Amazon's Prime Day Bigger than Black Friday -- Trump Speak With Forked Tongue, Ugh! -- Why Doesn't Everyone Speak English?

Amazon’s Prime Day set another sales record for the company, topping sales on Black Friday, Cyber Monday and last year’s Prime Day with Instant Pot pressure cookers, 23 and Me DNA tests and personal water filters proving to be the hot-ticket items in the United States.
Newsweek

Don't call us the U S of A --
we've now become Amazon Prey.
Even Trump's hairline
is ordered from online -- 
and Bezos will now hear us pray. 



President Trump continued to struggle on Wednesday with the fallout from his meeting with President Vladimir V. Putin, denying that Russia was still interfering in American elections, only to have the White House later claim that he had yet again been misunderstood.
NYT

When Trump now says 'Yes' he means 'No.'
When he says 'Heatwave' it means 'Snow.'
His tongue is so forked
it ought to be corked -- 
he spreads his manure with backhoe.




The triumph of English has been remarkable. Most major European multinational companies adopted English as their boardroom language more than a decade ago. English has long since overtaken French as the de facto language of the EU. Increasingly, Europe’s leading national politicians speak English when they meet each other bilaterally. In the past 14 months, Spain, France and Poland have all acquired new fluently English-speaking leaders, replacing monoglot predecessors.
WSJ


Sweet English is the only tongue
that keeps the mind and breath quite young.
It conquers ev'ry type of guff
that comes from speaking other stuff.
Too bad that in the USA
we're speaking Spanish more each day.
Not that Hispanic is a curse,
but I can't put it into verse! 

America the Illiterate -- The World Wide Web Ain't -- The Friendly Russian Bear

Do students at poorly performing schools have a constitutional right to a better education? On Friday, a Federal District Court judge in Michigan decided that they did not when he dismissed a class-action lawsuit filed by students at troubled schools in Detroit.

A student who don't learn to read

is liable to pick up a creed

about the flat earth

or Obama's birth

that makes him a citizen weed. 

Authoritarian governments in the Middle East are increasingly adopting a version of China’s approach to online censorship, walling their citizens off from swaths of the internet and denying access to popular websites, often with the aid of Western technology.
WSJ

The freedom of internet sites
in some places gets the last rites
as countries connive
to quickly deprive
their citizens of civil rights.


President Trump, who has been under fire for not aggressively confronting Russian President Vladimir Putin over election interference, said Russia is no longer targeting the United States.
Washington Post


The friendly Russian bear
is welcomed ev'rywhere.
He does not spy or kill;
and Trump is not his shill.
Oh, do not turn your back
on such a loving pack
as Russian folk can be
(when they're not KGB.)

Upon the Isles of the Sea

. . .  and they are scattered to and fro upon the isles of the sea . . . 
First Nephi. Chapter Twenty-two. Verse 4.

I wish I could be scattered to a pleasant tropic isle,
where coconuts are plentiful and all the natives smile.
But when I sin and make mistakes the Lord does punish me
by keeping me at home in bed, not out upon the sea.
I used to know those torrid beaches in my days of strength;
now I never travel, reading scripture at some length.
The only thing that's scattered are my wits upon occasion;
and so those pleasant smiling isles are safe from my invasion.

Advice from my Parents

My daughter Madelaine recently emailed me, asking what advice my parents gave me as a child that I might like to pass along.

That is a doozy of a question. As I have ricocheted around this gibbering globe for the past 65 years I can't remember a single time when something my mother or father said was of any help. Not a thing. 

It's not that they raised me strictly by pantomime; they both had a lot to say to me and about me. In fact, I would say they often became emotional and vociferous over my youthful iniquities and taradiddles.

My mother often reminded me that nose pickers risked leaky brains.

My dad advised me not to make ashtrays out of cardboard.

They both told me that Jerry Lewis was not a comedian, but a carcinogenic -- the longer I watched him, the more likely I was to sprout tentacles and slither off to a toxic waste to live out my days as a friendless mutant.

They both lied through their teeth when they told me that Red China would be invading soon, and that I would then have to eat tuna casserole or be stood against a wall for the next firing squad that happened along. 

My dad told me that alcohol would kill me if I drank it before the age of twenty-one; but after that it was the best thing there was for adults to have while watching TV or playing cards.

So you see, their so-called advice was nothing more than a bunch of claptrap and superstition. Among the things I wish they had told me was:

Pay your taxes on time.

Don't leave your wife and kids behind if you ever have to travel a lot. No matter what it costs, take 'em along.

Don't buy flowers for a woman who works in a florist shop.

Never seek revenge -- eventually, life will even up the score for you.

Learn to like crow -- you're going to eat a lot of it before you die.

When life hands you a lemon, smell it first to see if it's rotten.

There's always a free lunch, if you don't mind sticking your snout in any old trough. 

If you can't afford to be honest, be quiet.

Never flush the toilet until you've checked to make sure you've still got your wallet.

