The only clowns we ought to fear

The only clowns we ought to fear

are those who from Congress do leer. 

When they go hah-hah --

Their jokes become law,

and we get a kick in the rear. 

Homeless sleepers in the sun

Homeless sleeper in the sun

are you having any fun?

Do you hope for better things?

Has the world clipped off your wings?

Homeless sleeper, no cash I

have to make your lullaby.

No relationship will spring

up between us; not a thing

can I do for you but say

"Have a nice and cheerful day!"

And for this I think that God

will someday label me a fraud.

A tantalizing trifle

A tantalizing trifle for retired folk like me/is often of more value than a colonoscopy/for as the years pile on my head and squeeze my tired brain/a bit of fluff and fancy helps me sanity maintain/A chuckle and a grin are all I ask of my existence/they help this poor old bookworm to keep going all the distance/Heavy tomes are not for me; I'm done with old Tolstoy/I'd rather read a taradiddle meant for hoi polloi/Trifles from a kindly clown who writes with airy pen/are better for my health than anything from stern Wise Men.  

The Toe Monster

When I am eight and ten I join the circus.

One of the first circus families I meet is Otto Krippen and wife Shirley, with their son Kevin.

He is the elephant boss; she's one of the showgirls; and Kevin is a little boy with a mop of straw hair. Nice traditional family.

Otto brooks no nonsense with his assistants. They show up late or drunk and he minces no words with them but gives them an immediate knuckle sandwich, so they either quit or learn to behave. His temper, except with his family, is formidable. Facing a Sherman tank would be preferable to facing Otto when he's in a huff.

Shirley is rather homely; one of those girls that 'have a pleasant personality'. The only reason she gets to be a showgirl is because Otto won't work for any circus that doesn't use her as a showgirl. He's still madly in love with her after eight years of marriage. She is also blind as a bat without her glasses, which of course she can't wear when performing. So she always grabs a hold of the chorines to her right and left during the dance routines to keep from getting lost and wandering away.

And Kevin nearly gets me murdered after I introduce him to the toe monster.

There's very little private showering with the circus. We play sports arenas which feature half a dozen locker rooms with showers. The stars get their own locker rooms to themselves, but the rest of us share locker rooms and showers. So Otto and Kevin are in the same locker room as I am. One evening after the show I jokingly tell Kevin to watch out for the toe monster that lives in the shower drain. Get too close to it, I warn him, and it comes out to bite a toe off. The other clowns, sadists all, back up my fanciful claim with a chorus of affirmative moans and groans. Then I go about my business, thinking nothing more about it.

Until I overhear Otto a few days later telling someone that when he finds out who's been scaring his kid about some damn toe monster so much that now he won't take a shower at all, he's going to push his face into his buttocks. Or words to that effect.

Ulp. That's me.

Kevin is bound to rat me out sooner or later, I'm sure. So instant action is called for. Gathering my clown cronies that evening, I take the blunderbuss we use in the show out of the prop wagon. We wait for Kevin to come into the locker room, where I solemnly announce that tonight we will hunt down and kill the toe monster. Kevin's eyes get as big as pizza platters. I caution him to stay well behind us as we begin to scour the locker room.

When we get to the showers I give a yelp, which cues my pals to bunch up around me so Kevin sees nothing.

"I got him!" I cry, and then let loose with a blast from the clown blunderbuss -- which is loaded with black powder and wadding. The explosion is deafening and produces enough smoke to birth a modest cumulus cloud.

We all proudly march away, clawing each other on the back with bloodthirsty bonhomie and saying rather loudly that that is the end of the toe monster for sure.

The hardest part is to keep a completely straight face as Kevin looks searchingly at me and the others to make absolutely sure he is rid of this nightmare from the drains. Clowns are not good at poker faces, but we all manage to stay solemn enough until he runs out to share the good news with mom and dad.

Whew! That's over with.

But it's not. The next day Kevin seeks me out and asks shyly to see the carcass. He wants to show it to his dad.

Oh oh. The jig is up. Otto will now undoubtedly beat me to a pulp with his bull hook as the prime instigator of his son's nightmares.

