A Higgledy-Piggledy On The Theme of “Mesothelioma Lawyers”
Asbestos tragedies,
mesotheliomas
happen most frequently
inside folks’ pleuras.
Then they get bloodthirsty
mesothelioma
lawyers to harass their
stingy insurers.
Can a poet make a good living in this modern world?
I’ve decided to find out. I’m going to write a series of poems based around the highest-paying search terms. If all goes well, I will soon be raking in the advertising dollars. Plus, I’ll be writing beautiful verse that will live in glory for all eternity, so I got that going for me, too.
The first installment:
A Clerihew, On The Theme Of “Chicago Personal Injury Lawyer”
Jonathan Worthington Serrington Sawyer
(a Chicago personal injury lawyer)
achieved his fame
through the length of his name.
I don’t get many tipoffs from readers, mainly because I don’t have that many readers. (I am excluding the vast throngs who seem to find me via google, read my Snakes on a Plane trailer, and then wander off, never to return, leaving me feeling used and lonely.)
In any case, when I post something a link that somebody else e-mailed me, I have generally described my benefactors as “alert readers.” Alert they certainly are, but I always feel a slight pang of guilt when I use the phrase, since I so closely associate it with Dave Barry.
Henceforth, when readers are kind enough to send me a tipoff, I will use a different adjective for them each time, steadily working my way through the alphabet until I reach Z. Then I’ll start over again.
Alas, while Lauren and I were traveling in the US, we missed the chance to taste the world’s most expensive sandwich: £100 worth of “rare Wagyu beef, the finest fresh duck foie gras, black truffle mayonnaise, brie de meaux, rocket, red pepper and mustard confit with English plum tomatoes in a sour dough bread.”
As Selfridge’s points out, “for real food lovers this represents a remarkable value.” By failing to purchase one of these–or, indeed, dozens of these–value sandwiches, we have displayed a shameless disregard for frugality. Where will we ever get rare Wagyu beef at such a reasonable price?
(Thanks to brainy reader Adam Price for the link.)
Where most Americans would say “You’re looking well,” residents of Los Angeles say “My God, you look so young.”
I will probably not have the chance to post much for the next two weeks.
So let me leave you with this important piece of breaking new, courtesy of Jeanni Sager:
British Lawyers Build Case Against Wigs
Although it can’t quite compete with America’s Best Burger in actual culinary excess, Buffalo, New York’s Charcoal Broiled Helicopter Bologna Sandwich certainly has it beat in the naming department.
I find the article a bit confusing, though. Is the bologna fried or merely broiled? Can any gourmands from the great city of Buffalo enlighten us?
(Thanks to expat Buffalonian Mitch Gerber for the tip.)
I’ve given my sidebar a much-need update.
From the “Blogs” section, I’ve removed Dear Raed, which was once my favorite blog, but hasn’t been updated in two years. I’ve also addedClublife. In the process of checking for dead links, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Hasidic Rebel is posting again after a long absence.
In the “Screenwriters & Screenwriting” section, I’ve added Alligators in a Helicopter, By Ken Levine, Jane in Progress, and Screenwriter Bones.
Yesterday was “Mothering Sunday” here in the UK. This is exactly like the American holiday of Mother’s Day, except that it takes place on a different date, and has a much cooler name.
In fact, I have decided that from now on, when I need an impressive-sounding but non-obscene interjection, I am going to use “Mothering Sunday.” As in: “Ow! Mothering Sunday! I just stubbed my toe!” Or “Some mothering Sunday broke my car mirror and didn’t leave a note.”
Yesterday was also notable, by the way, because it was the day on which Britons set their clocks one hour forward. For the next week, the UK will be six hours ahead of New York time, and not merely five. I ask that my friends in the US keep this in mind when calling me, lest I be forced to answer the phone with, “Do you know what mothering Sunday time it is?”