We’re stuck in the library here,
The problem is liquid, I fear.
It’s raining like cats
And dogs. We’ve no hats,
So we’ll just have to read ’til it’s clear.

“They tell me,” said good Doctor Freud,
“You’re becoming a bit paranoid,”
“You worry and weep,
“You wail in your sleep,
“That you’ve left a huge fiberglass void.”

It’s true, I’ve become obsessed. I lay awake at night, wondering if the layup I’ve just done will be acceptable to Barry, the Grinding Man. If it’s not, he grinds it out and I try again. Working in a space that’s only a couple of feet wide and a couple of feet high, trying to get the stuff to adhere to surfaces above my head, wearing a respirator and full Tyvek bunny suit, with temperatures over 90, is like working in hell. I must be crazy, but I think it’s worth it.

I am wishing this heat wave would end,
But my far-flung friends don’t comprehend.
Candy says, “Chile’s chilly!”
Nita says, “Fifties, really!”
So I’ll just attach heat and click SEND.

We had to flee the melting heat, so we ducked into an air-conditioned library. While there, two emails came in, one from South America and one from Seattle. Both were complaining about how cold it is, and despite glares from the librarians, we couldn’t stop laughing.

While buying some liquor and ice,
They check his ID once — no, twice.
It says forty-one
Years under the sun,
But he looks ten years younger: How nice!

It took four strong men and a crane
To lift out our mizzen and main,
While the girl with red hair
Sat in a green chair,
And worried her poor self insane.

Our new composting head’s a light blue,
And has litter, not water, it’s true.
There’s no need to make haste,
As I bury my waste,
I now say “meee-ow” when I poo.

For more info, visit the Nature’s head website. The litter is actually peat moss, which sure looks like dirt to me.

Here’s a guest submission from my brilliant friend Tara:

To Arkansas went Henry’s daughter,
So she could swim nude in hot water.
But if there is a crowd
Then it won’t be allowed
‘Cause they’ll see things that they shouldn’t oughter!

Oh, there once was a fellow named Bill,
And he thought being Prez was a thrill.
So he saved every note,
That his staff ever wrote,
Which now poses a problem for Hill.

I am ten feet away from my stew,
‘Cause a wasp just came out of the blue.
He climbed into my stove,
And he stayed there, by Jove!
Now I’m wondering, what should I do?

Eventually, he climbed out of my little propane stove and flew away, but it was a nervous few minutes. This was at Red Rock Canyon State Park, where the ranger says, “It’s gonna be a baaaad season for wasps…they usually don’t even show up until May.”

At a shop that is on Sixty-Six,
They once sold guitar strings and picks,
Now they entertain gaily,
The crowds that come daily,
To hear them and get some good “kicks!”

You can get your kicks, too, at the Sandhills Curiosity Shop on old Route 66 in Erick, Oklahoma. Or, if you can’t get there, take a look at some of the videos.

Says Bonnie, “My Iggie won’t bite.”
But I’m still afraid that he might–
She says he’s in heat.
(Will he nip my feet,
Because my red toenails excite?)

Iggie is a 4-1/2 foot long iguana. He’s currently in heat and attracted to women of any species.

The room filled with much merry sound,
Three sisters who mooned as they clowned,
The game was revamped,
We laughed and we stamped,
As ping-pong was played in the round.

We discovered a fun way to play ping-pong at Highlands pub in Eugene. Four people play round-robin, each one hitting the ball once and then rushing around the table to the other side. The results were a few collisions and some hilarious video footage. Do not try this in a pub with dartboards!

Squid are creatures that live in the deep,
Not a sound as they swim and they creep.
I was shocked to the core,
When I heard my squid roar,
‘Twas a miracle, wrought by my Peep.

Barry, who I sometimes call “Peep,” wrote about this event in his usual understated fashion in his recent blog entry.

Here’s a fabulous response from our friend Pat, who lives in NC:

A wagon that roars and squirts ink
(Not oil, of that let’s not think)
will ferry you back to your boat
and shlep all the stuff it will will float.
Please stop by so we can see you and wink!

When the big female candidate cried,
People said, “The ex-president’s bride
Is not really tough,
And campaigning is rough.”
But it brought voters o’er to her side.

