Alas, no Bruce Tulgan

Bruce Tulgan has injured himself and will be unable to do his multi-disciplinary presentation for our March 3 show. We may have him for May. The suspense mounts.

Next Get to the Point!: March 3, 2014

Here are some of the folks presenting at our next Get to the Point! literary shindig, 8 p.m. March 3 at Cafe Nine (250 State St., New Haven Ct., 203-789-8281):

• Theater director Mary Lee Delaney.

• A playlet by Susan Cinamon.

• A cheery new story from Christine Jewell.

• The return of Lys Guillorn.

• Jeffrey Thunders of the Lost Riots.

• Writer Seth Osborne, who will celebrate a birthday on the week of the show.• Ina Chadwick and Duncan Christy, with a story and a song.

• Skilled self-analytical memoirist Saul Fussiner.

• The ever-comical Craig Gilbert• David Pilot, perhaps with Steve Bellwood.

• Hopefully Sara Russell again!

• The usual fairy tale and myth.

• Your host, Christopher Arnott

 

… and more to be announced! (Those interested in presenting may contact Chris Arnott at chris@scribblers.us)

No cover charge. Wonderful bartending by Margaret. A nice night out by any standards.

 

(Note: Bruce Tulgan, previously announced for this night, has been postponed until May.)

 

 

Plug

Regular Get to the Point! contributor Craig Gilbert, who also served as last-minute substitute host for the January 2014 edition, has self-published two collections of his Little Nell poems. These are comical verses about a death-prone little girl.

Craig will sell you paperback copies of the books at GttP shows. You can also find them on Amazon and Smashwords.

The Limericks

Here are many of the limericks recited at the Feb. 3 Get to the Point! show. The main sources were Edward Lear’s Nonsense Books, the brilliant counterculture scholar Gershon Legman’s anthology The Limerick (which indexes and annotates 1700 prime examples of the artform) and numerous websites (to track down limericks by famous authors).

All these limericks are historical, and most were penned in the 20th century.

Discretion is advised. Dirty words and concepts abound. Like you didn’t know that about limericks.

 

It’s a hell of a situation up at Yale

It’s a hell of a situation up at Yale

It’s a hell of a situation

They are sunk in masturbation

For there ain’t no fornication up at Yale

 

Oh, the freshmen get no tail, up at Yale,

Oh, the freshmen get no tail, up at Yale

Oh, the freshmen get no tail

So it bang it on the rail,

It’s the asshole of creation up at Yale

 

 

There was a young student from Yale

Who was getting his first piece of tail

He shoved in his pole

But in the wrong hole

And a voice from beneath yelled “No sale!”

 

 

There once was a harlot at Yale

With her price-list tattooed on her tail,

And on her behind

For the sake of the blind,

She had it embroidered in Braille

 

 

There was a young fellow from Yale

Whose face was exceedingly pale

He spent his vacation

In self-masturbation

Because of the high price of tail.

 

There was a young man from New Haven

Who had an affair with a raven

He said with a grin

As he wiped off his chin,

“Nevermore!”

There was a young girl of Connecticut

Who didn’t care much about etiquette

Whenever she was able

She’d piss on the table

And mop off her cunt with her petticoat

 

There was a young fellow of Greenwich

Whose balls were all covered with spinach

He had such a tool

It was wound on a spool,

And he reeled it out inich by inich.

 

There was a man from Far Rockaway

Who could skizzle a broad from a block away.

Once while taking a fuck

Along came a truck

And knocked both his balls and his cock away.

 

 

Van Gogh found a whore who would lay

And accept a small painting as pay

“Vive l’Art,” cried Van Gogh,

“But it’s too fucking slow—

I wish I could paint ten a day!”

 

There once was a man of Sag Harbor

Who used to go with a fag barber

He gave some auditions

In many positions

And now he plays flute with Jan Garber.

 

 

 

 

“At a séance,” said a young man named Post,
“I was being sucked off by a ghost;

Someone switched on the lights

And there in gauze tights,

On his knees, was Tobias, my host.”

 

 

It’s a helluva fix that we’re in

When the geographical spread of the urge to sin

Causes juvenile delinquency

With increasing frequency

By the Army, the Navy and Errol Flynn.

 

 

To Italy went Sinclair Lewis

Documenting the life led by loose

American drunks,

But he unpacked his truncks

‘Cause Florence slipped him a goose.

 

 

The cross-eyed old painter McNeff

Was color-blind, palsied and dag.

When he asked to be touted

The critics all shouted:
“This is art, with a capital F!”

