To hear this week's episode, come on down to St. Elizabeth's Church.
Or, to read this episode diligently, climb up to Philip's castle.
The story so far is here.
Here lies the remains of great Senator Vrooman,Whose head was as hard as the heart of a woman-Whose heart was as soft as the head of a hammer.Dame Fortune advanced him to eminence d--- her.We mourn the lossof Senator Cross,If he'd perished laterOur grief had been greaterIf he never had diedWe should always have cried.As he died and decayedHis corruption was stayed.Beneath this mound Charles Crocker now reposes;Step lightly, strangers- also hold your noses.The doctors they tried to hold William Stow back, butWe played at his graveside the sham and the sackbut.
Old Cheney's gone, his fate his hereAnd those who loved him need not fearHis disposition nor shed a tearUnless he gets the devil's ear.
"I was in the drawing-room, enjoying my dinner," said Brillat-Savarin, beginning an anecdote. "What!" interrupted Rochebriant; "eating dinner in a drawing-room?" "I must beg you to observe, monsieur," explained the great gastronome, "that I did not say I was eating my dinner, but enjoying it. I had dined an hour before."
The savage dies — they sacrifice a horse2010 Update: A coward's millennial celebration.
To bear to happy hunting-grounds the corse.
Our friends expire — we make the money fly
In hope their souls will chase it to the sky.
He lay on his deathbed and wrote like mad,For his will was good though his cough was bad.And his humor ran without ever a hitch,Urged by the rowels of Editor Fitch,Who took the sheets as they fell from his hand,Perused and endeavored to understand.The work was complete. "'Tis a merry jest,"The writer remarked; "I think it my best.How strange that a man at the point of deathShould have so much with so little breath!"Then thoughtfully answered him Editor Fitch,As he scratched his head, though it didn't itch:"The point of death I can certainly see,But that of the joke is concealed from me."
A full bag of groceries can sure seem amusing,And words from a poet, no less when confusing;An umpire's call (except when you're losing);Most anything striking, bawling or bruisingAny three strangers who enter a bar;Each ideology, taken too far;The pious in worship, in gossip or char;A sinner, sincerely repenting his mar;The flight of a sparrow, a hen or an emu;Wise words of advice from some sot that you knew;Two lumps in a cup or a toad in the brew;Or you going through that thing that you do;Cars when they're flowing or stopped when it's snowing,Depending, of course, on where you were going;Kids when they're quiet, kids when they're growing;And parents when pleased, neglectful or crowing.This world is a tragic one, let me be clear,Of mirthless malevolence, want, harm and fear.Pray as you should and help some, old dear,But funny our world spins at point of a spear.-Lyman Moody
It's desertion when you leave your postOf honor with your nation's host,And desertion when you leave your spouseAlone within your furnished house.But there's no noisy tsking frission,When an inmate flees the prison-For in escape we find no viceWhile desertion demands sacrifice.-Ssgt. Peyton Farquhar