As a warning for those who might think it wise to blog after judging a beer competition, I present without further ado a Superbowl sex sting poem for your enjoyment: ‘Twas the night before the Superbowl, when all through the state, Not a hooker was stirring, who wasn’t a fake; The cops posted their escort ads on the internet with care, In hopes that potential Johns soon would surf there; The police were nestled all smug on their hotel room beds, While visions of entrapped soon-to-be sex offenders danced in their heads; And Adrian straightening his tie, and I in my suit, Had just settled down to field calls about police houses of ill repute, When from our office phones there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter. Away to the jail I … Read entire article »