 

 

There was a young maid of Boston, Mass.,

Who stood in the water up to her… knees.

(If it  doesn’t rhyme now,

It will when the tide comes in.)

 

 

There was an announcer named Herschel

Whose habits became controversial,

Because when out wooing

Whatever he was doing

At ten he’d insert his commercial.

 

 

“I’ll do it for Art—I’m no prude!”

He said, as he posed in the nude.

But on viewing his ass

The whole fairy class

Decided it ought to be screwed.

 

 

There was a young lady of Exter,

So pretty, that men craned their necks at her.

One was even so brave

As to take out and wave

The distinguishing mark of his sex at her.

 

 

There was a young fellow named Goody

Who claimed that he wouldn’t, but would he?

If he found himself nude

With a gal in the mood,

The question’s not woody but could he?

 

 

Another young man, from Beirut

Played a penis as one might a flute

Till he met a sad eunuch

Who lifted his tunic

And said, “Sir, my instrument’s mute.”

 

The intestines of Dante Rossetti

Were exceedingly fragile and petty

All he could eat

Was finely chopped meat,

And he could shit was spaghetti.

 

 

The Reverend Henry Ward Beecher

Called a girl a most elegant creature

So she laid on her back

And, exposing her crack,

Said, “Fuck that, you old Sunday School Teacher!”

 

 

The modern cinematic emporium

Is by no means the merest sexorium

But a highly effectual

Heterosexual

Mutual masturbatorium

 

 

There was a young lady named Ames

Who would play at the jolliest games.

She was great fun to lay

For her rectum would play

Obbligatos, and call you bad names.

 

 

Regardez-vous Toulouse-lAutrec,

Though at first glance an ambulant wreck,

He could fuck once a week

A la maniere antique

And once in a while a la Grecque.

 

 

There once was a fellow McSweeny
Who spilled some gin on his weenie
Just to be couth
He added vermouth
Then slipped his girlfriend a martini

 

 

 

 

There once was a man Robin Hood
Who lived in a Knottingham wood
He learned how to f**k
from old Friar Tuck
And made Marion whenever he could

 

 

 
A pirate, history relates
Was scuffling with some of his mates
When he slipped on a cutlass
Which rendered him nutless
And practically useless on dates

 

 

 
There once was a plumber from Lee
Who was plumbing his girl by the sea
She said Stop your plumbing,
There’s somebody coming!
Said the plumber still plumbing… It’s me!

 

 

A right twisted wench from Caprees-ed
Orgasmed each time that she sneez-ed
To the druggist she went
And laid down her last cent
Said, “A barrel of snuff, if you pleas-ed.”

 

 

A randy marsupial named Reeves
Spent some time with the whores ‘tween their knees
When they’d asked him for money
He’d say “Listen honey
A koala eats bushes and leaves.”

 

 
Now down in the valley of Shneel
Lived a woman who loved to reveal
With her curtains well drawn
Standing bare as a fawn
She’d do this really neat trick with an eel

 

 
Now this right old man was a sick ‘un
He had a dozen hen ripe for the pickin’
He’d chase ’em around
With his trousers pulled down
And he’d say “Whatsa matter, you chicken?”

 

 
A new farmer’s helper named Kull
Accidentally was milking a bull
The farmer said, “Boy yer dumb,
You done milked the wrong one!”
Said the boy, “But me whole bucket’s full.”

 

 
Twas a crazy old man called O’Keef
Who caused local farmers much grief
To their cows he would run
Cut their legs off for fun
And say “Look, I’ve invented ground beef!”

 
There once was a man from Madrass
Whose balls were made out of brass
When he’d bang ’em together
They’d play stormy weather
And lightning would shoot out of his ass

 

 

There once was a man from Havana
Screwed a girl on a player piano
At the height of their fever
Her ass hit the lever
And Yes he has no banana…

 

 

There once was a man from East Kent
Whose tool was so long that it bent
To save her some trouble
He folded it double
And instead of coming…he went

 

 

There once was a man from Bonaire
Who was doing his wife on the stair
When the banister broke
He doubled his stroke
And finished her off in midair

 

 

 
A bear taking a dump asked a rabbit
“Does shit stick to your fur as a habit?”
“Of course not,” said the hare,
“It’s really quite rare!”
So the bear wiped his ass with the rabbit.

 

To his friend, Ned said, rather blue,
“My wife Edith just told me we’re through,
For she says I’m too fat.”
And his friend told him that,
“You can’t have your cake and Edith, too.”

