Instead of "colonoscopy," it's referred to as "sodomy."

PS: I hope you are doing well and that you will soon be feeling good ass (Oops!) good as new! Whew!


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 10/06/12


Even after saying grace, Ms. Sue E. Hammond was graceless,
Tasteless, and etiquette-starved as she gorged her meal of pork.
She grunted, snorted, chomped, and chewed with open mouth.
She was cave-woman ham-fisted when wielding her knife and fork.

Bon appétit!


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 10/21/12


At night, he B-and-E's his way into a dark and quiet home,
When and where Mom and Dad and all the kids are sleeping.
If he were a cat burglar, he would burgle that snoozing cat.
But, no, it is to a little kiddo's bedroom he goes creeping.

It is not the baby, nor the teen, but the child in between
Six and twelve years of age that he's obsessively seeking.
(If you could wrap your head around his sordid motivations,
You, too, might go insane or, at least, soon be freaking.)


But undeterred by conscience, he continues his evil quest,
And he steals into his victim's bedroom, that wicked thief.
What does this psychopath want? If you haven't guessed,
It's one of the slumbering child's deciduous "baby" teeth.

His nimble, bony fingers search beneath the kiddo's pillow
For an incisor, or canine, or molar kind of titillating treasure.
Upon grasping the calcified trophy, he breathes short 'n' shallow,
So as not to reveal himself in the throes of fiendish pleasure.

In his twisted, muddled mind, he finds a modicum of vindication
When he leaves a little money where the tooth had been —
As if he might buy forgiveness for his extremely sick perversion,
As if his meager monetary offering might ameliorate this sin.

Then he withdraws back into the night, returning to his lair.
What he does with all the teeth he steals, no one has a clue.
Does he string them onto necklaces, or make beads for his hair?
It boggles the minds of the sane to imagine what the insane do.

This criminal behavior, it appears, has gone on for years and years.
Likelihood of eventual capture, conviction, punishment: Not Very!
So, kids, be wary of this creep. Sleep with one eye open, if you sleep.
Vow that your silence cannot be bought by the nefarious Tooth Fairy!

NOTE: According to a 2011 study, it is estimated that the criminal deviant known as the Tooth Fairy leaves, on average, the modest sum of $2.60 per each creepy, nocturnal visit to the bedrooms of countless slumbering children across this fair land. How can such trivial, token cash payments have bribed so many into silence for so long? WAKE UP, AMERICA! Petition for the immediate arrest and incarceration of this criminally-insane pervert, or the terrorists win!


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 10/27/12


I bought a handy hook rail while in Target last Monday.
Something to hang all my bath robes on, that is why.
Only after I affixed it to my wall, could I see 'n' say,
"O-M-G, there's four inebriated and combative octopi!"

Karma-wise, when I disrobe and, then, robe these guys,
I wonder whether it's really wise to employ such punks.
Pre-Saint-Paul Saul held robes for murderers of martyrs.
My robes are held by metal cephalopod mollusc drunks.

Brother Dave's Drunken Octopi Hook Rail

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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 11/03/12


I sincerely meant to do that thing, so long planned.
But, once again, I gave in and said, "Ah, fuck it."
So, how many times can one procrastinating man
Kick further down the road the same goddamn can?
For me, it could well be up until I kick the bucket.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 11/04/12


Two naked bodies are entwined on the bed
— A man and a woman, both of them dead.
Nearby on the floor where a third person died,
Lies the cuckolded killer and apparent suicide.

NOTE: Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know today's doggerel could be a tableau that's revealed even before the opening credits of just about any TV crime drama. Why I awoke with this image in my mind, I don't know. But if I had to guess, I imagine it had something to do with the time-change from Daylight Savings back to Standard Time that occurred in the wee hours this morning. I mean, time travel, even if only for a short hop of one hour in duration, surely must have some effect on a species who, up until this current generation, has had no evolutionary experience with instantaneous temporal displacement. Still, no matter what the underlying impetus for today's doggerel might be, I'm thinking there must be more to the story than is revealed here, enough for approximately 42 minutes of crime drama and 18 minutes of commercials.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 11/10/12 - #1


You who are living, something will kill you when it can.
Until that end, you do what you need to do to survive.
Regardless of one's luck, resources, or survival plan,
Not one single being is getting out of this life alive.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 11/10/12 - #2


During my short, ill-fated, torrid love affair with Ms. Taylor Swift,
I was wise to disguise my true identity and use a bogus name.
After our rift, when Swift wrote angry, vengeful, tear-jerkin' songs
About how I was the jerk who mistreated and done her wrong,
No one knew it was really me, BD, whom she meant to blame.

