Blog #500                                October 8, 2026

 

That’s right.  Your eyes have not deceived you.  This is the 500^th Limerick Oyster you have been lucky or un-lucky enough to have received.  Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you all are feeling well.  The first Oyster was let out of the bag on March 16, 2017, and the last one – well, hang in there.  I’m not done yet.  Thanks for hanging around so long.  I really have enjoyed writing to you.

 

Today, let’s talk about the death penalty.  Christa Pike, a Tennessee woman was sentenced to death in 1996 for a murder she committed in 1995, more than thirty years ago.  But a court has stayed the execution to review her lawyers’ claims that she was a victim of child abuse.  Here are some thoughts.

 

·        I’ve said this before, but Pike’s case strengthens my argument.  The best thing you can do to guarantee living for 30 more years is to get sentenced to death.  Why does it take 30 years?

·        And why has it taken 30 years for her defense to raise these abuse issues?  Who was her lawyer, Rip Van Winkle? 

·        I’m not a fan of the death penalty.  It’s morally messy and confusing, but I am a fan of harsh punishment.  How about making her watch America’s Got Talent re-runs for six hours a day?

·        Have you noticed that 19 of every 20 acts appearing on America’s Got Talent are from Asia?  Why don’t they call it Asia’s Got Talent?

·        And have you noticed that America’s Pastime, the sobriquet for Major League Baseball, is played mostly by players from the Dominican Republic and Venezuela?  Why don’t they call it South America’s Pastime?

·        And now you know why you should receive a reward for reading 500 weeks of this rambling, pointless drivel.  Why don’t they call it Limerick Drivel?

And as long as I’m rambling, let’s talk more about South America’s Pastime.  The baseball playoffs have started, and Pope Leo is rooting for the White Sox.  Well, he is from Chicago, so that’s understandable, but don’t you think the Pope, the leader of world Catholicism, should choose more Catholic-oriented images – like the Cardinals or maybe the Angels or the Padres?  Or how about the Saints?  I know, the Saints are a football team, but they could still probably play baseball better than the Cardinals!

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Like a football you do spurn me thus? (The Comedy of Errors).  I can play ball too.  Pops rolls a little ball across the carpet and sometimes I chase it.  Mostly I just let him chase it and roll it back.  He gets more exercise than I do and he thinks we’re both having fun.  He’s so goofy.  I haven’t been in all his blogs, but I’ve been purring and meowing at you for about six years, and I know I’m funnier than he is.  Purr.

 

Oh, and now they decided to go ahead with the execution of Christa Pike, and they gave her two lethal injections.  They didn’t work.  Where did they get these drugs, Taco Bell?

 

If you’ve been reading all 500 of my blogs, you have noticed that I pick on my wife a lot.  She is such a good sport and never gets offended that I use her like a lovely, little piñata.  That’s because she knows that a good part of my humor comes from using her as a foil. A foil, Weekly Word, is someone or something that serves as a contrast to another.  George Burns had Gracie as a foil; Phyllis Diller had Fang, and I’ve got Carol.  I am very lucky.

 

And, if you’ve been reading all these blogs, you’ve noticed that I consider myself a poet – a minor, silly and overrated poet to be sure, but a poet nonetheless.  And who are the poets I look up to and whose talent I envy?

 

·        Poe, of course.  I have memorized every word of The Raven.

·        Alfred Noyes.  I can recite the first and last stanzas of The Highwayman.

·        Dr. Seuss

·        Shel Silverstein

·        Robert Frost.  I can recite Provide, Provide.

·        A. E. Housman.  I am now reading his complete works (again) and I may share one or two with you as the weeks go on.

Back to Carol as my foil.  “What are we doing tonight?”  I asked my Honey last Saturday night.  By Honey, I mean my wife, in case you thought I had another Honey lying around.  She said we had no plans, so I made a date with her for dinner, just the two of us.  I love going out with her alone.  We get to talk about everything with no television, on-line bridge games, on-line canasta games, crossword puzzles or telephone calls taking up all of her concentration.  She agreed, but she decided she wanted to ask some other people.  Out came the telephone, and she easily found three other couples whose husbands wanted to be alone with their wives.

 

A dinner, just me and my date

For her was just not on the plate

“If you want to dine

Well, that would be fine

But it’s got to be dinner for eight.”

 

There you go, a minor, silly and overrated poet.  I told you. 

 

I’ve been struggling with my car lately.  It’s been a little sluggish the last couple of weeks.  When I step on the gas, it just has too much resistance, almost like there’s something under the pedal.  I decided to fix it.  As you know from reading 500 blogs, my succeeding in fixing anything mechanical is about as likely as Maxine Waters doing a foxtrot with J. D. Vance.  As likely as Donald Trump becoming a trans-female basketball player.  As likely as Carol eating at a square table.  But as a first step, I bent down and felt under the pedal, and you know what?  There was something under there.  The floor-mat had bunched up under the pedal and was keeping it from depressing all the way.  I moved the mat and everything was fine.  How about that?  Just call me Mr. Goodwrench.  No?  How about Mr. Luckywrench?  No?  How about Mr. Idiotwrench?

 

Well, I have to go now.  I have to start working on the next 500 blogs.  I’m up for it.  Are you?  Stay well, count your blessings and hang around for another 500.  Thanks.

 

Mr. Idiotwrench                       Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com