by Giles Gallows


Gentle reader. Tonight, another treat: an interview with the great Irish playwright and novelist, one of the most influential writers of the 20th century, the man who has most shaped theatre for the past few generations, the erudite, elusive, giant of letters, Samuel Beckett.



A Eulogy on Zoom

by Jack “Jackie” Stevens II, “CPA”

Dearly beloved,

I see no one has logged on yet, except me and my father, who hasn’t really longed on, you see, for he is still quite dead. I logged on for him, under his own Zoom account, which I…

(in no particular order; they are equally terrible)

  1. The Virtual Zoom-Assisted Farmers Market! Such a terrible idea. The farmers hand out virtual veggies, fruit, and flowers, while an old man plays the banjo. Each time a farmer passes an item across the screen to you, she giggles “tee-hee.” …

If all the world’s a stage, just who are you?

The young ingenue, all ribbons and blue

Pirouetting downstage stage, ne’re out of view

Enchanting scoundrels with nothing to so

Are you the author of these loves and dreams?

Entangling mortals and sprites with your schemes

And explore their yearnings because it seems

The spotlights downstage are more like moonbeams

For the audience to see, are you with them?

Admiring the stage or to condemn

The joyous see the bloom and hold the stem

While the discontents slouch toward Bethlehem

Trudging slowly to an early grave

Were it not for the casting that God gave

Katherine Cook Briggs and Isabel Briggs Myers

You know they say that opposites attract

I know you’re a P ’cause I am a J

I came to that conclusion long ago

While you were gathering data all day

You are not convinced, is that what YOU say?

That’s because you are no doubt a T

I’m an F, already celebrating

You are thinking too much (so unlike me)

I’ve got an intuition: you’re upset

But you’ve got no clue, ’cause you are an S

I am an N, and I’m sure about us

You are a moron, but I love you best

But you are an E, go party with friends

I am an I, and it’s time for my nap


They’re crazy large, she is such a freak

And they are not just brown, but sugary

And did I tell you her breath doth reek

And I rue the very day she chose me

If hair were pasta, it grows from her head

Makes sense, because she cannot stop eating

At night she brings ancient pizza to bed

My stomach turns, it keeps on repeating

There are stale chips all over the blanket

There are old gummies under my pillow

Rotten apple juice, she never drank it

I could never sell this house on Zillow

But she stays up with me to watch Seinfeld

She throws up every time she sees Newman

by Giles Gallows


Gentle reader. Tonight we have a special treat: a Q&A with the man called the Bard of Avon, England’s National Poet, the world’s greatest dramatist (according to Wikipedia), none other than William Shakespeare, author of 39 plays, 154 sonnets, creator of two long narrative poems, inventor…

By Quentin Snapp, Head of Membership For The AARP

Dear Ladies

There’s never been a better time — i.e., today, April 25, 2020 — to sign up your husband for a lifetime membership with the AARP. “Why?,” you ask. Well, you’ve been quarantined with the guy for more than a…

April 23: Three perfect drinks for battling the invisible enemy

My fellow Americans (except for the lamestream media)

By now you’ve heard the great news that I’ve lined up all the doctors and CEOs to develop a vaccine with a good-old American disinfectant. Of course you have. My daily briefing…

Albrecht Durer, 1512

In his last days, the meds were so heavy

At hospice, that his children had arranged

He had no appetite for anything

The TV on low to lull him to sleep

Before slipping into his anxious dreams

He’d see his fears in three colored spheres

Projected vividly on his eyelids

But he struggled to keep them all arranged

Yellow for the loss to his family

Red for regrets, what he’d done to others

But the one that would most make him shiver

Was the blue circle that presaged the end

One night the blue circle became the sun

With the others spinning round its orbit

Giovanni Rodriguez

Writer, amateur blacksmith, future Pope.

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