C-Dubs The Least-Loved Ranch Hand

There’s Carlson, Whit, Crooks, The Boss, George and Lennie.
There’s Candy and Curly and Slim (’cause he’s skinny).
But do you recall
The most disrespected of all?

C-Dubs, the least-loved ranch hand,
Didn’t even have a name
And everyone who saw her
Would have told you she’s to blame.

All of the other ranch hands
Had a Y beside their X.
Homogametic C-Dubs
Shoulda chose a different sex.

Finding Lennie in the hay,
C-Dubs came to say,
“Kilt your pup? Well, that’s all right.
You kin stroke my hair tonight!”

Oh, how the big lug rubbed it!
‘Til she shouted out, then he
Panicked, and poor old C-Dubs
Was shaken out of his story!

“Floozy,” “jail bait,” “tramp” and “bitch,”
“God damn…lousy tart.”

Steinbeck went to town when he
Vented his misogyny.

He wrote the painter’s daughter
Such an awful, tawdry life,
He must have hated C-Dubs
(Which is short for “Curley’s Wife”).

Quoth St. Stephen

My toenails are an unattractive
Lot, a sad, objective fact of
Which I’m all too well aware.
It’s why my feet are rarely bare
In places squeamish people lurk
Like public markets, church and work.
They’re not all bad–most folks are fine
With viewing seven, eight or nine,
But pupils cheer in Hades when
A witness wincelessly sees ten,
So he who keeps his dinner down
Shall be rewarded with a crown
To wear upon the Feast of Steve
(That’s two days after Christmas Eve);
If no one’s perfect, he who least
Is winceful headlines at the Feast
Of Stephen’s Stoning–(Drugs are wrong!)
To lead the festal folk in song:

Good King Winces Less looked out
On the feets of Stephen
Whilst his toe waved round about,
Cruelly twisted, even….

My Grandfather’s Joke

My grandfather’s clock was too big for the shelf
So he sold it and bought a big shelf.
He’s never on time for appointments. You wait
Or give up and go fetch him yourself.

If I drew you a graph
Of the things that make him laugh
There’d be one big, mysterious dot.
Is it farts?
Something that’s on my face?
“No,” he’ll say,

Is it a bit of cheese?
“It’s not. It’s snot.”
Grandpa, please tell me. Please?
“It’s snot. It’s snot!”

He’ll stop,
And say, “No matter what you think,
“Read my lips: