My Loveliest Annabel Lou,
This love-note is perfect for you—
“Love” is here written,
An arrowed-heart’s splittin’—
But Edgar has bought you one, too.

—Patrick Murtha, Saint Marys, Kansas

Congratulations to Patrick Murtha! For his poem describing the illustration by Dick Sargent, Patrick wins $100—and our gratitude for a job well done.

If you’d like to enter the Limerick Laughs Contest for our upcoming issue, you can submit your limerick via the entry form here.

Of course, Patrick’s limerick wasn’t the only one we liked! Here are some of our favorite runners-up, in no particular order:

Old Cupid had hit his mark true,
But Romeo did not have a clue.
Hand in his pocket,
Heart like a rocket,
This strange thing called love was brand new.

—Randy Imwalle, Hillard, Ohio

The lad’s plagued by a problem quite dire,
Since impressing that girl will require
That he spend from his stash
At least some of the cash
That he’d saved for a brand new bike tire.

—Patrick McKeon, Pennington, New Jersey

Though young, he finds himself smitten.
Perhaps that old love bug has bitten?
He stays out of the way
Before Valentine’s Day,
And ponders some words sweetly written.

—Kathie Rosier, East Aurora, New York

The words in the card are risky.
She might find them much too frisky.
Yes, spells delight;
No, would sure bite.
Stuff like this drives men to whiskey.

—John Dischinger, Spring Valley, California

A romantic card that just couldn’t miss.
He fantasized about their first kiss,
But when push came to shove,
Said, “I may be in love,
But I ain’t wasting a quarter on this!”

—Ken Elinsky, Solon, Ohio

Sweethearts in verse made him pause,
Linger and read them because
Cards showed one’s heart
And reading that part
Made him wonder just what love was.

—Dietre McCormick, Carlisle, Iowa

The young man was thoughtfully weighing
The sentiment this card was conveying.
For he needed to find
Just the right Valentine
To say what he thought needed saying.

—Paul H. Madsen, Columbia Heights, Minnesota

Oh, what a dilemma for Billy!
The mushy cards strike him as silly.
His feelings are true,
So what should he do?
He may pick a card—but will he?

—Elizabeth Silverthorn, Salado, Texas

A Valentine card is a feature
To send to a beautiful creature.
But his mother was firm
That he pass school this term,
So he has to send love to his teacher.

—Ruth Porter, Albany, Oregon

Limerick Laughs Contest Winner and Runners-Up for Jan/Feb 2013 The Saturday Evening Post

The house I grew up in was built in 1913, in that murky era between horses and cars, when a homebuilder had to decide which way the transportation winds were blowing. The man who built the house evidently believed cars were a fad, so he constructed a barn behind the house. My father was always trying to park his too-big car in a too-small stall, like someone struggling into a too-tight pair of pants. Half the back end hung out. While the barn was a bust, storage-wise it was ideal, handily absorbing the flotsam and jetsam of my parents’ lives. Growing up, I spent many a rainy Saturday in that old barn mining for gold.

When my wife and I bought our first home, I began to fill the garage with all manner of useful items over my wife’s objections. We have five bicycles. Their tires are flat, their frames coated with dust, their chains rusted to the sprockets. But it’s nothing a bicycle pump and a squirt of WD-40 can’t fix. I have four bicycle pumps and three cans of WD-40. Supplies aren’t the problem; expectations are. If I fix the bikes, my wife will expect me to repair everything else and sell it all on Craigslist, which I have no intention of doing. There’s no sense raising her hopes only to see them dashed.

I have four lawn chairs I intend to fix just as soon as I find the time to get the webbing to repair them. I bought them 20 years ago at a garage sale. The lady selling them apparently didn’t understand their value. The seats need to be replaced, but it’s nearly impossible to find a good old-fashioned lawn chair anymore. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve tripled in value. With CD interest rates running around 2 percent, I can’t afford not to keep them.

As a general rule, my wife avoids the garage. But every now and then she wanders in, poking around. She invariably sees something she thinks I don’t need and quizzes me about it. Like the time she came upon my watering can.

