On this very special Valentine’s Day, I wanted to share a special poem I wrote for my wife, expressing just how much I love her. I guess I’ve always been a bit of a hopeless romantic. Hope it warms your heart. – Tim
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Sugar is sweet
And so is high fructose corn syrup
Which from a manufacturing perspective
Is easier to handle and cheaper to make
Using an acid-enzyme process
In which corn is milled to extract corn starch
Which is then acidified
To begin breaking up the existing carbohydrates
With high-temperature enzymes added
To further metabolize the starch
And convert the resulting sugars to fructose
To which various enzymes are then added
After which it is filtered using activated carbon
Then demineralized using ion-exchange resins
And run over immobilized xylose isomerase
Which turns the sugars to ~50–52% glucose
With some unconverted oligosaccharides
And 42% fructose
The sweetness of which
Is comparable to sucrose
But not as sweet as you
[NOTE: This week’s column was written by my life-long friend and fellow humorist, Steve Fisher. Steve is the person who inspired me to create View from the Bleachers back in 2009, and he is the funniest person I have ever known. Steve gave me permission to share his love poem with my VFTB readers. Thanks, Steve! – TEJ ]
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Author’s note: Since it’s almost Valentine’s Day, I thought I would celebrate with a true story about love and romance. Sometimes you never know when or where love will find you, as this story proves. Their names have been changed out of respect for their privacy but the story is exactly what happened. – tej]
“Pardon me, sir. But do you play bridge?” That’s how it all started. A simple question, posed by a middle-aged woman to a complete stranger. To be more specific, Beth was emboldened to ask this question in Aisle 7 of the grocery store, somewhere between the shampoo section and men’s shaving cream.
“Um, well, uh, yeah, I do”, stammered the elderly man, confused by the query and not sure why this mysterious woman was accosting him in the middle of a store. His name was Ed – a kindly fellow, well into his 80s, with a warm, jovial smile. He was just minding his own business. But Beth was not finished. “My mother plays bridge. Would you like to meet my mother sometime?”
More stammering. More confusion. Mixed with an extra helping of embarrassment. Ed was caught in a deer-in-the-headlights moment. He had no idea what the correct answer was to this audacious inquiry. So, being the gentleman that he was, and not wanting to offend this lady in Aisle 7, he replied, in his noticeably southern drawl, “I dunno. Well, um, I guess that would be ahhhlrahhht.”
Apparently by “sometime,” Beth meant NOW. Because before Ed had time to ask her name, she was on the phone with her mom. “Mom, meet Ed. Ed, meet my mom, Margaret.” And then she handed the phone to Ed and walked away. Suddenly there were now two deer caught in the headlights – and neither of them knew what to say. Margaret wanted to say, “Beth, why are you trying to embarrass me? Hang up this phone this instant!” But Margaret was raised to be polite and instead told Ed, “What a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance,” hoping this awkward situation would be over quickly, never to be discussed again.
Every year it seems like thousands of people come to me for advice on how to improve their love life. Most people call me the Love Doctor (except for my wife, who usually calls me by her pet name, “you bastard”).
For years people the world over have sought my advice as a foremost authority on matters of the heart. Perhaps it’s because I’m half-German. Or maybe because I got an A- in French in high school – the language of love. I don’t actually have any formalized training in this arena. And I still don’t quite understand position #27 of the Kama Sutra.
My love advice credentials stem from a series of devastating, soul-crushing, failed romances in my formative youth, all of which ended catastrophically. (To this day, I still can’t look at a wrist corsage without suffering traumatic flashbacks.)
February 14th is Valentine’s Day, officially recognized by Hallmark as the one day each year men are expected to demonstrate their love for their wife by buying a sappy card with flowers and chirping birds, inside of which is written a banal poem with hackneyed rhymes like “you’re my wife” and “rest of my life”. Oh, and don’t forget the heart-shaped box of chocolates. Here’s a useful tip: Make sure you leave at least 5 chocolates for your wife – I’d suggest the caramel-centered ones. You know how much she loves caramel. The other 364 days you guys can go back to not showering and channel-surfing between ESPN 1 and ESPN 2. Your job is done.