WE’RE CATCHING UP, SO THIS E-DITION FROM THE ARCHIVES IS FOR FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 2023
TRUMP’S NINE-HUNDRED-AND-SEVENTY-FIFTH DAY OUT-OF-OFFICE
AND AT YESTERDAY’S MEETING OF THE CONSERVATIVE AGENDA, MANY MEMBERS ASKED BUNKY TADWELL IF THE WHISTLEBLOWER MEMOIRS HE’S GHOST-WRITING WILL INCLUDE OUR GOOD OLD DAYS ON THE REAGAN CAMPAIGN IN 1980 WHEN WE FIRST CAME UP WITH “MAKING AMERICA GREAT AGAIN.”

No Playoff Pressures
This week, everybody who doesn’t have to wonder what that giant sucking sound still coming from Mediocre American Ball Park is, e-mailed an entry to the Whistleblower Limerick Contest.

The winner is long-time Cincinnati Reds fan Farley Fairweather, who remembers when baseball players cared about the game, instead of just their fat paychecks. Farley wins a pennant from 1919, when the Reds won their first World Series, but only because the Chicago Black Sox threw the games; 477 marked-down sweatshirts from the Reds Over-priced Apparel and Merchandise Store, and his name entered in the lottery of people who may be picked to mortgage their houses so they can buy a couple of tickets to a game or two in 2024. His winning limerick is:

When the Reds didn’t clinch the pennant this year
And we are all crying in our beer
We saw it was tough
When we said, “not close enough,”
And then we all hoped for next year.

Whistleblower Senior Spoiled Sports Editor Andy FurBall writes
When the Reds didn’t clinch the pennant this year
We’d all hoped they‘d gotten it in gear
But pitchers gave games away
And hitters forgot how to play,
It’ll be no more post-season for us, I fear.

Here’s The One From The Anderson Laureate (who now knows why his poetic license is being revoked):
When the Reds didn’t clinch the pennant this year
What a shame the Old Left-Hander wasn’t here.
Ol’ Joe and Marty
Made each game a party
And now Nux is in heaven having a beer.

Perturbed In Price Hill Says

When the Reds didn’t clinch the pennant this year,

I didn’t exactly collapse on my spear.

 

I moved to these parts in nineteen eighty nine,

And the next year Sweet Lou’s Reds were oh-so-fine.

 

Since then, nothing but the proverbial drought:

Just a swing and a miss, and “Strike three, yer out!”

 

A playoff spot for Marty B’s farewell gift?

No, for him just twenty-nine years of short shrift.

 

The Ol’ Left-Hander passed in two thousand seven,

And headed for home way up there in Heaven.

 

Is he praying for some post-season action,

Or has he found some angelic distraction?

 

After thirty-three years we might well conclude,

(Without meaning to be unusually rude),

 

That the Reds are actually owned by Mike Brown,

Our local expert in disgracing this town.

 

The first line of next week’s limerick is:
“When the media takes a news poll”

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