“Why do we need that?” she asked. “There’s a hole in it.”

“It’s nothing that a little duct tape can’t fix,” I said. I have six rolls, and possibly more, in an old refrigerator.

Her efforts to reform me reach a fever pitch each spring, a season customarily associated with putting things in order. Spring is my least favorite time of year.

In April my wife hints at her intentions. “Wouldn’t it be nice if there were room in the garage to park our cars,” she says. I let her remark pass. It’s only the warm-up.

In early May, always on a Saturday morning, she reminds me the town dump is having a free community day, and that we can throw away anything we want for free.

As if she has to remind me! It’s my favorite day of the year. I drive to the dump and bring back a truckload of perfectly fine stuff other people have discarded. That’s how I got my three-wheeled lawn mower with the blown engine. I’m going to fix it one of these days.

Not long ago, my wife and I were watching television at my parent’s house and a show about hoarders came on. Their houses are stacked from floor to ceiling. A psychiatrist was saying it’s a mental illness, an excuse we trot out when we don’t want to face the truth. Let’s put the blame where it belongs, on architects who 70 years ago stopped designing houses with adequate storage. My parent’s house had a full basement, a full attic, a two-story barn, and three extra rooms with no specific purpose, to be used at the homeowner’s discretion. As a consequence, my parents got along just fine. If the architect who designed our house 22 years ago knew what he was doing, my wife and I wouldn’t have to argue every spring.

The New No-Car Garage The Saturday Evening Post

Uncle Sam wants … your money.

Ever since I was a kid and read that Al Capone was arrested for tax evasion, I have feared the Internal Revenue Service. Think of it, Al Capone had killed a zillion people, and while the police were trying to find proof to arrest him for murder, a skinny nerd with a green eyeshade nailed Capone for tax evasion. Insofar as it is possible, I try never to irritate the IRS.

In an effort to stay on the good side of the IRS, I’ve offered them several suggestions to keep them in the black. For starters, since I’m self-employed, I have to pay my income taxes four times a year. I always forget to pay until the day they’re due and end up paying with a credit card so I don’t get arrested and sent to Alcatraz like Al Capone. I use a Kroger credit card, but if the IRS had a credit card, I would use theirs. Credit card companies make $20 billion a year, give or take a few, and it’s time the IRS got a piece of the action. Using an IRS credit card could earn points toward a tax deduction. If you ratted out your tax delinquent neighbor with the barking dog that poops in your yard, you could get bonus points. It was a great idea, but the IRS hasn’t responded.

Or, consider a lottery play: Powerball recently hit $587.5 million. Two families split the money. Chances are good they’ll do something stupid with it and ruin their lives. Since the lottery and the IRS are both run by the government, it makes sense for the lottery to rig it so the IRS wins. For a $2 investment, the IRS could have made $587.5 million. Before long, the government would be awash in money, free of debt. I sent this suggestion to the IRS, but nothing came of it.

They also didn’t respond to my suggestion they buy metal detectors and hit the beaches on the weekend. There have been thousands of shipwrecks over the years, most of them involving ships filled to the brim with gold doubloons. Nic Davies of Shrewsbury, England, in his first venture out with a metal detector, found 10,000 ancient Roman coins buried in a clay pot. Officials estimate they’re worth a billion zillion dollars. Personally, I don’t care for treasure hunters because they dig holes, don’t bother to refill them, and I fall in them and break my legs. But if the IRS agents found enough buried money so we wouldn’t have to pay taxes anymore, I’d learn to cope.

In that same vein, the IRS could send its employees out to garage sales to buy Van Gogh paintings hidden underneath dogs-playing-poker pictures. A half dozen times a year I hear of someone doing this. It’s a great way to make some fast money, but when I wrote the IRS, there was no reply. Nothing. Nada. Zip. It’s no wonder our country’s coffers are empty.

