Tonight at the Tune Inn, A neighborhood dive bar, I met a young man, With afro-esque curly long hair, Pulled back into a loose ponytail, Who told me that he And his "partner," Who shared a new baby: A "surprise," Had an agreement, Such that he, on his way home From who-knows-where On a Monday night, Should stop at said Tune Inn, Round the corner, For a Miller Lite or three, Whilst she stays home With said love-child, So that he could tell me About his need for space, And show me that he Had no ring on his finger. I said to him, With saccharine voice, That I hoped That his wife-I-mean-partner Was having a nice evening Nursing their screaming Bundle of joy Whilst he talked to me. "Oh, it's fine with her," He asserted, searching my eyes. Unable to sufficiently mask judgment, And disgust Of a pansy responsibility-shirker, I whispered more loudly Than I should have Behind a tattered, crumpled Paper napkin To Cousin Steve, beside me At the bar's corner, That Mr. 'Fro Was a deadbeat dad - Not that I know Just what that means... Subsequently, Mr. 'Fro asked what was the problem. I lied that the French fries Were too greasy. He-of-hairproduct-need Later changed barstools So that he was instead sitting Three seats away.
I'm a science and healthcare politico. I work at the juxtaposition of science policy and laboratory research.
This blog mostly contains personal observances, but occasionally, a political tidbit gets thrown in.