Writings

A Fish in the Maw

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

A fish in the maw is worth two in the paw,
But a fish in the freezer should be set out to thaw.
If it must be consumed while frozen and raw,
Then it must be divided by claw and by saw.

Valentine Sentiments

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Roses are red, weasels are blue.
If you weren't a gurzbag, you wouldn't be you.
Though you're a great heaving snout, I don't wish you the gout,
And you're much more fun than the average dumb lout.

What do you do with a great slothsome beast
Who has always got his nose in the Fancy Feast?
I tried dancing and singing, but his chowing never ceased!
He consumes 15 pounds every day at least!
- to the tune of the Oompa Loompa song from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory

Labels: To the Tune of, Writings

Steaming Stoat Boats

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Stoat boats, stoat boats, over the bounding main!
Stoat boats, stoat boats, steaming like a train!
The sun comes out and warms the wet stoats,
And clouds of vapor rise from their wet coats!

Snarfed by a Giant Kerschnuffle

Friday, July 21, 2006

Tom (of Foster-imitation fame) gets back in the mockery seat to mock my away message: "I've been snarfed by a giant kerschnuffle. You'll never see me again!"

Tom writes:

So there's this Karen girl, you see. Young slip of a thing, barely old enough to know she's alive. Offer her a piece of advice I did. "Karen," I said gently, "Karen, there is one thing in this world of which you must be wary. One thing for which you must keep the eagle eye peeled. One agent of greater menacing potential than all other things combined. That thing is the giant kerschnuffle. If you are not eternally vigilant, sometime you'll turn around and a giant kerschnuffle will be there to snarf you." I offered my sage advice gently, and with foreboding. But did she listen? No. Not a whit of it penetrated her cranium to lodge in her cerebellum. So not long ago--just today in fact--she was pawing about the home establishment and a giant kerschnuffle appeared in her vicinity, having insinuated her less-than-eternally-vigilant defenses. And what did it do? I'll tell you. It snarfed her. Completely and without pause. Alas, sometimes these young slips of things have to learn by example, even when they're done in by the process. Too bad, she was a pleasant one, too.

Labels: Writings

Karen's Do-It-Yourself Guide to Strewing Frozen Quesadilla Shrapnel About the Kitchen

Procure a box of frozen chicken-and-cheese quesedillas (other flavors may be substituted, but the author does not guarantee results).
Open said box on the end where the the inner bag is sealed (location of sealed end is not labeled, leading you to believe, when you see the sealed bag, that both ends are sealed, as is the norm).
Over hard floor (tile recommended), grasp sealed end of bag firmly and quickly withdraw bag from box.
Watch in dismay as frozen contents of bag fly out unsealed end and shatter all over the floor.

Labels: Writings

On the Effects of Fashion

Friday, July 14, 2006

A marmot with a trench coat takes an elegant paddle-wheel boat;
a stoat with bad toupé is casually tossed in the moat.

The Weasel and the Catamaran

Gad flies, gad flies, over the bounding main!
Eaten by omnivorous weasels under toodstools in the rain!
One weasel chose to thumb his nose at a passing catamaran,
And to his fervent, hairy dismay, a third world war began!

If I Could Save Pandora in a Bottle

Friday, August 26, 2005

If I were a cat named Pandora,
Thinking everyone hated me,
I'd cower and skulk to minimize my bulk,
And if anyone noticed, I'd flee!
- to the tune of "Time a Bottle" by Jim Croce

Labels: To the Tune of, Writings

Elvira's Lament

Thursday, July 28, 2005

If I were an overweight feline,
The first thing that I'd go and do
Is to eat all my food in a jiffy,
And then, I would come whine at you.

I would claim that I had never eaten.
At least, not in recent years!
I'd howl and moan in a hungerous tone,
Crying giant wet starving cat tears!
- to the tune of "Time a Bottle" by Jim Croce

Labels: To the Tune of, Writings

Suffering Network Security

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

I think that I
Shall surely die
Of great ennui
And then I'll flee.
No more to hear
X.509
My ears would cheer.
That would be fine.

