underslept

Ay, ay, ay. As Bart Simpson said under his nom de medecin, Dr. Cheeks, while mooning a customer, “I’m a little behind.”
I was putting the kids to sleep last night (in the non-euphemistic sense) and succumbed to my own calming charms while contemplating what to put in yesterday’s (today’s, at the time of contemplation) blog. I drew a blank (actually, I was working on a B fable). I was also ruminating on what to enter for the 78th Annual Meeting of the Society of the Fifth Line. They’re a group of limerick-lovers who get together once a year to share, I’m guessing, their ability to rhyme and make merry – though I’m not sure of the order of priorities, never having attended. One of the members tracked me down last year to submit some lines and he did it again this year. I’m still not sure what to submit. Thinking in large-scale incomplete things again (you may notice a theme), I have begun recounting the Aristocrats joke in limerick form, but I’m not sure I can get myself to be really gross (in written form, that is), so I still need to work around that. We’ll see what happens. But the deadline, I think, is today. So I’ll cut this short and get to rhyming.
Here’s one I did when I got the “assignment.”

When the Romans were conquering Munich,
One native peeked up the wrong tunic.
He met a stiletto
And soon sang falsetto
And started a job as a eunuch.

Yes, it’s that kind of limerick they’re looking for. To the point. (Badum)