To hear people talk, you’d think the IRS was invented by Adolf Hitler. In fact, it was created in 1862 by Abraham Lincoln to help pay for the Civil War. In nearly every presidential poll, Lincoln ranks as our favorite president. The Republicans refer to themselves as the Party of Lincoln, because, if they called themselves the Party of the IRS, they’d never win another office. Don’t get me wrong, I love and admire the IRS and wish them nothing but the best.

We are fast approaching another April 15, my favorite day of the year. Most people hate that day, but not me. (Did I mention my admiration for the IRS?) I’ll spend the weeks leading up to it carefully going over my financial records, making sure to report every dollar I’ve made in the past year, even the $50 my mom and dad gave me for Christmas. If you happen to work for the IRS, I know you’re busy checking everyone’s return. Save yourself the time and trouble, and don’t give mine a second glance.

The IRS Has A Secret Admirer The Saturday Evening Post

Gift wrapping I don’t understand.
Nothing turns out the way that I planned.
The paper looks bunched.
The ribbon’s all scrunched.
Perhaps I just need a third hand.

—Bette Killion, Greencastle, Indiana

Congratulations to Bette Killion! For her poem describing the illustration by Dick Sargent, Bette wins $100—and our gratitude for a job well done. If you’d like to enter the Limerick Laughs Contest for our upcoming issue, you can submit your limerick via the entry form here.

Of course, Bette’s limerick wasn’t the only one we liked! Here are some of our favorite runners-up, in no particular order:

It’s becoming abundantly clear
That the deadline for Christmas is near.
Anxiety grows
As he’s still tying bows.
He’ll give smaller presents next year.

—Timothy Cannon, Osceola, Iowa

Thought shopping was the worst of my woes.
Now I’m fumbling with ribbons and bows!
I groan and I sigh
These wrappings to tie
I’m tangled from mustache to toes!

—Marlene B. Larson, Larimore, North Dakota

When told by the clerk at the store,
“Wrapping is five dollars more.”
This frugal old elf
Said, “I’ll do it myself!”
Now this chore has him sore to the core.

—Ben Griffin, Weleetka, Oklahoma

He tried to be quiet as a mouse
While wrapping the gift for his spouse.
But ribbons and bows
Got wrapped ’round his clothes,
And paper all over the house.

—H. Earl Martin, Laurens, South Carolina

The holiday season is bright
But not for this fellow tonight.
He’s sitting there trapped,
Trying to get this gift wrapped.
What an awkward and frustrating sight.

—Neal Levin, Bloomfield Hills, Michigan

This chore makes him feel trapped,
But with paper and bows he’ll adapt.
You have to adore him
Like many before him
Into his projects he tends to get wrapped.

—D. Brown, Buffalo, Wyoming

Joe Jones was doing his best.
To wrap up the gift was a test.
But that stubborn red ribbon
Was not very forgivin’,
So Joe ended up with a mess.

—Amory Minear, Dover, Delaware

Wrapping can be such a chore;
It’s something I’ve come to abhor.
I’m up to my nose
In ribbons and bows,
And forgot to buy tape at the store.

—Andrew Murphy, Frackville, Pennsylvania

The Christmas season seems great!
It’s the trials of wrapping some hate.
Our hero is trying
But inwardly crying,
“I’ll never get done at this rate!”

—Beverly J. Brouwers, Middlebury, Indiana

Limerick Laughs Contest Winner and Runners-Up for Nov/Dec 2012 The Saturday Evening Post

There are things I liked as a kid that in my adult years I no longer enjoy, but my enthusiasm for snow has continued undiminished. My Grandpa Hank told me I wouldn’t like snow when I got to be his age. My grandfather was wrong about a number of things, but this was his biggest misjudgment.