Intro to Algorithms Blues

Sunday, July 17, 2005

Theoretical worst runtime!
Thinking about it makes my heart rate climb!
Math will push me to the brink,
I'll drown myself in the kitchen sink

Flue

Friday, July 1, 2005

If I were a bountiful ground sloth, locked up in a sooty fire flue,
I'd pine and I'd moan, in lusty o'ertones, and if that didn't work, I'd mew.
I'd wiggle and shake and cause little earthquakes of the loveliest iridized hue,
Scattering drops in puddling plops from the branches of nearby dewed yew.
- to the tune of "Time a Bottle" by Jim Croce

Labels: To the Tune of, Writings

Shower Cat

Saturday, June 25, 2005

Oh you can find a kitten in the bathroom by the tub.
He's got his bathing cap on; he's mewing rub-a-dub-dub!
But when I turn on the shower, this same kitten flees!
He doesn't want to get in the water and take a bath with me.
- to the chorus of "Epic Moon" by Clare Fader

Labels: To the Tune of, Writings

Tea Pots

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

by Paul

If I had two pots of tea
(a pot for you and a pot for me)
we would place them upon catapults
(in between doing somersaults)
and launch them afield
to land with great yield
on those we had judged to have other faults.

Buckets of Goo

If I had two buckets of goo,
(A bucket for me and another for you)
We'd carry them both to an upper floor
(I'd choose three but you'd demand four),
And dump them out windows to vanquish our foe
Who we'd observed skulking in the alley below.

A Winsome Toadstool

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

If I were a winsome toadstool
With ears like a bottomless pool,
I'd cast out spore clouds
Like oviparous shrouds
Of mushroom propagational fuel.

Minked

With my eyes squeezed tight like a sphincter,
I gingerly sampled her pungent tincture.
My eyes glazed o'er,
For she is a great bore,
But she squealed so nice when I minked her.

Gurzbagsome

Friday, April 22, 2005

I had a dream and you were in it.
The length of your snout was infinite.
You had become gurzbagsome,
Which was just what I'd expected!
- to the tune of I Don't Believe You by The Magnetic Fields

Labels: To the Tune of, Writings

If I had a thousand biscuits

Thursday, April 21, 2005

by Tom Jones

If I had a thousand biscuits
Toss them all your way, I'd do
If I had a hundred hamsters
I would stuff them in your flue
If I had a dozen weasels
I would hide them in your loo
If I knew a single menace
Well, by jove, that would be you

Shrimp Tempura

Wednesday, April 6, 2005

You draw me without fail
with your battered crispy tail!
I'd trudge through wind and hail
And brave the strongest gale!

Bad

Monday, March 28, 2005

I've been an awful kitty all my life!
I cause mayhem and endless strife!
I hide the cat toys one by one,
Then I lie about on my back in the sun!

I want to taste your dinner, smell the outside!
Go out and drag in something that has died!
When there's nothing to destroy, then I am sad!
Look out world, I'm a kitty that's bad!
- to the tune of "Bad" by Kirsty MacColl

Labels: To the Tune of, Writings

Thursday, March 17, 2005

Cat nose in my juice
What are you drinking? Clearly
It needs kitty sneeze.

Labels: Haiku, Writings

Stoats in a Bucket

Monday, March 14, 2005

by Tom Jones

If I could save stoats in a bucket,
The first thing that I'd go and do
Would be to save up some stoats in a bucket,
And then I would dump them on you!
- to the tune of "Time a Bottle" by Jim Croce

Labels: To the Tune of, Writings

Binomial Heap Rag

Saturday, February 26, 2005

The heap is splintered.
The roots unordered.
The degrees are random!
They don't increase.
- to the tune of "Cabin Fever" by Clare Fader

Labels: To the Tune of, Writings

Fangs Everywhere

Monday, November 1, 2004

Fangs, fangs, everywhere!
Creepin' and a-crawlin' through your hair!
Fangs, fangs, all about,
You got a pair o' fangs hangin' underneath your snout!

Tom the Snoutful

Tom the Snoutful went to work
For Target Greatland as a clerk.
"I say!" he said, "There was a day
When VCs wooed me with bouquets!"

Tom the Snoutful pokes the buttons,
Cash drawers openin' and shuttin'.
"I say!" he said, "There was a day
When o'er the .com court I held sway!"

Reviewing the Troops

Fangs in boots, fangs with snoots,
Fangs in double-breasted suits!
Fangs go here, fangs go there,
Fangs sport large-bouffanted hair!

A Weasel with Tusks

If I were an enormous weasel with tusks,
I'd sit in a puddle and snort in the dusk.
The dusk would be lovely for snorting in puddles;
Large tuskèd weasels are easily befuddled.

The Whispering Weasel

by Tom

The whispering weasel put up his easel
And laid out his painting tray.
"To paint a nice lake is not a mistake"
he thought as he got underway.

