Revelation
Ingredients listed on a bag of baby carrots: carrots
It’s Probably 5pm on Tristan Da Cunha
Tristan Da Cunha is the world’s most remote, inhabited island. It sits in the middle of the Atlantic 2,816 km from South Africa and 3360 km from South America. 
Its interesting history (it was an important port for whaling expeditions before eventually becoming British property, its capital is the city, “Edinburgh of the Seven Seas” and it once served as official penguin washing station for the marine birds that were all oil’d up by a nearby tanker spill) and peculiarities (it only has two TV channels, and all 264 of its citizens are descendants of a common set of 15 ancestors, and thus share 8 surnames) are not of primary concern.
Rather, I bring you this island, so you can use it in the phrase “It’s probably 5pm on Tristan Da Cunha” when you are drinking early in the day.
but if anyone can locate a copy of the out-of-print cookbook “Recipes from Tristan Da Cunha: Simple foods for all to enjoy” hook me up!
a bottle of bourbon and a pack of gum.
Those blessed with success are obligated to assist the less fortunate. From the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation to Doctors without Borders, countless charities have been founded on this principal. One day I hope to have the financial success to do the same. I have already decided on my cause. “Teach a Thug a New Word”. Aimed with improving the vocabularies of brutes, gang-bangers and scumbags, my charity would prove you don’t have to speak with the diction you were born into.
And Mike Tyson wouldn’t only be a spokesman, he would be a tenured professor.
Eggs in a basket, Alabama eggs, bird’s nest, bull’s eye eggs, cowboy eggs, egg-in-the hole, egg in toast, egg in a frame, eggs in a blanket, elephant egg bagel (when made using a bagel rather than bread), frog in a hole, toad in a hole, gas house eggs, Guy Kibbee eggs, one-eyed-monsters, one-eyed jacks, moon eggs, Rocky Mountain toast, top hat, portholes.
So many names for such a simple treat.
So what’s not a few more monikers?
I propose: bread-locked yolk, Humpty-Dumpty’s tomb, Cyclopse bread, Eggs sentenced to time in the bread housed, Jaundice hearts, A chicken deferred on toast, wasps in whole wheat hive,
Paint Chips and Dip
I like beluga whales. I fear that we are squandering an opportunity to use their name in referring to colors as strikingly white as their solar-eclipse-rim like skin. Their English name, after all is derived from the Russian word for white. So Sherwinn WIlliams, take a hint, and make this dream a reality:
Hey I really like the color you used for the walls of your new pool hall.
-Thanks, its Beluga.
Nobody reads poems. Perhaps the average American has a misunderstanding of what a poem is (“i don’t get it”) and finds the whole genre a pretentious threat. Perhaps they find no need for the antiquated art form (We’ve got twitter and television and video games and mp3s, what do we want stanzas for?).
More likely though, I fear a lot of people are simply not exposed to enough poetry. And certainly not accessible poetry. As a poetry enthusiast, I consider it my duty to change this. But until I get the millions of dollars needed to hire a squadron of airplanes to write haikus in the sky every morning or can convince Bells brewery to print free verse on every bottle of Two Hearted, it’s gonna have to be a small and stealthy operation.
Thus, Poems and piss. I have been placing sticker-backed poems above urinals in public bathrooms. I’ve selected morsels of wit and joy the perfect length to read while one takes a leak. Hopefully the anonymous pisser will find some pleasure in the tiny bursts of art. Maybe even develop a new appreciation for poetry.
Paul Christiansen 