I liked snow as a kid because it got me out of school. The cancellations would be announced on WGRT, our town’s radio station. Sometimes WGRT wouldn’t even wait for official word. They would predict the closing the night before, working themselves into a frenzy. My siblings and I would take their prophecies as gospel truth, put on our coats, and go for a walk around the block in the snow. I remember how the snow lit the night, and the smothered quiet, and the feel of snow landing on my exposed neck and running in rivulets to the collar of my long underwear. When we got home, Mom would make us hot chocolate, not the stuff in a packet with the pebble-hard marshmallows you dump into hot water, but the real kind with milk and cocoa and sugar. I would stay up late, sitting at my bedroom window, watching the snow fall, backlit by the street light. Cleo Walker would drive past in the snowplow, the strobe casting and retracting its yellow light against the houses. Cleo was a nice man, but it was hard to feel kindly toward a man working to get us back to school.

There were two sledding hills in our town. One of them was at the park but would be closed whenever a kid rammed into the basketball post at the bottom of the hill and cracked his head open. It was always the same kid, Donny Millardo, who had a permanent crease in his forehead from hitting the post.

The other hill was in our backyard. Kids from all over town would descend on our backyard. I went through 12 years of school without ever getting beat up. All the bullies wanted to stay on my good side so they could sled on our hill. Snow was my salvation. If our yard had been flat, I wouldn’t have lived past junior high.

The only thing I didn’t like about snow were the rubber boots my mother made me wear when the first flake hit the ground in mid-November. They had eight buckles, which iced over and froze shut. I couldn’t unlatch them until the spring thaw. There were five children in our family and I fell toward the end, so I wore hand-me-down boots from my brother Doug, who had the smallest feet in the state of Indiana. I would pull the boots on over my shoes, straining and grunting and stomping until the heel of my shoe cleared the back of the boot. I wore them all winter, even slept and showered in them, lest I snap a bone pulling them back on.

This was back in the day before good gloves. When I was a kid, only one kind of glove had been invented: the brown jersey glove. They were made of a special kind of cotton that absorbed 10 times their weight in water and within five minutes would freeze into an icy claw. I continue to like snow because it gets me out of work. On the days it snows, I shovel my driveway, clean my walks, spread salt, then drive over to my parents’ house and do it all over again. If I really want to avoid work, I shovel out my brother’s house, my sister’s house, and my neighbor’s house. Then I drive to the grocery store and buy doughnuts for the town workers plowing the streets. A good snow can occupy me for eight or more hours, by which time it’s too late to go to work. I can enjoy an entire day off from work and look virtuous doing it, even though I’m playing hooky.

We don’t seem to get as much snow as we did when I was a kid. It wasn’t uncommon, when I was five or six years old, for snow to be up past my knees. I can’t remember the last time that happened. Now it only reaches the top of my boots. I’m no weather expert, but I suspect this has something to do with global warming.

Still, to waken in the morning and see the glint and dazzle of snow upon the ground was, and remains, a deep and wondrous joy. I’m not sure what it was that turned my grandfather against snow, but I hope whatever it was never happens to me.

Snow Days The Saturday Evening Post

We are pleased to present our Limerick Laughs contest winners and runners-up! Click the images or text below to read our favorite limericks from the most recent issues of The Saturday Evening Post.

If you’d like to enter the Limerick Laughs Contest for our current issue, submit your limerick via the entry form here.

Jan/Feb 2013 Limerick Laughs

Congratulations to Patrick Murtha of Greencastle, Indiana, our January/February 2013 Limerick Laughs Contest Winner!

Nov/Dec 2012 Limerick Laughs

Congratulations to Bette Killion of Greencastle, Indiana, our November/December 2012 Limerick Laughs Contest Winner!

Sept/Oct 2012 Limerick Laughs

Congratulations to James Carpenter of Miami, Florida, our September/October 2012 Limerick Laughs Contest Winner!

July/Aug 2012 Limerick Laughs

Congratulations to Timothy Cannon of Osceola, Iowa, our July/August 2012 Limerick Laughs Contest Winner!

May/June 2012 Limerick Laughs

Congratulations to Julie Polak of Bucyrus, Ohio, our May/June 2012 Limerick Laughs Contest Winner!

March/April 2012 Limerick Laughs

Congratulations to Neal Levin of Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, our March/April 2012 Limerick Laughs Contest Winner!