Unless I confess, no one will guess it's me she means to blame.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 11/16/12


On this day in history, in the year Nineteen-Sixty CE,
Clark Gable died, two years younger than I currently am.
He was better looking than me, but I've got longevity.
Still, you may say, "Frankly, BD, I don't give a damn."


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 11/17/12


I started smoking tobacco when I was in the Army.
Each untaxed pack of PX smokes only cost a dime.
I quit years ago, fearing the habit would harm me.
With a pack of cigs five dollars now, I quit in good time.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 11/18/12


The contract concluded with a fuzzy, gray, halftone block
Which seemed an inartistic and needless design element.
Closer inspection, however, through a 50x jeweler's loupe,
Revealed pages-worth of damning, loophole-free fine print.

Heed my advice: Think twice, ruminate the conceptual cud,
Especially when told to sign on the line in your own blood.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 11/19/12


Stayed up late last night, then slept in this morning
'Cause I could and it seemed like the thing to do.
When I groggily glanced at the clock at Eight a.m.,
The digital display initially seemed to say, "BOO."

NOTE: Yes, it's true. I awoke at exactly 8:00 this morning and glanced at the digital clock with its large L.E.D. numbers glowing green in the darkness by the side of my bed. But with me being characteristically dim-witted and bleary-eyed from having just awakened, my first read of the clock face was dyslexic. Instead of 8:00, I interpreted the alpha-numeric characters by their alpha equivalents rather than their numeric values. Thus, a scary "BOO."


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 11/23/12


Sure, LA-LA Land can be crass, brash, decadent, and hedonistic.
But this latest marketing scheme still takes some big freakin' balls.
While it would be really insane here, apparently there it's realistic
To sell $500-caviar from vending machines in upscale L.A. malls.

Source of Inspiration: Caviar Vending Machines In LA Malls


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 11/26/12


May Freija, named after the goddess,
Journey onward now and soon awake,
To walk in the heavenly afterlife field,
Fólkvangr, beside her holy namesake.

For Jo-Ann's and Rich's cat, Freija (b. circa 1998, d. 11/26/12)


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 12/01/12


Their sales peaked in 'Ninety-Nine, then sharply
declined, flat-lined, and stayed static.
I am talking about animatronic talking fish
— whether bass, carp, trout, or haddock.
Where they used to abound, they may only be found
now in closet, garage, or attic.
Once vivacious and loquacious, they are
dead-battery-still, mute, and oh-so phlegmatic.

Big Mouth Billy Bass


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 12/02/12


The ancient gods, ghosts, angels and demons — created by humankind,
All without any basis in actual fact — still impact the human condition.
Too many among us find it hard to have and maintain rational minds
In brains prone to ignorance, illness, and blind faith in superstition.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 12/03/12


At times, I've been bereft of feck. And now you know my story.
I've been ineffective, incompetent et cetera on that checklist.
Although I'm sure there are many words much more derogatory,
Call me irresponsible, but please don't ever call me "feckless."

NOTE: This morning while I was still in bed, while yet half asleep and half awake, the word "feckless" drifted up and surfaced in my semi-conscious consciousness. Why? Unknown. When it did not soon sink back to the depths or simply float away, I suddenly realized that I'd forgotten the meaning of the word "feckless," if I had ever really known its meaning before. Still, prior to my arising and Googling "feckless," I already had the rhyming pairs for four lines of doggerel arranging and presenting themselves in my mind. (Although "reckless" is a perfect rhyme to "feckless," I figured its meaning might be more problematic within the context of today's doggerel. When I mentally stumbled upon "checklist," I imagined it to be more useful, even if it is only a slant-rhyme.)

Well, I got up, Googled, and garnered definitions from Dictionary.com. (feck·less [fek-lis] adjective 1. ineffective; incompetent; futile: feckless attempts to repair the plumbing. 2. having no sense of responsibility; indifferent; lazy.) And, as you can see, the definitions there provided some of the text to accompany my rhyme-pairs. Hotcha!

While I used the word "feck" in the first line, I really didn't care if it is an actual word, or not. (Hey, I've got my poetic license, fer chrissake. And I'm not afraid to use it.) But I reasoned, "feckless, ergo feck." Turns out, "feck" is a now-obsolete word having once meant "a. worth; value. b. amount; quantity. c. the greater part; the majority." In modern-day usage, however, "feck" is a slang variant of the word "fuck." Who knew? Well, now I know. And, hey, now you do, too.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 12/15/12


Though they're a lot of good and decent people,
I usually don't think about them all that much.
But for some now-unknown and unknowable reason,
When I awoke today I was thinking of the Dutch.

Windmills, wooden shoes, Gouda cheese, and such
Are iconic Holland images that pop into my head.
But what truly impresses me most about the Dutch
Is how they hold back an ocean to make tulip beds.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 12/23/12


The early hand-cranked silent films were shot at approximately sixteen f.p.s.
But Nineteen-Fifties TV station film-chains projected them back at twenty-four.
That's why the earliest slapstick films looked even "slappier" to us and, yes,
That's why doughboys seemed insanely eager to march off to The Great War.

