In the January 18th New Yorker, this notice:
A typically complex, crowded Pittman, composed of disparate elements (see my discussion of Pittman in this 5/10/11 posting).
Today’s Bizarro, with an idiom and a nursery rhyme:
(If you’re puzzled by the odd symbols in the cartoon — Dan Piraro says there are 2 in this strip — see this Page.)
So we have Humpty Dumpty, recently fallen from his wall, but no explanation of how this terrible event could have come to pass.
A Daily Jocks ad, paired with gay-erotic poetry (definitely not for the sexually modest), then with a series of notes.
Boy in the Sand
He erupts from the surf, his skin
Tangy with salt, his cock rising, his balls
Heavy with his seed. We kiss, I am a
Sea anemone, roiled by desire for him.
I stroke his wet hair, follow the
Arrow of his widow’s peak down his long torso,
Down to his sweet belly, girded by
Hard muscle, take him in my mouth.
We trade, he takes me, opens me with his
Wet fingers, I need him in me. Fuck me,
Cal, oh fuck me, fuuuck me! He
Mounts me, panting heavily, fills me in
Long slow muscular strokes.
Breeds me. Gets me off ferociously.
I become a sea creature like him,
Dive into the surf,
Return to our ocean.
(Notes after the fold.)
Some publications (many science publications, in particular, and the Economist) are given to language play of all types in their headlines and lead paragraphs. Sometimes, though, they just seem to luck on bits of found poetry. Here, from the New Scientist of August 1st, p. 15:
Than Steel in Water
Icy balls fall faster
than steel in water
(Summary: Ice-coated tungsten carbide balls matching solid steel balls in size and weight fall faster than the steel balls when dropped into water.)
Today’s Zippy, with a parody of (part of) Lewis Carroll’s “The Walrus and the Carpenter”, from the (mostly political) dreaming mind of Claude Funston:
The parody reproduces the recurring /ɪŋz/ rhyme of the original, once as /ɪŋz/ (the things of the original), three times as /ɪŋ/.
The illustration: today’s offering from the Daily Jocks people, with a poem.
The doomed hustler
Mid-February eruption of heat,
Everyone on the street, stripped
For the weather.
A near-naked vision, no
Shirt, no shoes, no
Underwear, just low-slung
Blue shorts: lounging expectantly
Under an awning, offering
A hustler’s name, no name,
Changed for each john. But
No johns come: he’s
Hombre sin hombre.