Postcards to the Washington Post

Pizza, My Pizza

Peter Regas, a Chicago researcher with a pizza focus, is attempting to rewrite New York City, if not global, pizza history. He says his findings show that Lombardi’s, a dining fixture in Manhattan’s Nolita neighborhood that calls itself America’s first pizzeria, can’t rightfully claim that honor.

Lombardi’s has long touted its historic status, saying the restaurant essentially gave rise to a new category of dining in America when it was established by its namesake, Italian immigrant Gennaro Lombardi, in 1905.

In turn, pizza lovers in the city and beyond have come to accept that as fact, with the restaurant drawing a large number of tourists and curiosity-seekers. Ultimately, a line is often drawn from Lombardi’s founding to what is now a $45 billion pizza industry in the U.S.
Charles Passy writing for the Wall Street Journal

Columbus sailed the ocean wet

the tasty pizza to beget.

The natives, puzzled by the crust,

at first did view it with disgust.

The Founding Fathers, furthermore,

all foreign food did quite abhor.

The Civil War had not increased

the cause of pizza in the least.

But then Lombardi's in New York

the pizza craze did so uncork

that ever since that brilliant day

the pizza pie holds noble sway.

A Yankee who is worth his salt

the pepperoni will exalt.

Even West Coast hippie dudes

know it is the best of foods.

Served for breakfast, lunch, and tiffin,

any palate it will stiffen.

Smothered in a thick red sauce.

of all the food groups it's the boss.

It's good with bacon, ham, and eggs;

with pineapple and French frog legs.

The anchovy brings out the zest

and black olives will make it blessed.

Lombardi's is a shrine to me,

no matter the true history.

If eating pizza is a sin

then heaven I will never win.

Postcards to the President

Trump Plans National Emergency to Construct Border Wall as Congress Passes Spending Bill

I declare a crisis when I misplace my car keys.

And it's cataclysmic whenever I must sneeze.

There's no hope for America if my toast comes up cold.

It's time to hit the trenches if the Wonder Bread has mold!

A national emergency is easy to prepare;

it's anything that really gets into Trump's gold blonde hair.

And so I think that all of us a crisis should reveal

whenever life has given us a terrible misdeal.

If you order pizza and the crust comes out too hard,

it's time to sound a gong that will raise up the National Guard.

A pothole in the neighborhood is clearly a disaster

that ought to cause impeachment of the nearest burgomaster.

Of course when it's a matter like the warming of the globe

or finding a vaccine for some resistant old microbe,

that isn't an emergency -- it's as bogus as can be;

and ought to be ignored as just a piece of flummery.

Emergencies are handy for the skirting of the laws

that keep the Oval Office from extending its sharp claws.

Hey Trump, send me some money for my crisis here today;

I wanna buy a gun to keep the Communists away.

The President is Gaining Weight

WASHINGTON—President Trump has gained weight over the past year but remains in good health, according to details of his annual physical released Thursday by the White House.

Mr. Trump gained four pounds since last year, and now weighs 243 pounds, according to a letter detailing the results of the physical conducted by Mr. Trump’s White House physician, Sean Conley.

WSJ

The President is gaining weight; he's chubby as can be.

The White House must agree with him, along with infamy.

He has a hearty appetite, in fact Fast Food buffets

are featured in his dining room on many many days.

He'll suck the marrow from a bone like any epicure.

And Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup is served up as de jure.

He snacks on cheese and crackers, and enjoys a diet Coke.

His eggs are over easy, and you'd best not break the yolk.

He'll take a Hostess ding dong if he's offered one by staff.

He's fond of Wyler's lemonade, and drinks a whole carafe.

No wine or liquor will he quaff, and beer he strictly shuns.

But you should see him go to town on Schweigerts in soft buns!

He sugars his tomatoes and likes German sauerkraut.

But dill pickles and mustard have begun to give him gout.

He entertains ambassadors with cans of pork and beans.

And if he really likes 'em he will serve them canned sardines.

After lunch and dinner he will often take a walk

chewing on a toothpick all around the White House block.

He'll eat an apple stem to stern, then spit out all the pips.

Late at night he likes to binge on Lays potato chips.

A pepperoni pizza brings a smile to his full face.

But pineapple upon it is a national disgrace.

Some prunes or a bran muffin keep him regular most days.

And never serve him ham without a thick and honeyed glaze.

He likes to see his guests well fed, and what is even more

he has a special diet for the vigilant press corps.

He serves them piping hot and smooth, with little acrimony,

plates and bowls and buckets full of Grade A prime baloney.

The Tax Collector Jolly

The world’s tax collectors have been gunning for Silicon Valley. Now they’re trying to figure out how to divide up the spoils.

WSJ

When you're making money there will come unto your door

the tax collector jolly, who is always asking more.

Whether in Chicago or the wilds of Borneo

the taxman will discover you and ask for all your dough.

They are a breed apart, and have no conscience in their work.

Their soul's an algorithm while they rob you as a perk.

The state can't do without them; they're a necessary evil.

Their bread and butter, life and death, is simply cash retrieval.

It doesn't matter to them where your money may be stashed --

in an offshore bank account or to a flagpole lashed.

They never take a bribe and do not fall for any plaudit;

and if you try to fight them they will counter with an audit.

Since ancient times they've been despised and cursed so fluently

that deep from hell they all are held to be an escapee.

How anyone can take the job and human still remain

is a puzzle to me -- cuz they have the mark of Cain.

Now the pack is on the trail of giants in new tech;

they want to sink their fangs into its very wealthy neck.

Amazon and Facebook may resist with sacred vow,

but hamburger is all that's left of ev'ry fat cash cow.

The Valley of the Silicon will soon feel quite the pinch

as tax collectors round the world do hold them in the clinch.

While governments rejoice in getting money by the gobs

tech workers will most certainly be laid off from their jobs.

Postcards to the President

How lovely is the word 'refund'

 The tax overhaul that took effect last year promised relief, but now that returns are being filed, some people are baffled. They’re getting smaller refunds — or sometimes having to write a check — even though nothing in their situation seems to have changed.

NYT

How lovely is the word 'refund,' it makes my heart to flutter.

It smooths my wrinkled money aches like pleasant shea butter.

I slave away all year, and then my Uncle Sammy gifts me
with a tidy some that always guarantees to lifts me.

This year I'll travel to Bangkok, or maybe Timbuktu.
I'll climb the Eiffel Tower and drink wine till I turn blue.
To Rio de Janeiro I will go for Carnival --
I'll rent the biggest hotel suite and really have a ball!

A Rocky Mountain cabin I shall purchase come this spring.
Up among the aspen where the birdies always sing.
And of course to drive there I should buy a brand new car --
I'm thinkin' that it's time to look into a red Jaguar.

Contributing to charity is just noblese oblige --
I'll write some whopping checks with fountain pen, with ink that's beige.
At Mar-a-Lago Trump and I will play a couple rounds,
and then fly off to England to ride with the bally hounds.

My refund will supply a yacht -- I've needed one for years.
About an eighty-footer, with a cooler for the beers.
And why not get a butler and a maid and good French cook?
After all, with coming wealth, I'll be in the Blue Book!

But H&R, that lousy Block, has got a diff'rent view;
they say instead of refund I will have an IOU.
The IRS is stealing even more of my slim means;
and when they're done I won't be worth a doggone hill of beans.

Postcards to the President

Postcards to the President