Picture of the Day

The stars did not shine. I was horny all day.
There were no boobs to play with the whole Milky Way.
I sat there with Spock. We sat there we two.
And I said, “How I wish we had gals like Uhuru here, too.”

Too dark for torpedoes or phasers or shields.
So we sat in the bridge, stared at nebula fields.
So all we could do was to Sit! Sit! Sit! Sit!
Or maybe we shat. Hell, I don’t give a shit.

And then something went GRUMP!
How that grump made us jump!
He transported in past our shields just like that!
The Internet Meme, the ol’ Grumpy Cat…

— George Takei

Poem of the Day

The Tiger

TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water’d heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

— William Blake (1757–1827)

Poem of the Day

Quantitative easing,
Can be very pleasing,
It gives the stock market a boost.

But in the long run,
Its effects are no fun,
And the markets again must be goosed.

It would make much more sense,
To dispense with this pretense,
Of knowing what interest rates should be.

The interest rate is a price,
To control it is a vice,
For our own good, it must be left free.

— Robert Higgs

Poem of the Day

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
— Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Ozymandias”