Hello.
In a word, this week’s new contest is . . . a word. It’s an Invitational milestone. We’ll get to that in a minute, but first, we shall begin a very difficult limerick for you all to finish. All you have to do is fill in the missing words!
Seven inks! That’s an absolute bank of which
Appear down below, all by Frankovich.
So skillful is Jesse
(His scansion’s not messy)
But word word word word word word bitch.
Thank you for your attention to this matter.
Invitational Week 188 was our annual Limerixicon, contributing to the creation of a complete English dictionary whose every entry comprises one or more limericks. This year — our 23rd — we focused on words beginning JA through JD.
Third runner-up:
Stephen Miller has taken control
Of our foreign affairs. In this role,
He’s Trump’s jackal, a man
Who if told that Iran
Must be nuked, answers promptly, “Jawohl!”
(Chris Doyle, Warminster, Pa.)
Second runner-up:
I’ve seen many a female and male bird,
Flamboyantly colored and pale bird,
But there’s one bird I still
Long to spot (and I will!):
The orange-faced Trumpeter jailbird.
(Melissa Balmain, Rochester, N.Y.)
First runner-up:
A laid-back old pothead one day
Joined a bird-watching club in L.A.
They didn’t mind if
He was smoking a spliff —
But were shocked when he lit up a jay.
(Jonathan Paul, Garrett Park, Md.)
And the winner of the hand-shaped sun visor:
“Let’s watch Jaws!” said the Prez with delight,
“It’ll make for a super-fun night!
While you’re quaking with fear,
I’ll just sit back and cheer —
I love anything called a Great White.”
(Mark Raffman, Reston, Va.)
And for the Invitational Gene Pool Gene Poll:
As usual, if you think one or more of the honorable mentions below are better than these, shout out your favorites in the Comments.)
At the Days Inn, Lord Finchworth-on-Mews
Had the British expatriate blues.
“The doorman’s a Yankee,
The faucets are janky,
And nobody polished my shoes!”
(David Smith, Pleasanton, Calif.)
I’d say jail is an excellent place
For Trump to retire in disgrace,
Since the self-centered brute
Would be donning a suit
That perfectly matches his face.
(Jesse Frankovich, Laingsburg, Mich.)
My profile is up on Jdate,
Just to find a nice mensch for a mate.
But in search of a catch,
The top pick for my match
Was named Christian O’Shaughnessy Tate.
(Fred Shuback, Silver Spring, Md.)
It’s puzzling for poor RFK
(that’s Junior, I hasten to say):
He writhes and he weasels
About how to stop measles —
Take a jab at it, sir, we all pray.
(Ann Martin, Brentwood, Md.)
Says Pete Hegseth, “Morale isn’t sinkin’
For hands on the USS Lincoln.
Every sailor tells me
Life’s been splendid at sea ...”
What the hell has this jackass been drinkin’?
(Chris Doyle)
Donald Trump is a treasonous man;
Now he’s waging a war on Iran.
They should send him to jail,
Lock him up with no bail,
Along with the whole Coup Klux Klan.
(Gregory Koch, Falls Church, Va.)
Sneered Rand Paul in a voice that was grouchy,
“His methods were sloppy and slouchy!
Prescribing vaccine
Instead of chlorine
Means it’s jail time for Anthony Fauci!”
(Frank Osen, Pasadena, Calif.)
As a baby, Chuck Norris could say
The word “roundhouse” his very first day.
He had a full beard,
And his parents he reared,
And he ate jalapeño puree.
(Jesse Frankovich)
A jamoke who was heavily drinking
Said, “The base of my back could use inking.”
Then in hindsight, he’d rue
His tattoo of a poo
And complain, “What the deuce was I thinking?!”
(Jeff Contompasis, Ashburn, Va.)
My spouse has acute jamais vu—
Every morning, he’ll bark, “Who are you?”:
When he’s having these spells,
Face and voice ring no bells.
(Well, it could be his booze-swilling, true.)
(Duncan Stevens, Vienna, Va.)
Michael Jackson is famous as hell,
As are Jesse and Janet as well,
And we know Shoeless Joe,
Lamar, Reggie, and Bo,
Andrew, Stonewall, and Samuel L.
(Jesse Frankovich)
“Random drug test!” Oh boy, was I stuck —
’Cause last night I’d lit up like a schmuck.
But I peed in the jar …
And my test cleared the bar!
“Holy smokes!” said my wife. “Urine luck!”
(Mark Raffman)
A mother superior runs
A small Jacobin convent and shuns
Any help keeping track
Of her tasks. She’s a jack
Of all trades and a master of nuns.
(Chris Doyle)
Jack is funny but boring on dates:
Though he’s humble, his ego inflates.