The Math Cheer

by Tom

Math!! Math!! Let's do Math!!
Love it or endure its wrath!!
For CS majors, that's the path,
So come on, bring on the Math!

Green Shoe Blues

I got the green shoe bluuuues,
Stomped on by a large green shoooooooe.
Now my poor foot is flat as my old pickup's tires,
I wonder if the circus would take me for hire.

Thomas A. Jones and the DoE Drones

I know a large fellow named Thomas A. Jones,
He applied for a job with some DoE drones!
When on interview the joint's president,
He discovered the operation went on in a tent!

Snouts Galore

Paws, fangs, snouts galore,
Pokin' at the windows and underneath the door.
Furry things wanting to be taken for walks
Down to the lake to snuffle by the docks.

Hangin' Snood

O a pair of fangs was flyin' along,
Mindin' they own business, weavin' through the throng,
When all of a sudden, out of the blue,
Them fangs was caught up in a hangin' snood!

Wodehouse

by Tom

When you're weary and depressed
Fatigued more, enjoying less
Keep some Wodehouse by your bed
And stuff some--each night--in your head

Fanglets on Ice

In all the world there's naught so nice
As fresh-picked fanglets served on ice!
A bed of lettuce, minced just so,
Upon which lovely fanglets go.

You might like them with plum tomatoes (others favor spice).
Can't recommend yellow dwarf of potato with a dish of wild rice.
Howsoever you prefer them, no matter what the price,
In all the world there's naught so fine as fresh fanglets on ice!

Ollie Likes the Gravy

Sung in a rich, throaty baritone. Listen as you read!

600KB WAV For broadband visitors, a (low quality) recording of Karen singing this new classic!

Ollie likes the gravy,
La la la la la!
Ollie likes the gravy,
He puts it on his paw!

Ollie likes the gravy,
He drinks it with a straw!
Ollie likes the gravy,
He licks it from his jaw!

Ollie likes the gravy,
On frozen chunks he'll gnaw!
Ollie likes the gravy,
Sits on them till they thaw!

Ollie likes the gravy,
O the pictures he will draw!
Ollie likes the gravy,
Of it he is in awe!

Ollie likes the gravy,
Likes it in his maw!
Ollie likes the gravy,
For it he breaks the law!

Ollie likes the gravy,
Without it he'll withdraw!
Ollie likes the gravy,
It's his tragic flaw!

Karen! Oh Karen!

by Tom Jones

Karen is a coder who lives up near the Bay
The boys all come to find her but she just says "Go Away!"
The boys they come after her but she'll have none of that
That Rufus boy who loved her, on him she just spat.

Karen! Oh Karen! I gave my heart to Karen!
She stomps and spits and chews it up, and leaves me all a-swearin!
I told her I loved her and would follow her for life
And all she did was growl at me and poke me with her knife

That Karen girl she likes boys loud but only picks 'em quiet
And them, you see, they be the ones she wants to throw a pie at
They drive her mad with addled love and adore her till she's sick
Maybe someday she'll figure out the good ones how to pick!

Festering Minions

Festering Minions
Wasting away their full days
Up to nothing good
by Tom

Labels: Haiku, Writings

Hunger

Looming kitten lurks,
Tries to climb into my bowl.
He wants my chowder.

Labels: Haiku, Writings

The Devil Spawns a Server

I worked yesterday.
Nothing changed; now I spite you.
Accept files I won't.

Labels: Haiku, Writings

Rocket Weasel

The feline weasel
Ricochets off the sofa,
Tips the haiku lamp.

Labels: Haiku, Writings

Gym-ho

To the gym goes Tom.
Filling doorways, menacing
The petite, he toils.

Labels: Haiku, Writings

Oh, did you want that?

Crunch goes my server.
I will not start that process.
Can't authenticate.

Labels: Haiku, Writings

Ethiopian Food: In which Karen loses her mouth

Monday, August 2, 2004

Ethiopian food could vanish from the face of the earth and we'd all be better off. I was induced to visit an Ethiopian restaurant once by friends who obviously bore some sort of ill feeling against me. This restaurant was not like the expensive Ethiopian restaurants in Georgetown that cater to Americans. The restaurant was authentic Ethiopian: the name was spelled in characters we couldn't pronounce, none of the staff spoke English, the menu had no correlation to the food available, and ordering was achieved via pantomime. "Wallia" was the spoken name of this culinary disaster, but in print, the name looked more like "Pez."