NOTE: This morning during that lazy, hazy phase between being sound asleep and wide awake, my mind mused on the "wagon-wheel effect" in motion picture Westerns. Why I thought about that, I haven't a clue. But in thinking about how the apparent rotation of stagecoach wagon wheels often seems to be the opposite of their actual direction of rotation or how their apparent direction of rotation changes as the wagon's speed of movement increases or decreases, I soon found myself thinking about motion picture film frame rates. And, blah de-blah blah blah, that led me to writing today's doggerel with, oddly enough, no direct reference to the "wagon-wheel effect" contained therein.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 12/24/12


"Oh, if only there were some way to keep from growing older...."
It was the sort of out-loud musing that's a total waste of breath.
He knew in the instant he heard his own vain and foolish words
No youth elixir will ever halt one's aging as effectively as death.


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 12/25/12 - #1


The reason that the color red is associated with Santa Claus
Should not seem incomprehensible, mysterious, or mystic.
To complete his frenzied delivery flight in just one winter night,
He must move almost as fast as light, at speeds relativistic.

Due to being Doppler-shifted as all the Nice-listed are gifted,
Regardless the color of Santa's suit, he appears red-shifted.

Yes, it's true, Santa looks a bit blue as he approaches you.
That being said, as he leaves he turns red, i.e., red-shifted


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 12/25/12 - #2

Following is a rejected first-draft verse from lyrics to "Blue Christmas," written by Jay Johnson and Billy Hayes, and ultimately recorded by Elvis Aaron Presley:


I'll have a blue-shifted Christmas as I approach you.
You'll have a blue-shifted Christmas, too, won't you?
As we draw near to each other near the speed of light,
We'll appear blue-shifted even if Christmas is white.

NOTE 1: Johnson and Hayes deleted the verse because they figured they would have to write several introductory verses explaining Doppler shifts, time dilation, and relativistic space travel to the general 1950s public. Tom Lehrer's fans might have put up with all the exposition, but not Elvis' fans.

NOTE 2: Yeah, you may be saying, "But, Brother Dave, wasn't 'Blue Christmas' first recorded by Doye O'Dell in 1948?" And, yes, it was. But here's a little-known fact: After writing the song in the 1950s, Johnson and Hayes sent it back through a rift in time after creating a small, localized singularity and a momentary Einstein-Rosen Bridge (or wormhole). I mean, hey, if you had the chance to have Doyle O'Dell record your Christmas classic, wouldn't you move Heaven and Earth or, as they did, move Time and Space to arrange for that possibility? Well?


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 12/30/12


Those head-bangin' retro sci-fi geeks definitely dig it.
And the Victorian Goths seem to embrace it ad hoc.
It's a new sub-genre of hard-edged, lo-fi, D.I.Y. music
Played on coal-fired instruments: Steam Punk Rock.

Jen is dressed up as a lighter-than-air airship pilot
As she rocks the steam calliope at center-stage.
She sings of love and hate, her passion and rage
Against human displacement in an Industrial Age.

Dex looks like his day job is as locomotive engineer.
With music to make, water to boil, and fuel to burn,
Dex plays a steam-powered, compressed-air guitar —
A luthier design inspired by H.G. Wells and Jules Verne.

Bassman Xan appears to be of the spaceman clan
In Verne-inspired Méliès film, "A Trip To The Moon."
Xan thumps a big copper-plated acoustic string bass,
Laying down mad metal-clad grooves for each tune.

The band's keywound, spring-driven, clockwork drummer
Is Automaton Jon, whose head is full of brass cogs.
He beats drums like a madman machine. The only bummer
Is required rewinding after each extended solo he logs.

So, the head-bangin' retro sci-fi geeks definitely dig it.
And the Victorian Goths seem to embrace it ad hoc.
It's a new sub-genre of hard-edged, lo-fi, D.I.Y. music
Played on coal-fired instruments: Steam Punk Rock.

S-s-steam Punk, S-s-steam Punk, S-s-steam Punk Rock!


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Brother Dave's Doggerel For The Day, 12/31/12


A human may contract Kuru if he cannibalizes another.
Kuru, or "laughing sickness," is one variety of dementia.
So now, if Minnie Mouse cannibalizes Mickey, her lover,
Is there an analog of Kuru for rodents who eat rodentia?

NOTE: Today's doggerel was inspired by a Facebook-posted photo by one of my daughter's friends. The photo features some graffiti in which a gleeful Minnie Mouse is holding a large dinner fork. Since no Mickey Mouse is shown in the photograph, I began to imagine the worst.

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