Jan/Feb 2012 Limerick Laughs

Congratulations to Rita Schilling of Fort Worth, Texas, our January/February 2012 Limerick Laughs Contest Winner!

Nov/Dec 2011 Limerick Laughs

Congratulations to Gayla Baggett of Hendersonville, Tennessee, our November/December 2011 Limerick Laughs Contest Winner!

Sept/Oct 2011 Limerick Laughs

Congratulations to Neal Levin of Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, our September/October 2011 Limerick Laughs Contest Winner!

Limerick Laughs Contest Winners and Runners-Up The Saturday Evening Post

His doctor of feminine gender
May offer a manner quite tender.
But why, he did muse,
Would she purposely choose
A field that is fraught with rear-enders.

—James Carpenter, Miami, Florida

Congratulations to James Carpenter! For his poem describing The Saturday Evening Post cover illustration by Roberto Parada, James wins $100—and our gratitude for a job well done.

If you’d like to enter the Limerick Laughs Contest for our upcoming issue, you can submit your limerick via the entry form here.

Of course, James’ limerick wasn’t the only one we liked! Here are some of our favorite runners-up, in no particular order:

I’m going to convince my mind
That her diploma is properly signed.
‘Til then, if you please,
I’m keeping the breeze
From blowing across my behind.

—Marlene Klopp, Iowa City, Iowa

When seeing a doc or a nurse
For a shot or perhaps something worse,
First tend to essentials
And check their credentials.
Or you might end up in a hearse.

—Cornelius R. Jonker, Grand Rapids, Michigan

Our man George had a bit of a frown,
As he stood in his barely closed gown,
He checked the diploma,
Of young Doctor Roma,
He surely did miss old Doc Brown.

—Randy Imwalle, Hilliard, Ohio

A fine time for me to take stock
As to whether I picked the right doc
Now that she’s about
To check inside and out.
I hope I’m not in for a shock.

—Billy N. Davis, Milton, Florida

There once was a man called Bill
Had a doctor in old Melville.
But she was a fake
And sly as a snake,
She’d bought her “degree” from Goodwill.

—Tesa Aguilar, Tampa, Florida

There once was a company exec,
Who went for his annual check.
The procedure he got
In a sensitive spot
Was unlike a pain in the neck.

—Edward F. Haas, Rolla, Missouri

He thinks his exam should entail
A doctor whose gender is male.
The degree that he’s eyed
Shows Doc’s certified
To handle the rest of his … tale.

—Merlene R. Hill, Downey, California

He thinks that the doctor’s too young,
And can’t wait ‘til this torture’s all done.
Her knowledge is great,
But this medical date
Makes him just want to turn quick and run.

—Ruth Porter, Albany, Oregon

His pants weren’t just down; they were off
When he heard, “Please bend over and cough.”
He inquired, “For a shot?”
She replied, “No it’s not.”
He felt trapped like a bug in a trough.

—Ben Lightfoot, Hanston, Kansas

Limerick Laughs Contest Winner and Runners-Up for Sep/Oct 2012 The Saturday Evening Post

"Hello, Sylvia? This is Fran. Just wanted to hear the sound of a human voice."

November 1951

"I don’t believe you’ve ever met my husband—so we’ll just leave it that way."

November 1960

"I cleaned up the attic, I painted the screens, I washed the dishes and I’ll never play gin rummy with you again."

April 1961

"It’s not nagging. It’s procrastination intervention."

January/February 2005

"Man! It’s getting colder than a ..."

October 1982

"Let’s make a deal—if you don’t join the cigar
trend, I won’t join the thong-bikini trend!"

July/August 1998

Cartoons: Wives’ Tales The Saturday Evening Post

"He promised me faithfully that this time he wouldn’t get a tiny little sports car."

July/August 1996

 

March 1961

"No, you're not interrupting anything. I was just doing some ... ah ... iron man training."

July/August 1999

"There are times when I wish I didn’t have such a beautiful figure."

November/December 1997

"Look, why don’t you find a good book?"

