I met a distressed strawberry
Outside my local MegaMart.
He asked if I had some spare change,
While I returned my shopping cart.
He said he was from out of town.
He was lugging an empty gas can.
He was trying to get his family home.
They were really in a jam.
The cautious cynic deep inside me
Thought this was just another scam.
But he looked at me so desperately,
Then, he said his name was Sam.
I drove Sam to the closest filling station,
Where I quietly paid to fill up his can.
Then, we drove out to meet his family,
Who were truly in a jam.
I spread them on a baguette.
They were delicious.
What if my dog were a poet?
That would explain the rhythmic barks.
The ones that last all day,
The ones that last throughout the dark.
I think he may be a singer,
And he’s in a protest mood.
“Let me out of my crate!”
“Bring me more food!”
Bark, Bark, Bark, Bark.
Woof, Woof, Woof, Woof.
Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof.
Not much rhymes with “woof.”
If my dog were a singer,
I could be very rich.
I just have to translate to English,
And remember he can say “bitch”.
So, we met the new mascot last night.
Scout, the big, fat AirHog blob.
He replaced Ace Bacon, the fighter pilot.
Not exactly a trade up.
Scout looks like Dodger.
I was not the only one to notice.
Dodger was a cat, not a hog.
How does a hog look like a cat?
Mascots are all becoming the same.
A triangle shape with a big bottom.
I mean freakin’ huge.
Maybe J-Lo should be a mascot.
Then, add a custom head.
Cat. Pig. Whatever.
I think this is stupid.
Mainly, because my seats are front row.
So, a huge belly-ass combo blocks my view,
While he’s trying to get the back row cheering.
If the back row doesn’t know when to cheer,
Maybe they need remedial baseball classes.
This does not require blocking my view.
I have been to games where there wasn’t a mascot.
You know what happened?
The players still played the game.
I miss Ace.
But I don’t see the point of mascots.
The battle had raged for hours.
Friend had finally turned to foe.
As generals moved their pieces
On the battleground down below.
The Northern side were winning,
Shoving Rebels to and fro,
But their leaders still were worried,
Southern strength had yet to show.
When the words to lead elude you,
And there’s no place left to go.
You can never just surrender,
Victory is closer than you know.
No rhymes in my poem.
My wife says it doesn’t count.
This is haiku, bitch.
Saturday morning at last.
Nothing to do until noon.
(Bark, bark, bark)
A honey-do list I can ignore.
Only peace and quiet.
(Woof, woof, woof)
Just drifting back to sleep,
With a Chihuahua on my head.
(Growl, growl, growl)
Does anyone train dogs to make coffee?
Some people around here (I’m looking at you, Tony Romo)
Get paid rather enormous amounts of money each year
To fail in different and increasingly epic ways.
Maybe next year.
Sometimes, I think sports is the main reason
That “Epic Collapse” was invented as a phrase.
(Bridges are the other reason, and that’s worse.)
Only sports has a one-hour annual event
That requires sixteen hours of airtime on TV.
Some people seem relieved when the home team loses.
They’re out of contention. Failures. Doomed.
However, it does give you the rest of the season off to just relax.
Maybe next year.
But, sometimes, rarely,
After struggles and discord,
After playing through the pain,
After enough players thank God and Mom,
The home team are crowned the Champions of the World.
They’re the best!
They’re the winners!
Maybe next year.
My team was crowned Champions a few years back.
The next day, I drove in bad traffic to a job that still sucked.
My pay did not increase and I didn’t get laid that night.
Does it really matter if the home team wins?
I am not a skinny person.
I’ve been told I have one inside me.
This is a wee bit scary.
If I do, he is a very bad skinny person.
He is the voice inside my head.
The voice says, “That pie looks tasty.”
Evil, evil skinny person.
You should go to Weight Watchers, not me.
It took years of whining but Mom finally got me a pony.
It was my best birthday ever.
I named my new pony “Steve.”
I combed him and walked him.
I put feed out for him.
I said, “Let’s eat, Steve!”
Then, I tried to look in his mouth.
I had never seen a pony’s teeth.
Steve bit me. Ouch.
I hope Steve is not rabid.
It was really dark in the bar that night.
There was a loud cover band.
I saw her from the corner of my eye.
She looked like a Princess.
She was doing 18 knots in heavy seas.
I was full of oil and she had a buffet on her Lido deck.
This was a doomed relationship from the start.