How do I love thee? Hmmm …. let me get back to you on that

Romantic-CoupleIf I say “The Washington Post,” you might think — big newspaper, watchdog on Washington, D.C., “All the President’s Men.” But how about … funny?

Right. Me neither.

But that changed when I read some of the entries sent to the paper during a poetry contest it held recently. Submissions had to be a two-line poem and consist of the most romantic first line (please refer to above picture), followed by the least romantic second line (please refer to below picture).

Fighting-Couple-630x420Some funny stuff. Here’s a few of them.

“My darling, my lover, my beautiful wife
Marrying you has screwed up my life.”

waking up screaming

“I see your face when I’m dreaming.
That’s why I always wake up screaming.”

“Kind, intelligent, loving and hot.
This describes everything you’re not.”

“Love may be beautiful, love may be bliss,
but I only slept with you ’cause I was pissed.”

Is it me, or do all of these sound like they were written by men? Oops, seems I spoke too soon.woman_likes brother

“I thought that I could love no other …
… that is until I met your brother.”

“What inspired this amorous rhyme?
Two parts vodka, one part lime.”

“Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet and so are you.
But the roses are wilting, the violets are dead, the sugar bowl’s empty … and so is your head.”

You know, some real thought went into many of the submissions here. Malicious ones? Perhaps. Potential circumstantial evidence? Possibly. But still, it’s the thoughts that count, right?

bag-over-head

“I want to feel your sweet embrace,
but don’t take the paper bag off of your face.”

unhappy dog couple

“I love your smile, your face and your eyes.
Damn, I’m good at telling lies.”

Yes, yes. Gratuitous use of yet another bulldog picture – guilty. But at least they fit the mood here. Sort of.

And finally, last but not least, viciously speaking …

“My feelings for you no words can tell,
except for maybe “Go to Hell.”

Sheesh. Can you just feel the love oozing all over here? Why it’s so strong, it’s almost … poisonous.

Oh, go kiss a frog already

Happy CoupleI’ve written about my junk mail before but lately it’s taken over all of my www-reading attention. For a few weeks every time I click open my Junk Inbox I find yet another woman who has never met me, never even seen me …

… but wants me. Baaaaaaaaaaad.

They can just feel it, every single one of them – that I’m the one. And they know this even though every one of them is writing me from aaaaaaaaaaaall the way in the Ukraine. I may be a little long in the tooth and short on stature, but they don’t know it nor care.

Sheesh – all of this admiration-from-afar is tough, I tell you. I’ve nearly had to splint my left-side mouse button finger, just from deleting all of them off.

Maybe Ukrainian men are more earthy, less refined than us American guys. And seems prone to being a tad generous when estimating their uh, manhood too.

Maybe Ukrainian men are more earthy, less refined than us American guys. Sure seem prone to being a tad generous when estimating their manhood too.

Yup, they know I’m their guy. Or so they tell me. But don’t take my word for it. For example, meet the most recent admirer-de-jour – Anny, or maybe as her close friends call her – Any.

“Hi, Mike”
(OK, so there’s a small issue with my name. What do you expect from a woman who spells her own name two different ways in the same email? Probably a Ukrainian cultural thing.)
“We’ve got only one life to live and I want to live it as good a I can.”
(It’s good to have a life plan. Admirable.)
“I’ve found you and now I can’t imagine how I lived without you for my entire life?!”
(Aw, shucks. I’m sure it wasn’t hard living all this time without me. Hellish, certainly. But probably not that hard.)
“I want to get used to you, I want to learn you, I want to accept you as you are.”
(Uh, OK. So, just exactly what do you mean by ‘learn you’? Not judging of course, just wondering.)
“I try to imagine you and in my own imagination I am already getting used to you: I am used to your eyes, soft and wise, to your hands, to your gentle touch. I haven’t seen you in real life, but inside, in my soul, I already feel how warm and happy your heart can be just from love.”
(My, see me blush. You Ukrainian women sure have a rather direct way about you, don’t you? That’s one powerful soul, er, imagination you got there.)
“I realize that there can be another sitting by your side, touching your hair, watching you, hugging you.”
(Damn, am I glad you brought my wife up here. Thanks, it sure spares me from one of those, shall we say, awkward moments.)
“However I know that, you can’t imagine my confidence, but I know that we can match. I don’t think our silence will help us, so I am here, at (web address.ua), and I hope that you will touch my heart with your letter soon, my dear. Yourth faithfully, Any.”

Count on it, my dearest Anny/Any. You just keep checking yourth mailbox. The letter’s in the mail.

Loooove is a many splendored thing …

Ain’t love grand? Why sure, it can be. Can make you weak in the knees, have you seeing fireworks, learn first-hand the meaning of the word “swoon”, get you all hot and bothered under the collar and other places.

But love has another side. A hidden chamber of horror. A dark cavern of doom. A sinister alternate reality where good becomes bad, desire becomes disgust and together becomes apart. It has a name.

Litigation.

What the woof.

This is a puggle. Cute little thing, isn’t it. Cross between a pug and a beagle, I’m told. Why, I’m not told. Makes no sense to me.

I mean, really. You got your puggles, your labradoodles, cockapoos, dorkies, chorkies, whatever. I say you want an Irish Wolfhound, you get one. You want a chihuahua, you get one. You want both? You get one of each – you don’t go breed yourself an Irish chihuahuahound. It’s just not the same. It’s just not right. It’s just not possible. Is it? Don’t answer that. Some things I’d rather not know.

Anyway, this isn’t about canine smorgasbords. It’s about a man, a woman and a puggle. Craig Dershowitz is the man. Sarah Brega is the woman. The puggle is Knuckles. “Knux” to those closest to him.

Here’s the 1st-grade primer version of their story:

Chapter One

See Craig. See Sarah. See Craig and Sarah fall in love in New York City. See Craig and Sarah see Knuckles. See Craig and Sarah buy Knuckles. See Craig, Sarah and Knuckles. See them happily ever after.

Chapter Two

See Sarah scowl. See Craig cringe. See Sarah tell Craig to take a flying leap. See Craig say likewise, I’m sure. See the pug half of Knuckles chase his tail, thinking it’s a beagle behind him.

Chapter Three

See Sarah run. See Craig stay. See Sarah move to California with Knuckles. See Craig hire a lawyer to get custody of Knuckles. See Craig spend $60,000 so far to do it. See Craig go on You Tube and beg for money to help him “Free Knux”. See Knuckles snarl at his butt, thinking maybe that will scare off that damn beagle that’s been following him forever.

The end

Not quite. Craig’s suing Sarah with every dime he has to get his Knuckles. Sarah’s in California, saying Craig’s just a vengeful hateful little man who’ll never have Knuckles.

And so the story goes. Maybe all the way to The Supreme Court. Dear God, please let it go all the way to The Supreme Court.

Actually, I say let the dog decide. They say dogs can sense fear in a person. Not much of a stretch to think they also can sense true love. Probably stupidity too.

Let Knuckles settle this case. Hey, it’s his life. Stand these two ex-love birds up in front of the judge, one on each side of the bench. Then open the door to the courtroom and let Knuckles come in.

Let him pick where and with whom he wants to live the rest of his life. Let him decide which of these people he thinks will offer him the best life, the best care, the best food … the best of everything.

I’ll bet he runs right to the lawyers.