December 1957

"You’ve filled in this application all right except for one thing, Mr. Perkins—where it asks the relationship of Mrs. Perkins to yourself, you should have put down 'wife,' not 'strained.'"

December 1951

"My wife would like to borrow a cup of ... a cup of ... a cup of ..."

November 1951

"Flour!"
 

November 1951

Cartoons: Hubby High Jinks The Saturday Evening Post

"So whose dumb idea was it to wear our belts on our hats, anyway?"

November 1988

"I hope you don’t mind my asking, but how long are you people going to be here?"

November 1988

"Look, let’s put everything down and start all over again."

November 1951

"We were expecting cowboys!"

November/December 2008

"Next year, how about if we shoot the turkey?"

November 1988

Cartoons: Happy Thanksgiving The Saturday Evening Post

"I want my mother!"

May 1959

"Now tell me you had this for lunch."

May/Jun 1995

"Mom said for you to wash up for dinner…
and then to cook it."

Mar/Apr 1997

"That's the last time I try
cooking something from scratch."

Sep/Oct 1997

"Red or white wine with Presbyterian?"

Fall 1972

"My husband ate my homework."

Sep/Oct 1999

Cartoons: Cooking The Saturday Evening Post

 

Sep/Oct 1995

"Bobby ... something tells me we should skip this house."

Sep/Oct 1993

"Let's have a look-see at the back and—hey—what the... Now, isn't that the darndest thing!"

Oct 1988

"Salem was socked in, so I had to land in Pawtucket."

Oct 1980

"Hey! This isn't candy! It's leftovers."

Oct 1988

"I got candy bars, chewing gum, two kittens ..."

Oct 1988

Cartoons: Ghoul’s Night Out The Saturday Evening Post

We are thick in the middle of a presidential election, which has been a rancorous affair, causing many Americans to long for the olden days when we were governed by clueless English kings. I wonder if it’s too late to apologize to the British, abolish Congress, and ask the queen to take us back?

When I was a kid, elections were a happy event, earning us a day off school if we assisted the candidates by passing out their pencils, pens, matchbooks, and rulers. Naturally, as the date neared, every child in town took a sudden interest in the body politic and its attendant obligations. We would rise early and hurry to the voting sites to eat the doughnuts intended for poll workers who were overweight and should have been grateful for our intervention but seldom were. At noon, we would walk to the Dairy Queen and eat hot dogs cooked by a light bulb and revel in the democracy that was America.

At 6 o’clock, when the polls closed, we would gather in the courthouse on the town square and watch through the evening hours as the county auditor climbed a stepladder every few moments to write the latest votes on a chalkboard hung high upon the wall. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, making me queasy, causing me to associate nausea with politics, a pattern that persists to this day.

Around 10, the results from the outlying polls were called in, the numbers adjusted to allow for chicanery and error, and the victors announced. They would step to the podium and humbly thank, in order, God, their family, the long-deceased founders of our town, then end with an unrehearsed and lengthy speech on the general wonders of America and the specific virtues of Danville and Hendricks County, Indiana.

My father, the town board president, had raised the speeches to an art form. In my mind it was the acme of representative democracy, watching the votes accrue beside my father’s name on the board overhead, then listening to him extoll the town that had opened its arms to our family in 1957. With the presidency came the responsibility of keeping the groundhog population at bay, lest they destroy the backyard gardens that everyone had in those days. My father was a crack-shot, like Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird, and the terror of groundhogs everywhere. Most townspeople thought any man unable to exterminate rodents was unfit for public office. To this day, I still half expect presidential candidates to tell us their stance on groundhogs.

Being Indiana, everyone in our town was Republican, except for Bob Pearcy who owned The Danville Gazette newspaper. He also had a maple tree in his front yard that had been twisted a quarter-turn by the 1948 tornado. Pug Weesner, the owner of The Republican newspaper, lost his house in the same tornado, causing some in our town to believe God was a Democrat, temporarily swelling the ranks of that party and ushering Harry S. Truman into the White House.

