Week 649: Across the Wide What?


Only weeks ago we reported on the struggle by New Jersey to come up with
a suitable motto. Now we turn to the beleaguered legislature of Virginia,
which wants a state song to replace the unfortunate "Carry Me Back to Old
Virginny" and its lyrics about darkies and old massa. After many
ill-fated attempts, the state Senate is turning to the folk song
"Shenandoah," which has a gorgeous melody but just a weensy problem with
the lyrics: The song does not mention Virginia and in fact is not about
Virginia; it talks about "the wide Missouri," for Pete's sake.

So: Give us some Virginia-appropriate lyrics for "Shenandoah." A whole
verse is welcome but we will also accept a couple of lines. The original:
"Oh, Shenandoah, I long to hear you/Away, you rolling river/Oh,
Shenandoah, I long to hear you/Away, I'm bound away/Across the wide
Missouri." (You can hear a nice version online at
http://Songsforteaching.com .) And do keep in mind that this is a humor
contest.

Winner gets the Inker, the official Style Invitational trophy. First
runner-up wins not a Loser T-Shirt, but a plain white T-shirt bearing the
word "better" preceded by a blank to fill in; it's some gym chain's
promotion that the Empress found in the Post mailroom wastebasket. The
shirt is compressed into an amazingly small rectangular solid and packed
with a laundry marker so that you may fill in the blank with "Lose."

Other runners-up win a coveted Style Invitational Loser T-shirt.
Honorable mentions get one of the lusted-after Style Invitational
Magnets. One prize per entrant per week. Send your entries by e-mail
tolosers@washpost.comor by fax to 202-334-4312. Deadline is Monday, Feb.
20. Include "Week 649"

in the subject line of your e-mail, or it risks being ignored as spam.
Include your name, postal address and phone number with your entry.
Contests are judged on humor and originality. All entries become the
property of The Washington Post. Entries may be edited for taste or
content. Results will be published March 12. No purchase required for
entry. Employees of The Washington Post, and their immediate relatives,
are not eligible for prizes. Pseudonymous entries will be disqualified.
This week's contest was suggested by Peter Metrinko of Chantilly, yes,
Va. The revised title for next week's contest is by John O'Byrne of
Dublin.

Report From Week 645, in which we sought valentines for any personage or to someone in a
generic category.

The Empress received more entries than usual this week
in a foreign language: British. Her favorite line came in a valentine
from Lydia M. Nicola of Grange Lodge, Bucks, to her garbage collector:
"Your pong is like an elixir to me." We hope elixir pong, too. Okay,
okay, we know, pong means stench.

First: The results of our special contest to come up with a name for the
store in Bethesda whose sign advertised "Hair -- Nails -- Gifts --
Mortgages": The Loser Pen and wax lips go to Kevin Dopart of Washington,
who offered two good ideas: the perfectly fitting but arcane Maslow's
Hierarchy Center (it won't kill you to look it up) and the, uh,
higher-concept Mistresses R Us.


4

Tho' it may not endure till the 24th hour,
Its petals explode, its stem lose all power,
Tho' it may be shot through by a blazing SIG Sauer,
I send you this big fat red flower, Jack Bauer.

(Sharyn Kilderry, Washington)


3

Slinkity, binkity,
Eva Longoria,
Oh, how I pine as you
Play hard to get.

Why does my ardor meet
Non-reciprocity?
I guess you aren't that
"Desperate" yet.

(Brendan Beary, Great Mills)


2 The winner of the single silvery satin Converse All-Star high-top sneaker:

To my favorite lobbyist:

Remember that cash in the sack?
I regret that I must give it back.
If they ask about me
While you're copping your plea,
Be nice: Tell 'em I don't know Jack. (Nick Curtis, Gaithersburg)


And the Winner of the Inker

1

As you chew on the bamboo and yawn
In the sun on your makeshift veranda,
Here's my Valentine wish, dear Tai Shan:
May you never be moo goo gai panda.

(Chris Doyle, Forsyth, Mo.)


Honorable Mentions

Mr. Ahmadinejad, is that a nuclear rod
Or are you just happy to see me?
Please don't be so coy, my Persian pinup boy,
I'll show you a time nice and steamy.

