RED CARPET CONCLAVE

Greeting Hairballs,

This may offend some.  Try to find your sense of humor, I'm not anti-Pope.

The annual Oscars have come and gone and we watched as the glitterati preened for the cameras.

At the end of the evening everyone knew who won, who lost and the nominees could decide if they had wasted thousands only to perspire on dry clean only outfits or smile from the inside out as they took home their little gold statues.  No smoke, no mirrors, plenty of politics, but at the end of the night, everyone knew who was named best.

It’s a red carpet occasion again but this time at the Vatican. 

RED CARPET CONCLAVE (OR WHO WANTS TO BE POPE)©

         FMHorner

they’ve come from all over the world,

mostly over weight, cross-dressing old guys,

not a woman in sight unless she’s cleaning the place,

who years ago had taken vows of celibacy

(how’s that working for you?)

and vows of poverty or not

I suspect not given the finery

they preen and pose,

smiling for the cameras and

often have a quip for reporters

before rushing inside to join their compatriots,

all pretending the job is too lofty for them

while deep inside thinking

please let it be me

like the Oscars, there’s a display of glamour

unlike the Oscars, it’s same, same, same—

long back dresses with red piping

topped with a short cape

and red skull cap

all designed by Pious the Unimaginative

in the 12^th Century

the reporter for Fashionata Daily

was about to declare

Cardinal Liebowitz best dressed

until the interview when she

discovered he was an American tourist

on his way to meet his wife and

mother-in-law for lunch

what threw her was his choice

of clothing—very much in keeping

with standard Cardinal wear but modern—

black, two-piece designer jogging suit

with red stripes down the legs

Air Jordans

and a black yarmulke

Mr. Liebowitz was stunned that

he had been mistaken for a Cardinal,

especially since he isn’t Catholic.

he didn’t even know he was in St. Peter’s Square.

“I must have turned the wrong way

at Via Bumbalino,”

he said, wandering back the way he came

the Cardinals will be locked in to vote

with scores of servants catering to their needs.

they’ve been forbidden to tweet or text—

yes, somewhere buried in those

flowing gowns,  black for day and red for evening,

lurk cell phones—

the only sign of the 21^st Century

and, like any other special-interest group,
they’ll be blowing smoke

one if by land, sorry that was Paul Revere,

it’s black no Pope, white we have a Pope.

what a great reality show that would make—

“who wants to be Pope?”

start lining up the sponsors and find an MC

I hear Sarah Palin’s out of work.

Holy Hairballs,

f

OMG OF THE WEEK

Tour Wars

Due to sequestration, the White House has cancelled tours.

The GOP, who caused this, have announced that tours of the Capitol Building will continue and have bashed the President/White House for shutting down their tours.

Yes, that's right, we have no other problems in the country.  Rather than work to solve real problems, congress puts all its energy into tours.

Hairballs are hardly enough.

f

Tailgating at the Opera (Well Sort of)©

Greetings Hairballers,

Now that Live at the Met has come to our theaters, I've been having an opera glut.  Hope you enjoy my observations.

Tailgating at the Opera (Well Sort of)©

         FMHorner

we opera aficionados, here

in Frog Crossing, Florida,

could make fans in a football parking lot

shake their heads in wonder—

amateurs

bel canto has come to the outback.

no longer doomed to

hearing someone bellow off key

at St. Kiwanis’s Church of the Deprived,

we’re in the big leagues now

well, sort of

live from the Met

in HD at a theater near you—

where the best of the best

sing Verdi, Wagner and all those guys

it doesn’t get any better

well, sort of

in contrast to our smartly dressed and

well-behaved brethren,

we consider opera sport,

and show up wearing shorts and jeans,

sandals and boat shoes,

tee shirts that say

no parking here,

well aged is better, and

Tire Kingdom—

that’s the guy who hasn’t done his laundry

and unlike Yankee Stadium,

where vendors roam the aisles

yelling

getcha cold beer here,

we must fend for ourselves

ticket holders arrive with coolers

containing beverages, banned or not,

and purses bulging with sandwiches,

these gigs are long and ya gotta eat,

thus far, no one has tried to fire up a grill.

Side note:  Please Great Spirit, let me be there if that happens.

to secure seats, we arrive hours early,

draping articles of clothing over the chairs.

woe to anyone who tries

to impose their derriere on

a place we’ve saved for a friend

“don’t sit on that sweater, you idiot,

there’s a custard pie in the pocket

and a stool sample

I have to take to the doctor

if this show ever ends,” we shout

we’ve dusted off our books of libretti,

gone to the deli and the 7-Eleven,

now totally prepared,

we’re up to the challenge

for culture has arrived

well, sort of

Vissi d’arte

OMG OF THE WEEK

Not being anti-Pope here but I have questions.

The Pope gave up his red shoes when he retired. 

Does shoe size having anything to do with picking the new guy? Are red shoes being made in all the Cardinal's sizes just in case? Or, do they use a red magic marker to recolor the guy's shoes until new ones are made? What is done with the old red shoes? If he'd clicked his heels, would he have ended up in Kansas? Just asking.

Guess you’ve noticed it’s all still old men.

DUMB BASTARD AWARD FOR FEBRUARY

Greetings Hairballers,

It’s the first of the month and time for the Dumb Bastard Award.

Congratulations to:  The city of Tampa, Florida, for having such an out-of-date, worn out, old and dysfunctional infrastructure that a squirrel, yes I said squirrel, chewed through the wires, resulting in a boiled water alter for all residents, including restaurants and hospitals, for a week.  Wow, what a right-to-work state can do for you.  Maybe they should look for the union label.

Okay and me, for being redundant—there’s a Hairball in there somewhere.

Hairballs to them,

f

Loonarella and the Lost Slipper

Greetings Hairballers,

My friend, Maggie (not her real name) wins in the having the most bizarre houseguest category.

Loonarella and the Lost Slipper©

         FMHorner

a friend of my houseguest

coming to stay for two nights--

I’m flexible

how bad could it be?

yet I heard caching, caching

as her needs and restrictions

were dictated, in staccato tones,

oy vey

no bag of bagels for this woman

she ate no wheat

no dairy

no meat

fresh fish, of course,

was on her menu, she said

that I could pick it up

when I went to the store

she’d heard I was a gourmet cook,

oh why couldn’t I be like

Susan and Ferne, who cook by

pushing the start button on the microwave?

at last the visit was over--I had survived

by consuming gallons of

Fat Bastard chardonnay,

the only wine that seemed appropriate

we piled into my silver chariot,

airport bound,

with my friend in front,

and Loonerella and her gear in back

upon arrival, Loonerella started to shout

I can’t find my other shoe

we’re going to miss our plane,

where is my shoe?

off she hobbled into the terminal

wearing one 2 inch high heel,

the other foot bare,

pulling a suitcase and clutching a plant

dreaming of quiet and a bottle of wine,

I pulled into the driveway,

and there in the headlights,

a high-heeled shoe

if prince charming comes knocking

he’d better be delivering

a pizza or something

because I’m burying that shoe in the back yard

oh, and moving to France.

I’m not Maggie but have enough houseguest stories to keep the Gazette going for months.  It's been the winter of Florida.

Hairballs,

f