He is calm, raving mad,
Full of joy and yet sad—
You could say he’s a jack of all traits.
(Jesse Frankovich)
This java is tasty, for sure!
But it’s pricey and hard to procure.
The beans had to pass
Through a civet cat’s ass —
You look pale! Has it lost its allure?
(Beverley Sharp, Montgomery, Ala.)
It seems that the courts are quite hesitant
To jail the White House’s chief resident.
Though many were for it
The judge said “Ignore it”
For it would be upsetting president.
(Rob Cohen, Potomac, Md.)
On Jackass they laugh out loud when
Guys get kicked in the scrotum and then
Do a flip in a chair
Or some other dumb dare
You’d expect from a group of groan men.
(Jesse Frankovich)
In the nightmare of Trump’s second term,
Every Cabinet pick makes me squirm.
But in terms of a crackpot,
He sure hit the jackpot
By picking the nut with a worm.
(Jonathan Jensen, Baltimore)
He gets blame when Trump’s plans go askew,
When abuse and corruption shine through,
Making folks look askance;
You’ll hear, “Blame JD Vance!”
He is treated like Don’s number two.
(Duncan Stevens)
Mighty Jabba the Hutt is a dude
Who is massive and sluglike and crude.
While he’s ugly as sin,
He’s not near as bad when
Side by side with Yo Mama he’s viewed.
(Jesse Frankovich)
Since we’re famous for pizzas that glut,
And give diners a monster-size gut,
We have picked a new name
That reflects our true aim:
So now welcome to Jabba the Hut.
(Melissa Balmain)
Some gals like a big, hairy Viking,
Or a dude all in leather for biking.
My crush? That bronze goof
On the clocktower’s roof:
The jacquemart. Why? ’Cause he’s striking!
(Daniel Galef, Cincinnati)
“This one’s jammy, complex, and what’s more,
It’s got berry-like notes I adore,
My review is an 8 —”
I said, “Dear, why not wait,
It’s a juice box, and you’re only four.”
(Mark Raffman)
“A perfectly cooked jambalaya —
There’s no form of food that is haya.”
His words were unneeded —
The point was conceded!
I told him, “You preach to the choaya.”
(Duncan Stevens)
I like jam on a sandwich with ham,
But a traffic jam makes me say, “Damn!”
Oh, how clever I am
As I jam (as in “cram”)
All these “jams” in one verse — it’s my jam!
(Jesse Frankovich)
After voice-throwing lessons, Jack Sprat
Invites Matthew, a buddy, to chat
And have chili one day,
But has little to say.
That’s when Jack and the beans talk to Matt.
(Chris Doyle)
The headline “J Bards” was submitted by both Chris Doyle and Jesse Frankovich; Beverley Sharp and Jeff Contompasis each sent in the honorable-mentions subhead. The Loser Community’s website with all the Invitational stats and stuff is now NRARS.net; the Style Invitational Devotees group on Facebook is here.
Hey, if you’re in the D.C. area, join the Empress and various Invite Losers and Devotees for brunch at the Indian restaurant Aditi in Kingstowne, Va., on Saturday, Aug. 29, at 11:45. (Right, Gene won’t be joining us.) Here’s the RSVP form.
We’ve never done this before. Perhaps we’ll never do it again!
In this contest, all entries have to be only one word long,
We were reading through the public spasms of insinuation, indignation, and downright glee after Georgia Senator Jon Ossoff seemed to be suggesting that 35-year-old White House aide Natalie Harp was doing more for Donald Trump than merely printing out news stories and fetching him Diet Cokes. And we happened upon a story in by Anne Laurie in the excellent blog Balloon Juice, suggesting a rather brilliant Secret Service name for Ms. Harp: Abishag. (If you don’t recognize the name, click here.)
So that got us thinking:
For Invitational Week 190: Suggest a humorous Secret Service code name for any famous living person. It’s always one word. The Secret Service gives “handles” out for the president and vice president and their families, presidential and vice presidential candidates, members of the Cabinet, foreign heads of state … and celebrities of all sorts who might need temporary protection at White House events. (Frank Sinatra was “Napoleon” during the JFK presidency.) So the field is a wide one.
Deadline is Saturday, Aug. 29, 2026, at 9 p.m. ET. Results will run here in The Gene Pool on Thursday, Sept. 3. As usual, you may submit up to 25 entries for this week’s contest, preferably all on the same form.
Formatting this week: Start each entry with the name of the person, followed by your code name on the same line. That’s it!
Click here for this week’s entry form, or go to tinyurl.com/inv-form-190.
The winner gets this set of four screaming green Zombie Birthday Candles. Perfect for your curious 4-year-old (or 40-year-old, or some other multiple). Donated by Hall of Fame Prize Donor Dave Prevar.