Tom, who had previously dined at Wallia, managed to communicate to our waittress that we wanted a four-person variety platter. No such dish was on the menu, but Tom indicated that one couldn't order anything from the menu anyway. Water appeared to be the only available beverage. Some time later, a large round board arrived. The board was covered in a queer, rubbery bread. Thin, stretchy and pock-marked, it reminded us strongly of skin and was quickly dubbed "skin bread". Arranged on this disturbing dough were dollops of substances meant to be wrapped in chunks of skin bread and consumed like baby burritos. There were cold mushy green piles, blazingly spicy red and brown piles and tasteless yellow piles.

I had the misfortune to sample a pile of fire. I tried to subdue my burning mouth tissue with skin bread and gruesome bits of cold, mushy piles to no avail. When further application of mush and water did not soothe the blaze in my mouth, Tom endeavored to order a glass of milk. The poor waitress had no idea what "milk" meant, and, without resorting to lewd gestures, Tom couldn't pantomime it. After much frowning, the waitress sent a patron over to find out what we wanted. In the only success of the evening, a glass of milk was forthcoming.

This scourge should be eliminated before more hapless diners lose their sense of taste to a pile of fiery mush

Labels: Writings

Hurkling Gurzbag

Thursday, January 1, 2004

Tom is a hurkling gurzbag of glee!
He hurkles and causes young women to flee.

Haiku

Efficient poem,
Expresses contemplative
Notions in few words.

Labels: Haiku, Writings

Marathon

Sunday, November 3, 2002

I have to use the bathroom now. I've been hyrdating since 5:00 AM. It is now 7:30 AM. I just emerged from an hour and a half of car, Metro and walking and I must go to the bathroom now. I can't wait until the portapotties at the five mile mark, and I am certainly not going to crouch behind a dumpster along the way. I stand before two rows of twenty portapotties. Nervous-looking runners stand thirty-deep in lines before each one. I fear that I that I won't make it. I won't be able to wait my turn, and if I do, I'll miss the start. Thousands of numbered spandex-clad people swarm around me. Some cast off their shame and squat under the pine trees. Others scramble down hillsides seeking cover. Small groups congregate, consuming packets of goop, discussing sore knees, torn ligaments and mile times. We have hydrated, carbo-loaded, lubricated. We wear our motion-control shoes, our cushioning socks, our Coolmax shorts with built-in underwear, our sweat-wicking singlets, our ventilated jackets, our timing chips. Everyone wants to tell someone how this one compares to his last. The gun will fire in twenty minutes. I hope you slept well. Twenty-six miles is a long run.

Finally free of the sucking whirlpool of portapotties, I head for the start. Five minutes! Other people run. I run too, joining a seething, anticipatory mass. I can barely see the start line. The gun goes off. Minutes pass before we start to move. At last we begin to run. We lope down the city streets, and spectators yell out our names. We are the kings of the world, we marathoners. We are superhuman, and we do what no one else can.

Eight miles later, my training partners are struggling. "We are we running so slow?" inquires Joel as we pull a bit ahead. "I guess they're tired," I reply. He shakes his head. Eight miles into a marathon is not the place to be tired. The group begins to splinter. At the ten mile mark, I leave my remaining companions. They are slowing, and I want to be done as soon as possible. I don't like running. I want the race to be over.

At thirteen miles, my knees hurt. I stop to don elastic braces. The braces are tight around my knees and cut off the blood flow to my calves. I push them down to my ankles to give my legs a break until my knees hurt again. Such is the plight of a long distance runner: something always hurts.

At twenty miles, I'm ready to be done. Why is a marathon so long? Why do I do this? Wasn't once enough? Haven't I proved myself? I already did the impossible. Everything hurts. I can't go on any longer.

Twenty-two miles: dazedly, I think that this is the longest mile I've ever run. A woman by the side of the course is yelling, "one more mile!" I hate her. She is every person who told me during my first marathon, "This is the last hill." They were all lying. She is lying. I will never finish. I will collapse right here in the streets of DC, another casualty of the sport.

Rounding a bend, I hear a subtle roaring. I think it's my ears. The people around me are picking up speed. I vaguely wonder why as I look up and see the end. The world snaps back into place. With my salvation in sight, I can do anything! I am the wind, and I whoosh past struggling runners in my desperation to be done. I want to stand still, so I heave myself toward the finish line, crossing at full gallop. Five and a half hours! I've been running for five and a half hours. Apparently, someone removes my timing chip and puts a finishers medal over my head, because I find myself eating a banana and gazing serenely upon my excited family. I spend the rest of the day drifting on my own cloud. I am the king of the world.

Labels: Writings