Giuliana Rancic

Giuliana Rancic

(Inspired by a story from the LA Times)

I am so very sorry for the comments that I make

(although some women’s hair cannot be combed except by rake.)

The things I say are pleasantries, not meant to cause dismay

(But if Charlize is truly blonde then I am Tina Fey!)


Please style your hair in any form that pleases you, I beg.

(And take it to the dry cleaners for treatment, my dear Meg.)

Some women wear their hair like it’s a spiky crown of thorns.

(And others tease it high so they can hide their devil horns.)


Sweet Hillary has gotten hers both bobbed and slightly sheared

(Either way it shows off that amazing Clinton beard.)

I love the way Michelle is wearing hers, so distingue.

(A wig could do her wonders if she wore it ev’ry day.)



Alma; Chapter One.


When the Judges started reigning in the Nephite lands

Men and women for the most part toiled with their own hands.

Nehor and his followers, who preached for gold and glory,

Were quickly made irrelevant to the Nephite’s story.


Instead the members of the Church, under the direction

Of Alma tended their own fields and lived in great affection.

Equal with each other, they did not put on grand airs;

They shared with all their neighbors as they bore each other’s cares.


While those who stayed unchurched indulged in worldly revelry;

They paid themselves with folly from the devil’s currency.

Murder, rape and bondage came to them without surcease,

Because their hearts were not attuned to hear the Prince of Peace.

Hash Oil is Exploding!


(Inspired by an article by Jack Healy.)

Houses are exploding in the Rocky Mountain state.

Distilling of pure hash oil seems to bring about such fate.

Amateurs use butane gas to squeeze out the fine oil.

Results have been unstable, putting gendarmes on the boil.


Judges are bumfuzzled as to how to arbitrate;

Is it still a felony or carry lesser weight?

The money is amazing when the stuff is retail sold;

So lawyers want to wriggle in to get their cut of gold.


Another cottage industry is in the making here,

Along with moonshine rotgut and the brewing of craft beer.

Colorado seems to be a state that’s fascinated

With anything that makes its folk become too twitter-pated.


Talking Carrots.


Welcome to our testing farm, where we raise many crops

That somehow are not regulated by the Fed’ral cops.

No agency molests us as we grow a weird concoction

of plants that we can put up any time for bids at auction.


Loopholes are a lovely thing that we embrace with passion;

And with the gridlock in D.C. they are now in fashion.

We do not need more scientists to modify our fruit;

What we need are lawyers who can regulations boot.


So try a talking carrot or a radish that can fly,

And don’t forget our cukes that taste like fresh-baked apple pie.

Sadly, we have discontinued nurturing much fennel;

It tends to run amok and bite, unless it’s in a kennel.

Cooking with Cannabis.


You can cook delicious food, without a chef named Wolfgang,

If you use a steady hand and put in lots of good bhang.

Now that states are legalizing pot in all its forms,

It is being eaten from McMansions to school dorms.


You can put it in a pie or in a cake or in soufflé;

Serve it as the main course or a freaky canapé.

Instead of wine with dinner or a beer before your lunch,

Stir a little loco weed into a bowl of punch.


The taste may be repulsive, reminiscent of raw lye,

But what is that to connoisseurs intent on getting high?

And I am making odds with all those tight Las Vegas bookies

That cannabis will soon appear in all our Girl Scout Cookies!


The Emerald Ash Borer.


The emerald ash borer was once spotted in a tree

In a park that fronted some important property.

State officials gathered to investigate the ash

Wherein the bug was burrowing and leaving lots of trash.


They sprayed the tree with benzoate, then chopped it down as well,

In hopes the bug would take the hint and go elsewhere to dwell.

But when the purple boxes showed the virid beetle staying,

Authorities got flamethrowers, while ministers were praying.


Great stands of Fraxinus were burnt, and firewood embargoed.

To eat the bug they did import all kinds of wasps and horned toad.

At last in desperation they uprooted every tree

In the state, a borer-less landscape to guarantee.


The emerald ash borer is no longer a concern;

They have taken passage to a beer garden in Berne.

We will celebrate with tambourine, viol and harp –

And then go back to killing off those jumping Asian carp!




This poem is brought to you by Nye’s Polonaise Room — featuring the best darn food in Nordeast Minneapolis!

Why I Hate Bean Sprouts.


A recent article about cold-weather gardening set me to thinking about my on-again/off-again relationship with bean sprouts.

It all began in the fourth grade, when Mrs. Kasebaum gave each student a packet of beans, what appeared to be a black plastic ice tray, and a bag of potting soil.

As a scientific experiment we were to take this stuff home over the winter holidays and begin growing bean sprouts, noting down how soon they sprouted after they were planted and how tall they grew each day, and other things that struck me as pretty unimportant, not to say ridiculous, for a strapping, active young boy to worry about.

Howsoever, I complied with her vexing request and took it all home – and then promptly forgot all about the bean sprouts while I rioted in the backyard snow and upon the skating rink down at Van Cleve Park.  That was the year my pals and I formed a broomball team, calling ourselves The Sonic Brooms, and nothing could get us off the ice except a ham loaf dinner at home or a clamoring bladder.

I finally remembered the bean sprout assignment four days before school began again.  Hurriedly I planted the beans in the black ice tray and stuck the whole shebang under a sun lamp I found down in the basement on top of the chest freezer that hadn’t worked within living memory.

The results I brought into Mrs. Kasebaum’s class were puny, to say the least.  Only a few of the beans had even heaved the earth aside to begin their humpbacked ascent.  My efforts were marked down as “Unsatisfactory”.

I did not bother with bean sprouts again until, as a young father looking for ways to cut down on food bills while still providing something fresh in the middle of an unforgiving Minnesota winter, I happened to catch the tail end of a PBS special on cold season gardening.  The host, a cool and competent neatly dressed man with a clipped British accent, displayed a veritable meadow of luscious looking mung bean sprouts; all grown, he modestly claimed, with the help of nothing more than mung beans, egg cartons, some potting soil, a dash of water now and then, and a window ledge with a southern exposure.

“Easy peasy!” I exclaimed to my wife Amy, as I told her how we would soon have enough sprouts to  garnish a thousand salads and make egg foo young by the boatload.

I gathered the requisite items and set them up on a TV tray next to a window in the dining room, where the southern sun occasionally checked in between snow storms.

But I had not reckoned on the family cat, which, mistakenly or not, began treating my sprout farm as a second litter box during the night.

The creature’s depredations left my grand experiment scattered all over the floor.

So I moved it to the next best place – the window ledge in the bathroom.  There it began to prosper in the steamy atmosphere – until our youngest boy began eating some of the dirt whenever he went in to use the potty.  He was under the impression that I was making chocolate bars, and wanted in at the start.  I tried disabusing him of that fallacy, but he just gave me a knowing look, as if to say “Yeah, right, Pop; you want the goodies all for yourself!”

One last expedient occurred to me, born of desperation.  Our dryer’s exhaust was vented out through a basement window; the plot of ground immediately underneath it remained free of snow and permafrost, though blanketed with a covering of lint.  With several hooligans who were constantly brawling and swimming in filth, and who laughingly called themselves our children, the dryer exhaust was pretty much running day and night.

So I put my sprout farm outside, just to the side of the exhaust vent.

It was all dead and frozen by the next morning.  And covered in lint.

Mrs. Kasebaum would have laughed me out of town, as well as marked me down as “Very Unsatisfactory.”

I consoled myself by remembering that the Red Owl and Piggly Wiggly didn’t sell sprouts in the winter anyways, so who was I to try to buck corporate supermarkets?