Oh, cat, don't fly away again. My head's killing me.

-----------------------------------------------------------
But, seriously, you should watch "Johnny Lingo." It's only twenty minutes and it's brilliant. As of this writing, on YouTube.

They ask me to portray Escartefigue

A shirt I'll never wear was in the mail --
With "NaNoWriMo Winner" firm and stout.
A badge of my propensity to fail
Since once again my efforts petered out.

But back to sender went the unearned ware!
I'd put my old where new address should be;
Perhaps it should have been addressed in care
Of Momus, Roman god of irony.

The NaNoWriMo people are the best;
They fixed my flub and sent it out once more.
I should have had the courage and confessed
It's going in the bottom of a drawer.

But now I have, when all the drama's done,
My plot for NaNoWriMo '21!
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For those not familiar with National Novel Writing Month, here's their site: nanowrimo.org/

We've all the makings for Thanksgiving feast!
There's stuffing, gravy, turkey breast (bone in),
Both corn- and soda-bread (we don't need yeast),
And sweet potatoes sliced by mandolin.

But mandolins demand one's focus whole
And pumpkin pie needs whipping cream to whip;
I got distracted by my other goal
And gouged a segment from my fingertip.

But is that not the perfect metaphor?
The central digit of my dexter mitt
Stiff-wrapped in gauze to hide the grisly gore
With fingers curled on either side of it.

A message for this year that seems to linger --
Hey, 2020 -- here's my middle finger!
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I should assure readers that no human flesh or blood ended up in the meal.

DECEMBER 18 AND THERE'S A BRIGHTLY-WRAPPED BOX UNDER THE CHRISTMAS TREE AND I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT'S IN IT
a Sonnet
by Al Badger

One week 'til Christmas and this time must be
The longest, hardest wait to try my soul;
The wrapped-up package underneath the tree
Could be an XBox One or lump of coal.

And how endure this perturbatious week?
Too stressed to eat or sleep or pet the cat.
It wouldn't be quite ethical to peek.
And worry-eating makes my hips look fat.

Some physical activity would do;
I'll walk three hundred times around the block,
Or busy up my hands with sticks and glue
And make some Etsy merchandise to hawk.

But really make my collywobbles pay?
I'd rather do a yarn craft like crochet.

At my brother's house, and I watched one of the new season Futurama episodes (I don't get cable at home). I was struck by two lines in the show that were perfect iambic pentameter, and thought a sonnet about the episode might be a good project. In my dreams, I got Bender's predicament mixed up with King Lear at Dover for some reason; then I woke up at 4am, the way I do almost every morning lately (@#$^!&^%*@!!!!). So here's the sonnet. My sonnet skills are rusty (NB: the two lines from the show are in bold).

On Dreaming of King Lear after Watching Futurama Episode 6ACV06

You came together with no backup plan
When first assembled in this vale of tears.
You're not immortal, but you have a span
Between a minute and a billion years.

Your search for your Inspector having failed,
You prayed to God -- or Mom, the Robot Queen,
The woman from whose factory you hailed,
To give you back the life that should have been.

Mom doesn't make mistakes. She heard your plea,
And no defective robot can exist.
But YOU'RE defective, so you must not be!
The Kill-bots have you on their Must-Kill List.

Those wanton boys who kill us for their sport?
That's what you get for calling tech support!