 

 

There once was a man named Tristan
Whose beer that he ordered was pissed in
She said “I don’t think,”
As he spit out his drink,
“On the menu that this one was listed.”

 

 

Said a fool whose mind was quite miniscule
As his ignorance reached a new pinnacle
“I don’t believe in astrology
It’s my ideology
But I’m a Leo and Leo’s are cynical.

 

 

I had me a wench from East Broint
Who bade me her skin to anoint
The girl had arthritis
And so I decided
She wouldn’t mind one more stiff joint.

 

 

There once was a man from Leeds,
who swallowed a packet of seeds,
within half an hour,
his dick was a flower,
and his balls were all covered with weeds.

 

There was an old man of Thermopylae

Who never did anything properly

But they said, “If you choose

To boil eggs in your shoes

You shall no longer stay in Thermopylae.”

 

A flea and a fly in a flue
Were imprisoned, so what could they do?
Said the fly, “let us flee!”
“Let us fly!” said the flea.
So they flew through a flaw in the flue.

—Ogden Nash

 

Earliest published modern limerick, 1902:

 

There once was a man from Nantucket
Who kept all his cash in a bucket.
But his daughter, named Nan,
Ran away with a man
And as for the bucket, Nantucket.

 

…and the sequels:

 

But he followed the pair to Pawtucket,
The man and the girl with the bucket;
And he said to the man,
He was welcome to Nan,
But as for the bucket, Pawtucket.

Then the pair followed Pa to Manhasset,
Where he still held the cash as an asset;
But Nan and the man
Stole the money and ran,
And as for the bucket, Manhasset.

 

—from “Othello” by William Shakespeare

And let me the canakin clink, clink; (canakin = drinking can)
And let me the canakin clink
A soldier’s a man;
A life’s but a span;
Why, then, let a soldier drink.

 

By H.G. Wells:

Our novels get longa and longa
Their language gets stronga and stronga
There’s much to be said
For a life that is led
In illiterate places like Bonga

By W. H. Auden:

T. S. Eliot is quite at a loss
When clubwomen bustle across
At literary teas
Crying, “What, if you please,
Did you mean by The Mill On the Floss?”

By Robert Louis Stevenson:

There was an old man of the Cape
Who made himself garments of crepe.
When asked, “Do they tear?”
He replied, “Here and there,
But they’re perfectly splendid for shape!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

By James Joyce:

I WOULD IN THAT SWEET BOSOM BE

There’s no place I’d more like to be

Than clutched to your size Double-D.

So keep me abreast

Of my turn at your chest

And I’ll write you a novel or three.

 

By Salman Rushdie

The marriage of poor Kim Kardashian

was krushed like a kar in a krashian.

her kris kried, not fair!

why kan’t I keep my share?

But kardashian fell klean outa fashian.

 

By Mark Twain:

A man hired by John Smith and Co.
Loudly declared that he’d tho.
Men that he saw
Dumping dirt near his door
The drivers, therefore, didn’t do.
Mark Twain

By James Joyce:

There’s a ponderous pundit MacHugh
Who wears goggles of ebony hue.
As he mostly sees double
To wear them why trouble?
I can’t see the Joe Miller. Can you?

 

By John Updike:
There was an old poop from Poughkeepsie,
Who tended, at night, to be tipsy.
Said he, ”My last steps
Aren’t propelled by just Schweppes!” –
That peppy old poop from Poughkeepsie.

By Spike Milligan:

A combustible woman from Thang
Exploded one day with a BANG!
The maid then rushed in
And said with a grin,
“Pardon me, madam — you rang?”

 

By Aldous Huxley:

My firm belief is, that Pisarro
Received education at Harrow –
This alone would suffice,
To account for his vice,
And his views superstitiously narrow.

 

By W.S. Gilbert:

There was an old man of St. Bees
Who was horribly stung by a wasp
When they said, “does it hurt?”
He replied, “no, it doesn’t –
It’s a good job it wasn’t a hornet”

James Joyce, appearing as a character in Tom Stoppard’s play Travesties:

Top o’the morning!- James Joyce!

I hope you allow me to voice

My regrets in advance

For coming on the off-chance-

B’jasus I hadn’t much choice!

 

 

By James Joyce:

There’s a ponderous pundit MacHugh
Who wears goggles of ebony hue.
As he mostly sees double
To wear them why trouble?
I can’t see the Joe Miller. Can you?

 

 

By Lewis Carroll:

His sister, called Lucy O’Finner,
Grew constantly thinner and thinner;
The reason was plain,
She slept out in the rain,
And was never allowed any dinner.

