Words and Thoughts — January 18, 2024

Hello again, alleged readers. I’m livid. Somewhere between Mel Gibson in Braveheart and Mel Gibson in Mad Max level of yelling type livid. I recently sent a letter to The Sorbonne, like I usually do every couple of months. However, unlike most of my letters, which I assume they put on display; this time, for the first time, they responded, and it was clear that my latest letter would NOT be put on display. While my letters each vary widely in topic, this last letter was a bit of poetry. See below for the full text of my letter:


Dear The Sorbonne Teachers,

I hope you have been keeping well since my last correspondence. Things here in America are certainly getting interesting. We recently had a day in which no one was hit by one of the Brightline Trains in Florida, so that was pretty big news. I hope you all are practicing railroad safety in France. Anyway, please see below for my newest correspondence.


The Blimps of Cypress

A Poem, by Stav Knudsenen, CEO

Annotations in italics, by Stav Knudsenen, CEO

The Cypriots have a blimp. The Cypriots have a blimp!

The Turks hate that the Cypriots have a blimp.

Here we see blimp rhyming with blimp

“Why do the Cypriots have this blimp?” Turkish President, Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, inquired.

“I think they have two blimps,” Turkish Minister of Foreign Affairs, Hakan Fidan, responded as he perspired.

I think Fidan would be sweating for a number of reasons. First, I think Turkey is hot. Second, he must be under a lot of pressure having to answer questions like this from Erdoğan. And finally, the perspiration represents the underlying struggle of dealing with the loss of a lover, already present as a theme in this poem.

The Cypriots called the air traffic controllers at Istanbul and shouted, “Hey have you people seen our blimp yet or what? We’re going to land this blimp at Istanbul!”

The air traffic controllers at Istanbul replied, “You can’t land that blimp here. Not for any political reasons, or anything like that, we just don’t have the facilities to accommodate a dirigible.”

How about Istanbul rhyming with dirigible, am I right??


May I suggest, for added flair, that this poem be sung to the tune of “Paint the Town Red,” by Doja Cat.


Stav Knusdsenen


I sent my letter, and didn’t think anything more of it, as I never do. But then two weeks later, by registered mail, came my original letter back to me. And scrawled across the letter, in what appeared to be the ink of one of those Magnum Sharpies, was simply, “PLEASE STOP SENDING THESE TO US”.

As such, I’m now on strike. No more will I furnish The Sorbonne with literary gifts. In fact, I’m going to boycott France in general. You all know how much I love croissants. Alas, no more. I’d rather steal cat food off my neighbors porch than indulge in the delights of a croissant knowing that some Sorbonne elitist might have cast a passing glance, dripping with condescension, in the direction of said croissant.

If you need me I’ll be picketing in front of the L’Oréal haircare products at Walmart.