If only we’d gone out of town,
And cut a fresh Christmas tree down.
This grocery store tree,
Once looked fine to me.
But now, tell me, why is it brown?

We slowed and we stopped: We were stuck.
But then came a bit of good luck.
With some help from me,
The tide set us free,
And now we’re in water, not muck.

What are the three kinds of sailors? Those who have gone aground, those who will go aground, and those who lie about it.

Strange names around here are in vogue,
Calibogue is not “Calibog,”
And “Falcon” I get,
But “Rougue” makes me fret,
Should it be “rouge” as red, or just “rogue?”

We had our test sail aboard the Falcon Rougue yesterday, and we’re still in the dark about how the name is pronounced. Is “rougue” a clever play on the red hull, or just a misspelling? Either way, it doesn’t quite rhyme with the place we sailed — Calibogue Sound is sometimes (by golf freaks) pronounced Cal-i-BOGEY.

While driving around, by and by,
We spotted some doors 8 feet high.
Not sure what’s the reason –
Are stairs out of season?
Or maybe these Newfies can fly!

This limerick illustrates one of my favorite travel mysteries. Why do people in Newfoundland have front doors many feet in the air? I asked a number of local residents, and they just scratched their heads. Then one fellow, who was particularly fast on his feet, said with a grin, “We call those ‘Mother-in-law doors’.”

I have known Dave for twenty-five years,
Though we’ve never shared whiskey or beers.
He’s a fine upright friend,
And this poem I send,
As I raise up my Coke and say, “Cheers!”

“I missed it!” I cried out, aghast.
The birthday of Craig has just passed.
Though he’s now six-zero,
The man is my hero,
‘Cause parties with him are a blast.

This one’s for Captain Craig, Scourge of Lake Union and Environs. The notorious Craig was celebrated in an earlier Mepsnbarry Adventure, That’s Me in the Monkey Mask.

I believe that a limerick is a delightful way to celebrate someone’s life, which is why I advocate writing birthday limericks. Last week, a dear friend passed away. He was a kind, gentle soul with a great sense of humor. I think he would have liked a memorial limerick, so I wrote him one:

I’m not one to spend much time in prayer,
But the rules of this life seem unfair.
So, does God grant forbearance?
If he does, please send Clarence
Back down — we need time to prepare!

It was only a few months ago that I wrote another limerick for Clarence, when he first went into the hospital.

Everything mentioned in the following rhymes is absolutely TRUE. Burning Man really is that weird, and that inspirational. At least, it inspires crazy Burning Man limericks!

Are these fellows really our males?
They’re wearing pink wigs and cat’s tails,
And crazy orange shirts,
With bright sequined skirts,
At Burning Man, weirdness prevails.

In fishnets and boots with high heels,
I jump on my spiffy pink wheels,
My seashell bikini,
Might score a martini,
Because of the skin it reveals.

A huge pterodactyl walked by,
He towered 12 feet in the sky,
And Dave’s disco ball,
Which held us in thrall,
On Barry’s bike, then caught his eye.

The dust storm came out of the blue,
I knew then just what I should do,
“There’s room here, to hide,”
I pulled him inside,
A handicapped toilet for two.

They blew up the derrick last night,
The mushroom cloud: What a cool sight!
And over the sound,
Of “techno” all ’round,
I heard, “Holy sh*t, that was bright!”

Here’s something that Grandma enjoys:
A house that is chock-full of noise,
Where elephants thump,
And dinosaurs jump.
Such racket from two little boys!

When two boys come for a visit, and their combined age is less than 10, there’s a lot of chaos!

There once was a lady named Kate,
Whose birthday was on this fine date,
She wanted a cake,
But her friends could not bake,
So her candles just sat on a plate.

Here’s a funny coincidence — a reader I’d never met asked me out of the blue for a birthday limerick for her friend, Kate. I dashed this off, then sent a copy to my brother-in-law, whose daughter is named Kate. He wrote back, saying Kate’s birthday was only three days away! What are the chances of that?

Of course, then I got overwhelmed and forgot to post the limerick on June 6th. Silly me…happy belated birthday, to all Kates!

Now, there once was a pirate named Barry,
Who is frozen and quite stationary,
He’s unable to fight,
What is looming in sight,
Turning forty for him is reeeeeeal scary.