What Happened at #15

Happy Year of the Horse! Sara Russell, happy to be a horse herself, shared a sheath of poems, definitions and old sayings–not just from the Chinese, but from Native American horse-worshippers as well.

Craig Gilbert read some of his comic verse, including one about what happened next to that nursery rhyme baby of rockabye treetop fame.

Michael Lara noted that he’d been preparing a piece on Noam Chomsky, but instead opted to recite the Faulkner short story “Wash,” which involves some of the characters from Absalom Absalom.

Saul Fussiner spoke of his “wander year,” a time of adventure and disorientation which had him road tripping with the poet Denise Levertov, settling awkwardly into the San Francisco punk scene, and –happy ending alert!–finding his calling as a teacher.

The artist Katro Storm was interviewed about his upcoming exhibit at the new gallery space within the YMCA building on the corner of Chapel and Howe streets. The show opens Friday.

I (Arnott) read a poem I love by mid-20th poet John Albert Holmes, “Holiday With Gods.” It was fitting, since Holmes had started the poetry program at Tufts which Levertov had later joined, and both poets lived and wrote in Somerville, Mass.

Throughout the evening, in bursts of dozens at a time, Craig and I read aloud a wide variety of limericks. Some were by famous authors (Joyce, Updike, Rushdie), some were scatalogical, and many referenced Yale (probably, it was said, because the name of the university conveniently rhymes with “tail”). We got through at least 80 limericks; I will duly post the whole lot of over a hundred on the site.

It was a small crowd, one of the smallest in GttP history, thanks no doubt to a full day of snowfall. Many scheduled presenters were unable to attend, and have promised to come next month. I’ll be listing them forthwith in another post. I appreciate the appreciative audience that did show up, including a nice young man who was passing through town on a sales trip from Rochester New York. He was frustrated that the city had cancelled school. “This should not have been a snow day,” he declared, and from his wintry New York vantage point it should not have been.

See you next month.

Next Get to the Point!:

 

There once was a Get to the Point!

It was held at the Café Nine joint

The host is named Chris

Who leaves you with this:

“We do hope we won’t disappoint.”

 

Our 15th monthly foray into storytelling, literature, spoken word and, as they say, more.

 

This month:

ONE HUNDRED LIMERICKS!

 

Plus:

• our old friend Craig Gilbert!

• Fairfield-based storyteller Ina Chadwick.

• Duncan Christy, with a comedy song.

• Saul Fussiner with another of his mesmerizing autobiographical essays.

• Katro Storm, getting interviewed about his new art exhibit at Gallery Howe.

• The everpopular Sara Russell, with poetry.

• fiction writer Michael Lara

• The indescribable Steve Bellwood

• The sonorous David Pilot

• Music from Kyle Flynn.

• Your host, Christopher Arnott

 

…. and a fairy tale. And a myth. And ONE HUNDRED LIMERICKS!

And some unexpected surprises.

(If YOU want to come share something, get in touch! chris@scribblers.us)

 

Now let’s repeat that initial come-on:

ONE HUNDRED LIMERICKS!

Next Get to the Point! Monday, Nov. 4 at Cafe Nine

This edition of the popular monthly storytelling/spoken word/theater/whatever series—our 12th!—will be feature special tributes to the late great Lou Reed, whose literary and theatrical legacies (we shall argue) are as profound as his rock & roll ones.

Cherished participants this month include:

• William Knapp, local punk icon and storyteller

• Christine Jewell, storyteller

• Seth Osborne, poet

• Lys Guillorn, musician/reader

Next Get to the Point!: Monday, October 7

Here’s who’s booked thus far for our 11th edition:

• multi-faceted artist and sometime mermaid Polly Sonic

• Connecticut punk scene veteran and nice guy William Michael Knapp

• Puppeteer Kimberly Van Aelst

• Writer and teacher Saul Fussiner

• Novelist and PlacingLiterature.com founder Andrew Bardin Williams

• New Haven historian Rob Greenberg, acknowledging the first anniversary of the upheaval of the Lincoln Tree on New Haven Green.

• Artist and raconteur Allan Greenier.

• Playwright/monologist Steve Bellwood

• Writer Tara Melillo

Plus a musical guest to be announced. Plus myths and fairy tales. Plus spontaneity. Plus host Christopher Arnott.

That’s Monday, October 7, 2013 at Cafe Nine, 250 State Street, New Haven (corner of Crown). The Cafe Nine website is here.

To be considered for this or future Get to the Point! spoken-word events, contact Chris at chris@scribblers.us