I'm your new biggest fan, O leader of Iran,
You fantasy life is so crude.
So don't be a snob. Let me doff this hijab
And I'll put you in the Mahmoud.

(Deborah Guy, Columbus, Ohio)

Marlon, my heart still goes a-flutter
Whenever I'm asked to pass the butter.

(Jay Shuck, Minneapolis)


You listen to my private thoughts
I hope they do not trouble you.
And though you really bug me,
My love's no secret, W.

(Joseph Romm, Washington)


To Bill Gates:

If each terrorist, schemer, nogoodnik and Hun
United their forces and acted as one
There's no way on earth we could resist 'em.
But thanks to you, Bill, there'll be no attack
Their brains are preoccupied, striving to hack
Your Windows Operating System.

(Greg Arnold, Herndon)

Dear Dear Dear Dear Philip Dear Philip Dear Philip Philip Glass Be Philip
Be Philip Philip Glass Mine Philip Mine Philip Philip Be Mine Philip
Philip Dear Philip Glass Philip Dear.

(Seth Brown, North Adams, Mass.)

To Paris Hilton: If you can't be mine in reality,

At least you're mine on DVD.

(Tom Witte, Montgomery Village)

Unbidden, my devotion
Spews skyward like a geyser
Whene'er my awestruck peepers spy
Your Page 1 pic, Kornheiser.

(Kathy Boyce, Herndon)


To Israel's acting foreign minister:

My dear Tzipi Livni, I get a sensation
From your appellation that blows me away.
Oh, say you'll be mine and I'll sing with elation
Both "Tzipi di-doo-dah" and "Tzipi di-ay." (Brendan Beary)


Master P, all the homies and cronies
Think it's wack that you fox-trot with phonies.
But your dancin' is hot,
And it's takin' a lot
Of that ballroom to hold your co . . . urage. (Chris Doyle)


When by Bush you were courted,
The right wing aborted
His judicial desires,
Dear Harriet Miers.
Though you won't be Number 9,
Will you be my valentine?

(Beryl Benderly, Washington)


The name that I Google
Brings Valentine kisses.
I blow my own bugle.
I love me -- Narcissus (Chris Doyle)


To Judit Polgar:

You're queen of world chess, I'm rookie unseen,
But valentine, I hope this R(ie)xQ.

(Dave Prevar, Annapolis)


At the sound of your name
How my beating heart clenches.
Oh dearest Don Rumsfeld,
I want YOU in the trenches.

(Phyllis Reinhard, East Fallowfield, Pa.)


It's your bare, burly chest
And your brown, curly hair,
How you say, "Only you -- "
Oh, be mine, Smokey Bear.

(Mel Loftus, Holmen, Wis.)


Oh, lovely Catherine Zeta-Jones,
You make me tingle in my bones.
Fancy a cwtch with me tomorrow,
Or must I wear the Mask of Sorrow? (Ed Edwards) [Ed explains that a cwtch
is a Welsh word meaning, among other things, a cuddle. By the way, it is
pronounced "cwtch."]


To my Costco cashier:

If you would be my one true guy
I'd stand in line for days and days.
Since without you I can't buy
My 15-gallon mayonnaise. (Andrew Hoenig, Rockville)


To my dental hygienist:

I know there's a line that I'm crossing,
But please, would you pause in your flossing
And consider (I hope it's not scary)
My plea that you be my Tooth Fairy.
Then each morning I'll wake with a thrill -- oh!
To find you right under my pillow. (Paul Cloutman, London)


These many years you've been my masseuse
You make me feel good, my muscles are loose.
But you know what I'd like on this Valentine's Day?
Couldn't you rub me, you know, "the wrong way"? (Marleen May, Rockville)


To a veterinarian:

From three little stray cats, each with a uterus:
Happy Valentine's Day -- please will you neuter us? (Sue Lin Chong,
Baltimore)


To my wife:

Though I now shop at Costco for your birthday candles.
You're more fun to hold now, with your love(ly) handles. (Peter Metrinko,
Chantilly)

Next Week: Warped Perspectives, or Take Your Pic