I mumble something about how the creature dissolved into a dirty froth and slid back down the drain after I ventilated it, which seems to disappoint the child. He runs off to inform dad, and I sit down to calmly await my doom

Otto shows up a few minutes later, with Kevin in tow. Otto's face is grim, looking like five miles of bad road, before he suddenly begins to laugh, saying "Boy, you clowns never stop with the jokes! That was a good one on Kevin." I give a watery grin and nod agreement, wondering if this is how homicidal maniacs lull their victims into a false sense of security. But Otto just gives a few more barks of laughter, tips me a wink, and leads Kevin out to help him water the pachyderms.

And that, boys and girls, is how I first learned that circus clowns can get away with anything. After that, I was unstoppable -- pulling gags on all and sundry with complete impunity.

One time I even . . .

But those stories can wait for another day . . .

The law is an ass, Dickens said

The law is an ass, Dickens said,

and Iowa leads by a head.

Felons aren't serving

what they are deserving;

the loopholes are really inbred! 

Yearning to be great again, rural Iowa turns to Trump

Here in Union County, it’s not hard to find people like Kretz who are weary of the Obama years. She plans to vote for Republican nominee Donald Trump in November because she thinks he’s better suited to address the needs of the average American than Democratic nominee Hillary Clinton.

from the Des Moines Register 

The normal American thinks

the reign of Obama sure stinks.

In rural retreats

they get out the sheets

to ride 'gainst his awful high jinks. 

The Sex Life of the Norwegian Bachelor

Reply to an old friend who thinks I should write a book

You remember Pres. Kimball's preface to his Miracle of Forgiveness, wherein he quotes Job to explain his own reluctance to write: "O, that mine adversary would write a book!" 

The fact of the matter is that I have already written several books, booth non-fiction and fiction, covering my years as a child, as a clown, as a missionary in Thailand, as a radio announcer -- even as a homeless person (I was homeless for several years after returning from Thailand in 2010). I could never interest an honest agent to take them on, or a publisher to look at them. I don't even know where most of those manuscripts are anymore. I know my ex-brother in law has one that I sold to him for a few thousand dollars many long years ago, and I have another one or two slowly crumbling to dust in an old suitcase of mine. I have no interest in resurrecting them.

I no longer believe I have anything of value to contribute to the world of literature in the form of a book-length work. I also believe my timericks are as ephemeral as a bubble. They should not be trapped between the covers of a book, like a butterfly pinned to a piece of blotting paper in someone's collection. 

My master plan, if you can call it that, is to continue to write timericks and little nano-memoirs as the mood hits me, to be shared with friends and family, and to be collected on my blog site. I now have a list of about 20 professional journalists that receive my daily emailed timericks, at their own request -- it may be that one day one of those journalist/fans will be in a position to hire me to produce such work on a regular basis for their newspaper and pay me for it. That is my ambition, when it comes to writing -- not a book, but a paid position producing my topical crambo. 

And can I be just a little bit blunt for a second with you? You are not the first friend to implore me to turn my hand to writing a book; but in every case, those of my friends who have counseled me to do so have absolutely no experience in doing so themselves. They have no idea the amount of work and stress involved in producing a 300-page manuscript and then peddling it to blase publishers. I have had that experience, and it is not pleasant, And I don't really want to do it again. 

But I welcome any other suggestions you may ever have as to how to monetize my peculiar talents. I don't wish to discourage you or anyone from suggesting ways and means for me to pick up a few more spare spondulicks with my quill. 

And I do appreciate you taking the time to write out your suggestions to me. It touches me deeply that there are still friends who feel the need to counsel me for my own good, despite my lackadaisical and cynical ways. 

God bless you for that . . . 

3 Nephi 2:15

  And their curse was taken from them, and their skin became white like unto the Nephites.

3 Nephi 2:15

If you think the scriptures maintain

that skin color can be a stain,

I think you will find

that God's colorblind; 

distinctions are mankind's own bane. 

3 Nephi 1:5

  But there were some who began to say that the time was past for the words to be fulfilled, which were spoken by Samuel, the Lamanite.

3 Nephi 1:5

The time for miracles is past, the word of God expired;

so say all the experts who think promptness is required.

Rational consideration is their bread and butter;

putting God on timetables, so when He's late they mutter.

The Lord of all the universe punches no time clock,

and like the thieving night prowler he'll give experts a shock!