I recently discovered that one can root around in shallows of Donald Trump’s tweets and come out with some pretty sweet haikus. Not sweet as in cute and cuddly, but sweet as in, “dude, that’s totally sweet.” For example:
I’m sure you can do better than that. I’m sure I can do better than that.
Whatta ya got?
On the first day of my freshman year of college, we boys were made to gather in the common room of our all-freshman-male dormitory, where the head resident informed us that the building we were occupying was so old and had such a cranky sprinkler system that if one of us 18 year olds suddenly caused the system to “go off,” as we were prone to do, the jets of water bursting forth from the sprinklers would “drive a hole right through your hand.”
Several among us suffered from mild paranoia and now had to worry that, in the event of a fire, they'd get their very own stigmata. Psychoanalysis might have helped these friends, but there weren’t many “providers” working in the bleakness of Canton, NY in those days, so they opted to numb themselves in the Hoot Owl bar.
At some point I realized it was absurd that my tuition dollars were paying for me to live in a dormitory equipped with a deadly sprinkler system, so I left for a college that had no on-campus housing for me, and therefore no sprinkler system. And I’m so glad I did, because you can’t be injured by sprinklers if your abode isn’t equipped with them.
My current sprinkler-free home is equipped with the very fanciest hard-wired and interconnected system of smoke and CO alarms, which of course means that it is certain to fail now and again. And when it fails, it does so with great gusto, blaring out piercing sirens at 4 in the morning that have terrorized my children. More than once my adrenal glands have emptied their cache of hormones into my bloodstream, nearly causing me a myocardial infarction. This, with no smoke and no CO. “First Alert” is the wrong brand name for these devices. “Cardiac Arrest” is more apt. After several episodes of false alarms, I had no choice but to disconnect several hard-wired units and opt for old-fashioned, battery-operated devices instead.
In the future, we’ll have a robot who will not only vacuum our rooms, cook our meals, and drive our cars, but will also alert us to CO buildup in the surrounding atmosphere. Until then, I’m going low-tech.
My friend Tim broke his pelvis a few years ago, when he was in his mid-late-70s. We had been playing bocce and he just twisted the wrong way and…snap! That’s what happens when you’re in your mid-late-70s.
Actually, he was in his very late 40s. Like, he was about a week away from turning 50. Or maybe he had already turned 50 but was just days away from his 50th birthday party. Anyway, he fell off his bike and broke his pelvis, and naturally I was called. That’s very common in my world: whenever someone breaks his or her pelvis, I immediately get a call.
So I go rushing to Tim’s side, and as we wait for the medics, I tell him: “You got on your bike and rode it around. Look, you knew what you were getting into.” And he chuckled.
Then, as always happens, his chuckle caused a snort, and the snort sounded funny so his wife Noelle and I started laughing, and the laughing made us laugh more, and before you knew it Noelle and I and the two just-arrived medics were on the ground, doubled-over, seized with uncontrollable laughter to the point of embarrassment over the exceedingly silly comment-snort-guffaw continuum. Meanwhile, Tim was writhing in pain from a bona ride fractured pelvis.
If I had only managed to get a selfie, the juxtaposition of us laughers beside our comrade in pain would have made some seriously good art.