Never eat out alone.

The only thing worth watching on TV is baseball.

Get comfortable with poverty; it's always at the back door.

Friendly dogs bite the hardest.

Never turn down dessert.

Love someone better than you.

You can make most people happy by leaving them alone.

Had these things been the guideposts handed down to me from my parents I might have become an affluent and powerful CEO or world-renowned scientist, or even a railroad engineer. But all I ever heard was "An apple a day keeps the doctor away" or "Money don't grow on trees." No wonder I ran out the door to join the circus -- living with cliches is about as bad as living with bedbugs. 

But this whole story of parental advice leads inevitably to an uncomfortable question -- What advice did I myself give to my own kids that they have remembered and cherished?

At a guess, I'd say that probably the only thing I ever told them that has stuck with them through thick and thin is:  When you pee the bed, turn your mattress over. 

I'll have to ask 'em about it the next time we all get together -- probably Thanksgiving. 

Yust Go Tew Nord Dakota, Den!

Yust go tew Nort Dakota, den;
if yew vant vhoop-dee-do.
Dere is no udder place like it,
vhen you like skies of blew.
Da peeple dere are so polite,
dey never honk dere horn --
da vind is purty husky, so 
da milk cows is airborne!
Yust go tew Nort Dakota, den;
vhere vheat an' barley grow.
But hurry up and wisit,
cuz next week ve vill haf snow!

The Kingdom of the Devil Must Shake

For the kingdom of the devil must shake, and they which belong to it must needs be stirred up unto repentance . . . 
Second Nephi. Chapter Twenty-Eight. Verse 19.

Although he's grabbed the lofty thrones of state and widespread creed,
his kingdoms will be shaken and his victims will be freed -- 
With power and authority, true ministers are sent
to help those shackled to their sins to rise up and repent.
No slander on the internet, no army of despair
can long prevent the devil's fall from offices threadbare.
Take heart and do not tremble at his false and vain replies --
Christ shall rattle down the fortress of the king of lies! 

Milk Fat is Good for You -- The Rise of the Bots -- Your Hamburger May Come from a Lab, not a Cow

Marcia Otto, lead author of the study and assistant professor of epidemiology, human genetics and environmental sciences at UTHealth School of Public Health, said in a statement: "Our findings not only support, but also significantly strengthen, the growing body of evidence which suggests that dairy fat, contrary to popular belief, does not increase risk of heart disease or overall mortality in older adults."

One fatty acid present in dairy was actually found to potentially lower the risk of death from cardiovascular disease, particularly stroke, she said.

Newsweek

Ice cream is good for the heart.

Swiss cheese gives life a new start.

If I want to take

a swig of milk shake

my doctor will think I am smart!

Since then, bots have become, for many people, a digital boogeyman, a viral weapon that can be wielded to influence political opinions, fool advertisers, prank unknowing social media users and get bad hashtags to trend. (They’re also the lifeblood of many users we call influencers.)

NYT

You cannot tell what is a bot

and what is a personal thought.

The way people write

is never too bright --

so which is the real tommyrot? 

Some people are awfully glib

whenever they use a large fib.

They don't think it base

to lie with such grace;

to them tis a mere quaint ad-lib.

Cell-culture meat makers begin by isolating livestock or poultry cells that have the capacity to renew themselves, and place them into room-size bioreactor tanks, similar to fermenters. The cells are fed oxygen and nutrients like sugar and minerals, and can grow into skeletal muscle that can be harvested within a few weeks. That tissue can then be formed into meatballs or chicken strips.

WSJ

They've made my french fries GMO.

My milkshake is soy, even so.

But when my meat slab

must come from a lab --

at Wendy's I'll be a no-show. 

The Living Reality of God

Elder Gerrit W. Gong

"Everything worthy and eternal is centered in the living reality of God . . ."

Gerrit W. Gong. 

An atheist believes he is hard-headed and sincere.

Reality to him is very factual and clear.

Examining the evidence, he opts for a mistrial;

opposing counsel is accused of credulity and guile.

He's found his own reality, and God is not a part

of his philosophy of life or of his compact heart.

But why sip on cold vinegar when all the sweetest wine

is found in Cana at the feast, not at some gaudy shrine?

Where water can be turned to wine, the atheist may find

a welcome respite from the sadness dripping from his mind! 

Freedom of the Press

 A federal judge ordered The Los Angeles Times to remove information from a published article on Saturday, a step that legal experts said was extremely unusual and conflicted with the First Amendment. The newspaper said it was appealing the order.
NYT


Some Judges will censor the press

whenever they think that access

to factual stuff

is making life tough

for those who despise due process.