There was a luster to government service in those days—a regard not only for the office, but also for those who held it. World War II was still fresh in our collective memory, a cataclysmic event resolved by government’s know-how and young men’s courage. If today the less capable are attracted to office, and there does seem to be a weakening in the strain, that was not the case then. The words, “I work for the government” were a statement of pride. One did not run for Congress for the lifetime healthcare; one ran to serve, to help, to make America the “shining city on the hill.” Service to the country was a calling, not a last resort when employment in the private sector didn’t pan out.

Election night, that holy night, was the one school night my parents let me stay up late. By 9 o’clock I would be flagging, so would curl up behind the pillar next to the marble staircase and fall asleep in that cradle of democracy. At 10 o’clock, the last precinct would phone in, and the cheering would waken me.

I would listen to the victory speeches, as one would a bedtime story, lulled to sleep by the soft cadence of freedom.

Voting Back in the Day The Saturday Evening Post

"I haven’t worked for 20 years. I can’t wait to get back behind a typewriter."

Jul/Aug 2000

"I’m doing quite well, but I am concerned about Foster."

Oct 1989

"Excuse me, could you tell me where they keep
the fried eggs?"

May/Jun 1991

"You’re firing me—just like that—after I’ve been your accountant for one, two, three ... four long years?"

May/Jun 2004

"Yeah, I’m new at this, but I’ve learned one thing ... guess low."

Jan/Feb 1999

"You can’t be Napoleon. He comes in on Thursdays."

Mar 1991

Cartoons: Not All There The Saturday Evening Post

The morning commute is a maze,
Confusing in so many ways.
When parking is tight,
Then nothing goes right.
It’s gonna be one of those days.

—Timothy Cannon, Osceola, Iowa

Congratulations to Timothy Cannon! For his poem describing the illustration by Richard Sargent, Timothy wins $100—and our gratitude for a job well done.

If you’d like to enter the Limerick Laughs Contest for our Nov/Dec 2012 issue, you can submit your limerick via the entry form here.

Of course, Timothy’s limerick wasn’t the only one we liked! Here are some of our favorite runners-up, in no particular order:

The width of the car doesn’t change,
Nor the girth of this guy’s middle range,
But the neighboring parker
Ignores the lot’s marker,
And causes contortions so strange.

—Carol S. LeClerq, Rhinelander, Wisconsin

After searching a while I’d guess,
Circling and suffering distress,
When finding a spot
That’s right on the dot,
An exit takes limbo finesse.

—Sue Hieber, Wichita, Kansas

How did this happen to me?
I can’t get out, don’t you see?
I’ve sucked in my gut,
Still caught is my butt,
Just one more huff and I’m free.

—Jo Nixon, Fort Scott, Kansas

While commuters prepare for their trips,
This latecomer must first come to grips
With the problem he got
From too narrow a slot
That, combined with his un-narrow hips.

—Ben Lightfoot, Hanston, Kansas

Running late to the station, car roared,
Crammed between an old Chevy and Ford,
As I struggle and strain,
To at last catch my train,
The conductor now shouts, “All aboard!”

—Constance Jones, Brockton, Massachusetts

A parking spot close by, he spied.
But couldn’t get out—though he tried.
And because he was portly,
With his train leaving shortly,
He was sadly squeezed out of his ride.

—Cornelius Jonker, Grand Rapids, Michigan

He knew that he couldn’t be late.
The train was still parked at the gate.
So he picked a close spot,
But it wasn’t so hot
Getting squeezed and stuck with his fate.

—Nancy Rutar, Grand Island, Nebraska

It wasn’t that he was too tall.
The space was simply too small.
So try as he might,
It was going to be tight
And he never may get there at all.

—Betty Wood, Minot, North Dakota

The man in the car is in pain,
And wishes he booked on a plane;
For the lot was quite full,
So his groin he did pull,
Then completely missed out on his train.

—Ed Hoffman, Mesa, Arizona

Limerick Laughs Contest Winner and Runners-Up for Jul/Aug 2012 The Saturday Evening Post