Runners-up get autographed fake money featuring the Czar or Empress, in one of eight nifty designs. Honorable mentions get bupkis, except for a personal email from the E, plus the Fir Stink for First Ink for First Offenders.
Still running — deadline Saturday, Aug. 22, at 9 p.m. ET: Choose one or more of the simple graphic icons we provide — e.g., a peace sign, the pi symbol — and use them to create a funny piece of art, either by hand or electronically. Click on “read full story” below for details.
And last, if you have not already done so, please consider becoming a paying subscriber to The Gene Pool. It lets you enter the Invitational, rather than just reading the results every week and sourly deciding you would have done better and then yelling %*&#! what in tarnation? hot spit and monkey vomit! Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit! Sweet fancy Moses on toast and jam! Roasted fart on a stick!
Now, we segue seamlessly into today’s Q&A section, where Gene answers your questions and responds to your anecdotes and observations, as submitted to the Mailbag. Please send your new Q’s and O’s to the selfsame Mailbag.
Q: Okay, so how did YOU answer your poll about whether Jon Ossoff was insinuating a sexual affair between Trump and Natalie Harp, and what we thought about that?
A: I answered that of course he was — this is a very smart guy, very aware of his words — and that it was sexist. Of course it was. And that I felt better about him because of it, because these are abnormal times calling for abnormal measures. I’ll forgive him a little sexism in pursuit of defining and defeating the worst threat to democracy in any of our lifetimes.
Q: I fail to see why you needed to poke fun at Blaze Jordan. He may be slower than other third basemen, but 220 lbs does not seem unreasonable for an athlete who is 6’1” tall. Why don’t you try running a race against him the next time the Cardinals are in town?
A: Well, this is a humor column. What I was making fun of was that he is named Blaze and is slow. But you do raise an interesting weight issue.
Blaze Jordan almost certainly doesn’t weigh 220, as his personal stats claim. I did some research on this. There is a phenomenon, well known and laughed at in the major leagues: Roster weights, it is said, are “sticky.” (Like the weight given on one’s drivers license.) Players tend to have their weights recorded in college or when they hit rookie ball — and that weight sticks around, officially, through their careers, despite any avoirdupoisonal evidence to the contrary. Jordan has been carrying that 220 listing since he was a 17-year-old high-schooler in the 2020 MLB draft, according to historical data tracked on Perfect Game.
He is CLEARLY a lot thicker now.
I’m not laughing at him. He is a very good player who happens to be built like a catcher or designated hitter, but plays third base.
Now, here is a fascinating question. Is it okay to laugh at this guy?
His name was George “Fatty” Hackett. He is recognized as the world’s heaviest pro baseball player, at 450 pounds, and played for the 1906-1908 Citizen Baseball Team in Emporium, Pennsylvania. He wasn’t bad. Had a lot of power. He played first base and pitched. He joined circus sideshows later in life under the stage name Baby Jack and even later managed to slim down, somehow, to 186 pounds.
And to answer your last question, I will quote Ty Cobb, who long after his retirement was asked whether he thinks Ty Cobb could still hit .375 in the major leagues in the modern era, where players are so much better conditioned and trained. And he said, “Naw, I reckon I could only hit .300. But you’ve gotta remember, I’m 73 years old.”
—
Q: You have talked about how you and Pat sometimes strongly disagree on entries when you judge the contest, and that it sometimes gets heated. To keep the peace, I ask that you each say something true and positive about the other’s skill at judging.
A: Ha. Well, I will answer honestly. I tend to judge each contests in one furious hours-long burst, uninterrupted, sometimes starting at 4 a.m. Infuriatingly to me, Pat spends the better part of a day at the same list of entries, sporadically dipping in and out, stopping to take a 12-mile walk, sing in a synagogue, drive an elderly neighbor to a doctor’s appointment, etc. And I will and do admit that Pat is more likely to find a true gem that I missed, than the other way around. For example, there are TWO of those in the four top winners today.
P: As Gene said, he is a far more efficient and speedy worker than I am (how else could he write a column every day while doing all his other activities?). Also, I just don’t trust myself to read all the way to the bottom of a list of entries with as much concentration as I had at the start. So I tend to read the entries in a number of sittings, while he’s sitting with his arms folded, dumdedumdedum (while still managing to drum his fingers on the table) waiting for me to finish. At which point we first trade notes on the Google doc we share, then eventually settle on the final winners in an hourlong phone call.
While we both try to solve problems in an otherwise inkworthy entry, Gene is especially good in fixing poems, sometimes finding a whole different rhyme for a troublesome couplet.
But I’m most grateful to Gene, Invite-wise, for his creativity in coming up with new contests. And for his sexy voice.
—
Aaand that’s it. We’re done for the day.
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