Slow Cooker Sunday

I got my first Crockpot when Steve Smith and I were teamed as the Advance Clowns for the Ringling Blue Unit back in 1974. We drove a motor home supplied by the show -- a decrepit affair that required Smith to frequently crawl underneath the chassis to hot wire the ignition to get us rolling. He did the driving and I did the cooking. That first slow cooker came with a book of recipes, which I followed religiously each day before we left for our funny business. Smith hated onions. He told me to never put onions in my stews, soups, roasts, or ragouts. I promised him I would refrain. When his back was turned I rapidly chopped up an onion and tossed it in, followed by a goodly helping of garlic. He never caught on -- or if he did, he decided that in the interests of teamwork he would let it slide. Most of the time he liked to lay back on his bed in the back of the motor home, eating Oreos and drinking Coke. He had absolutely no palate -- having grown up in a home where potato chip casserole was served every other day. 

Me and Smith; Dusty & TJ.

We broke up the team of Dusty & TJ in 1975 because I wanted to serve an LDS mission in Thailand. I gave the Crockpot away, and never used one again until ages later, after my divorce, when I went to work for radio station KICD in Spencer, Iowa. I got up at 4 a.m. to gather news nuggets for the 6 a.m. broadcast, and found it handy to have a slow cooker preparing my lunch so I didn't have to go out for a hasty sandwich while putting together the afternoon crop reports and 4-H bulletins. The break room became redolent with chili verde, stewed pork medallions, and cock-a-leekie soup. Staff members wistfully said to me, as we passed in the hall, "Sure smells good in the break room, Tim -- any chance of some leftovers?"

That was all the encouragement I needed. I traded in my four quart model for a ten quart beauty at Menards and never looked back.

I blossomed as a cuisinier improvisateur (improvising chef.) Were beets on sale at the Hy-Vee? Then it was time for an earthy borscht! Chicken breasts at 49 cents a pound? Brunswick stew, coming right up! My chili verde, using fresh tomatillos, mind you, not the canned stuff, became legendary on the FM side of the station, when the afternoon DJ indulged with gusto but no restraint, and had to explain the thunderous background noises during his live commercials for Warner Funeral Homes to his baffled listeners as a semi trailer truck accident on the nearby highway.

I specialized in tinfoil fish dinners; each fillet delicately seasoned with bouquet garni and a thin slice of lemon. But I overreached myself with a flagrant concoction of sauerkraut and kielbasa.

"What the hell is that smell?" the station manager demanded of me, as the tumid fumes wafted through the building. When I sheepishly explained it was just a little behandelm for the staff, he henceforth forbade me the use of the break room for my culinary debauches. I was reduced to eating Walmart sardines (99 cents a tin) with Triscuits and cottage cheese on most days when the news tips piled up on my desk and demanded immediate editing and/or clarification. The rest of the staff went back to their Subway sandwiches without a soupcon of complaint -- they knew what side their bread was buttered on, and it wasn't my side by a country mile.

The years skipped merrily along, gifting me with sturdy bags under my eyes, a thriving waistline, and a paucity of employment (my last job, at age 60, lasted 3 months before I was fired for writing a blog explaining homophones -- which the boss thought meant I was advocating the LGBT agenda.) So I finally decided to take early Social Security and apply for subsidized Senior Citizen Housing. Which I now have. I live in an apartment building with 350 other old geezers, and all they ever talk about in the lobby is either their latest colonoscopy or why their grand kids couldn't get into BYU. 
Sundays are especially dreadful, as they gather in the lobby like starlings in a cornfield -- waiting for the abbreviated LDS Sacrament Meeting to begin. 

A year ago I was contemplating slicing my wrists as a viable alternative to enduring any more banal banter, when it struck me that what these poor old souls needed to get them out of their rut was a zippy brunch. And who better to serve it up than yours truly?

So once again I got me the biggest Crock pot I could find and began offering goulash and vichyssoise one hour prior to Sacrament Meeting, right in the lobby. Free to all. First come, first served. 

Today, being Sunday, I whipped up a mess of sweet and sour Hawaiian Spam chunks over pasta shells. With pickled green beans on the side. It went over like gangbusters. And the conversation was as spicy as the red pepper flakes I generously add to every dish.

A retired couple from Zimbabwe, who were prosperous farmers when the country was known as Rhodesia, got into a furious argument with a retired Marine captain who said Trump was a moron because of the way he treated the immigrant question. An elderly widow gave a vivid and surprisingly lascivious recap of a recent cable movie about Chappaquiddick and Ted Kennedy. And I managed to get off a zinger or two when the talk turned to how rotten our kids are and I said "My mother loved children -- she would have given anything if I had been one." 
(Well, actually Groucho Marx said that -- but these old fogies can't tell Groucho from a hole in the ground.) 

All in all, it was a splendid convocation of verbal sparring; several ladies decided to become lifelong enemies and things got so boisterous that I overheard a 90-year old man mutter to himself "I'll never be able to take a nap after this." We all went into Sacrament Meeting in the Community Room full of pep and vinegar. Now that's the way old folks should be -- rip-snortin' and ready for a rumble! Next Sunday I think I'll try stuffed ghost peppers . . .