Talkin’ Baseball…and elections

Regardless of your stance on players kneeling during the National Anthem, baseball is still the American pastime, rich with myths, legends and colorful language and imagery. The beloved poem, Casey at the Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer is the inspiration for my take on the circus surrounding the Presidential election results in Georgia.

Donnie at the Bat

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Trumpville mob that day:
The score stood three-oh-six to two-thirty-two, with but steal attempts to play,
And when Rudy dripped dye from his temples, and later farted without shame,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

The jubilant masses celebrated in the streets. The rest in kind
Clung to conspiracy theories which spring eternal in the misguided mind;
They thought, “If only Donnie could but get a whack at that—
We’d put up even our children’s lives, with Donnie at the bat.”

But Flynn took the fall for Donnie, as Melissa performed like a flake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Donnie getting to the bat.

But Flynn received a pardon, to the wonderment of all,
And McConnell, the much despisèd, crumpled the Constitution into a ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Graham double talking and Flynn a-hugging a-turd.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose an unmasked yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled up from hell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Donnie, fascist Donnie, was advancing to the bat.

There was madness in Donnie’s manner as he overstepped his place;
There was false pride in Donnie’s bearing and a smirk crossed Donnie’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he doffed his MAGA hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Donnie at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on the GOP’s shirt;
Then while the wisened judge gripped the law and refused to flip,
Treason flashed in Donnie’s eye, a sneer curled Donnie’s lip.

And now the leather-covered tome came hurtling through the air,
And Donnie stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the Paunchy batsman the law unheeded sped—
“That’s all fake news” said Donnie. “Strike one!” the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted someone on the stand;
“Proud boys stand back and stand by,” Donnie responded as he raised his hand.

With the blessings of white Evangelicals, Donnie’s orange visage shone;
He stirred the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled recount to the judge, and once more the law sphere flew;
But Donnie still ignored it and the umpire said, “Strike two!”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered “Fraud!”
With one approving look from Don the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his tiny fingers strain,
And they knew that Donnie wouldn’t let the truth go by again.

The sneer is gone from Donnie’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;
And the steadfast judge still holds the line, freeing the will of the people to flow,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Donnie’s blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Trumpville—loser Donnie has struck out.

“Casey” Image courtesy of C.F. Payne

Casey at the Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer is in the public domain

WRVR Jazz NY – RNC Theme Song

In honor of the awe inspiring Republican National Convention, I profoundly present to our listeners a song from the days when America was great, when WRVR was broadcasting on the New York airwaves, Donald Trump was following in the footsteps of his father Fred, demolishing some of New York City’s finest architectural landmarks, and when men were men, women were women and, like minorities and foreigners, knew their place.

This classic, Your Mind Is on Vacation from Mose Allison, could have served as the theme song for the RNC that mercifully concluded after four mind-numbing nights.

Your Mind Is on Vacation

Mose Allison

You’re sitting there yakkin’ right in my face
I guess I’m gonna have to put you in your place
Y’know if silence was golden
You couldn’t raise a dime
Because your mind is on vacation and your mouth is
Working overtime

You’re quoting figures, you’re dropping names
You’re telling stories about the dames
You’re always laughin’ when things ain’t funny
You try to sound like you’re big money
If talk was criminal, you’d lead a life of crime
Because your mind is on vacation and your mouth is
Working overtime

You know that life is short and talk is cheap
Don’t be making promises that you can’t keep
If you don’t like the song I’m singing, just grin and
Bear it
All I can say is if the shoe fits wear it
If you must keep talking please try to make it rhyme
‘Cause your mind is on vacation and your (big) mouth is working

Hip-Hop Politics

If you’re havin’ tweet problems I feel bad for you son,

I got 99 problems, and they start with Trump.

Biggie = Trump’s ego

Smalls = Donald’s hands


ODB – Placard on Kavanaugh’s desk, “Only Drink Beer,” and warning posted on his office wall, “Obnoxious Drinking Beer.”

and, while we’re on the subject…

Old Dirty Bastard(s) – Most of the good old white boys in Congress

aka, The Fat Boys – Getting and keeping fat on our tax money for guaranteed pensions and other entitlements

and, lest we forget, the Human Tweet Box


Q-Tip – Required, along with a hammer, whenever Trump speaks.


Tupac – What we had with Barack as President and Michelle as First Lady.


Note to Trump: Know the Ledge



Poison’s Pandering

If it’s not you, it must be me…

If the universe is expanding, why do I feel so claustrophobic?

At least I can get a star named after me and listed in the International Star Registry, but I don’t know, it all seems so impermanent. I mean, I got a planet named after my favorite childhood toy, a stuffed Pluto dog, only to discover that Pluto was reclassified as a dwarf planet. It was like my “lifetime” membership at the local video store all over again.

pluto dog

No fear, there are billions of stars in the universe, and no two snowflakes are alike. For a nominal fee you can have a snowflake named after you and listed in my Intergalactic Snowflake Registry. For only $49.95 you get a photo of your snowflake superimposed over the summit of Mt. Everest and a certificate of authenticity.


If this seems a bit frivolous, you can opt for a more permanent memento that doubles as a political statement, a dog turd from the National POS Registry in the shape of Donald Trump. The news may be fake, but the certificate and the stench are all too real.


Trump Nursery Rhymes

Inspired by bg trashcanbard: the-creation-of-shit-holes


If shitholes were airplanes

Outhouses would fly

If tax bills were watches, my arm would drag by my side

And if “SIGs” and “GOPs”

were bans and bombs

There’d be no hope for our children

hair flap

There was a loutish chap,

Who had a blond doo-lap,

Right in the middle of his block head.

Whenever he would tweet,

Never words and truth would meet.

Until all reason and compassion were dead.

little hands

Donald has such little hands

Little hands

Little hands

Donald has such little hands

His heart is black as coal.






Black Friday

How did we get here?

Goats and monkeys!

Sing a song of Mike Pence

He’ll bleed your pockets dry.

Four and twenty tweets

won’t make Donald fly.

They say our love

won’t pay the rent,

Before we take office

My attention’s already spent.

From the field house

to the big house,

From the big house

to the White House,


White House

to outhouse,


Cabinet position

No experience necessary

Secretary of Waste Management

“Give ME your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”

“You’re hired!”

How did we get here?

Good Friday to Black Friday


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