Pulpo Paul: In Which A Psychic Cephalopod Is Saluted

Cartoon by Daslav Goicovic. Click here and check him out!

O Pulpo Paul, your record now has reached
Perfection for this World Cup! Truly you,
Are all that is sagacious; you have breached
The psychic wall and squidgeled right on through,
Predicting not just that your German squad
Would wind up in third place, but, too, that Spain
Would take the tournament. Drop your facade,
Now, and reveal your nature as the main
High priest of the Great Old Ones 'neath the waves!
Somehow those mussels told you who would score
And who would make the greatest, wildest saves,
E'en ere you read their entrails. Oh, what more
Might you now offer? Can you talk to Mac?
We'd love to hear from him again. Call back!

In Which I Make A Silly Historical Analogy

Three hundred and ten years ago, one man,

Unlovely, sickly, challenged, royal, died.

And many thought that they had just the plan,

And ere long ev'ry nation chose a side.

'Twas France and Spain against the freer world,

And thirteen years of bloody war ensued,

That ended in a new world order. Hurled

To prominence were many who embued

Such qualities as we admire today

In football. Now, come Sunday, we shall see

Two old belligerents clash in a way

More peaceful, to our pure and utter glee,

As heirs of the Stadtholder and the Kings

Face off upon the pitch. What joy this brings!

In Which I Ponder Strange Group Behavior And Posit A Possible Cause

We know that parasites can make us dumb:

For instance, snails who host this one flat worm

(Leucochloridium paradoxum)

Grow fat antennae, colorful, that squirm

Just like a caterpillar, so a bird

Will snap it up and thus wind up a host

To yet another cycle in the life

Of this odd creature. Humans, too, can boast

Of something just as strange. We cease our strife

With one another at odd intervals

To chase a black and white ball round a field

Or watch as others do it. How this pulls

Us from our other pleasures just might yield

A scientific paper, someday, fore

Some xenoanthropologists. Oh, score!

SONNET DARE: In Which I Try To Make Sentences Out Of Hashflags And Fail

The FIFA World Cup has come 'round again,
A season when e'en I do care somewhat
For sports. It's mostly just a nerd thing. When
The Twitter lords decided they would strut
Their geekery, creating #flashtags, who,
Then, was surprised? Just type a country's name
(Abbreviated, like on scoreboards): you
Then generate that country's flag. Each game
We tweet about will have some color. More:
An apopheniac and language dork
Like me will try to render semaphore
Of them, or to make sentences that work
With those abbreviations. Yet I fail.
Fine: shut me down. Put me in Twitter jail.

Superbowl Sunday: In Which I Make A Somewhat Controversial Choice

I've tried, but I just can't seem this year to

Work up too much enthusiasm for

The annual Handegg excitement. You

May surely differ, loving this sport more

Than e'er I did. My heard inclines toward

A game more beautiful than this. Except

For when the Denver Broncos play, I'm bored

A-watching overpaid man-tanks, none kept

In check by normal standards, on the fight.

It's fun sometimes but I don't feel it now,

So I'll do something else this Sunday night.

The Netflix fairy brought me Torchwood. How

Could so-called football e'er compete with such?

To each her own, though, thank you very much.

In Which I Get Excited Over A Tournament Draw

No sports fan am I, save for this one round

Of football games that make of me a nut:

The FIFA World Cup. No way I have found

Has ever kept me out of this one rut.

'Tis only ev'ry four years this occurs,

When I become a lunatic. Today

Preliminary groups were drawn, which spurs

My craziness. England v. USA?

The Germans and the Aussies? Oh my head

Already spins. Brazil and Portugal

Are in a group together, "of the dead"

And though Croatia won't be at the ball

I still feel now the ghost of my old craze.

One hundred eighty seven more short days!