That’s not a storm over Las Vegas. It’s a grasshopper invasion.

the first plague was raspberries. they fell from the sky by the millions, covering the earth with a rich red fruity mush that made it impossible for cars to travel on roads or planes to take off from the tarmac. weather forecasters said it was caused by global warming, so they were all summarily executed and their bodies left out to rot along with the raspberries.
the next plague was plastic bags. the wind blew them in from desert places, where they had been secretly gathering for years. they enveloped the crops and orchards, smothering the food supply until starvation became inevitable. hysterical crowds stormed every plastic bag factory in the world, destroying the machinery and lynching anyone caught in a white shirt or blouse. 
the final plague was grasshoppers with body odor. they invaded the cities, driving people mad with their sweaty gym socks smell. those few who survived this onslaught went to Las Vegas for a vacation, where they lost all their ready money at the blackjack tables. 

Trump Lashes Out at Al Sharpton, Saying He ‘Hates Whites’ (NYT)

I saw a fair haired man at the market, glaring at the apples. he was muttering to himself and then he started to shake his fist at the bin of apples.
"Pardon me" I said to him, "I am a psychiatrist and I am wondering why you seem so upset with these apples." I'm actually a veterinarian, but since my practice failed I have passed myself off as many things, including a retired astronaut and a symphony orchestra conductor. it keeps me from stepping on turtles in a rage.
the fair haired man gave me a wild look, stepped close to me, and said "them apples is plotting against me. they have a shifty look about their stems, and I don't trust the way they are displayed. will you help me bring them to justice?"
I immediately said I would help him. because apples are getting too good of a reputation on social media -- it must be fake news put there by a foreign power bent on our destruction. apples need to be taken down a peg. I hear the mayor of Baltimore is an apple.
after we were jailed, he and I agreed that the system is rigged and that the only way a man can get any justice nowadays is to pretend to go along with the apple crowd. but our day will come . . . 

Fed Poised to Cut Rates for First Time Since Financial Crisis, Ending an Era

on Sundays I often go over to Crazy Henry's apartment for consolation. he gets me so mad I forget about the long gray hours after church. this particular Sunday was no different. after we shared popcorn and sardines for dinner, he casually remarked that the Fed would lower interest rates this week because he had recommended the action to his good friend the head of the Fed. I openly scoffed at him for saying such twaddle.
"do you even know the name of the head of the Fed?" I asked derisively.
"sure I do. Donald Meek" he replied as he put on ESPN. 
"Donald Meek was a character actor in the movies during the 1940's" I told him emphatically.
"coincidence makes for many strange bedfellows" was his only reply, as commentators began analyzing the latest soccer riot. Crazy Henry got us each a glass of tap water with an olive in it. "know what I think?" he asked. "what now, Bernanke?" I replied. "the market is soft so now's the time for the Fed to make good on its promises from the Geneva Convention" he said. I digested this piece of nonsense for a while, fishing the olive out of my glass and eating it. it was hollow; the pimento had fallen out or something.  
"what should I do with my portfolio then?" I finally asked him. "sell short and invest in bimetallism" he replied immediately. 
Like I said, he's crazy as a loon. 
turns out the soccer riots were taking place on Wall Street, according to ESPN. 

A cop accused McDonald’s employees of taking a bite out of his sandwich. Turns out, he ‘forgot’ he ate it.

when looking for suspects it is best to start with the ones nearest at hand. in other words, the family. bring in the mother and father first. look at them severely and say "what have you done?" if they don't immediately break down and confess, then move on to the children. take each one into a bare room with cinder block walls and leave them there for several hours all alone. then offer them a plea bargain if they will rat out their parents. 
after this procedure is followed, do a lineup. get a dozen random people off the street, line them up against harsh lights on a runway, and award one of them a prize for best original shoe size. if they don't confess to anything they should be told to leave town within 48 hours.
if all else fails start dusting for fingerprints and have the forensic lab analyze dust, pollen, and especially dandruff flakes from the scene of the crime. run the results through the Etch-a-Sketch; if a match is found issue an APB as well as a UPS and also a BVD. when all is said and done the only way to trap and convict suspects is with old-fashioned pimento loaf -- and hold the mayo. 

State senator from Arizona criticized for saying that ‘we’re going to look like South American countries’

🎩

I went to the tanning salon today and told them to make me look like South America. like the brave and humble people who wade through the Amazon River looking for gold-bearing piranha. like the gigantic one-eyed warriors of Patagonia. like the fabled Caribs, who filed their teeth and ate their enemies ear lobes after battle. like the men and women of the Andes whose breath is so sweet from chewing sweet gum leaves that hummingbirds follow them around like mosquitoes. but the attendant said she couldn't do that.

so I asked her to make me look like China. to give me wise eyes and a poker face that revealed nothing of my inner turmoil. to dress me in silk and harness me a jade dragon to fly me to Mongolia. but the attendant said she was all out of China -- they didn't expect any more in until next Tuesday.

in exasperation I asked what she could make me look like -- and she said she could make me look like the Pillsbury Dough Boy, since I already had a head start in that direction already.

"so be it" I commanded her. she and her technicians worked far into the night to turn me into a white flour icon -- and now I will stride through the land, raining biscuits and dumplings on a grateful people. 

Boris Johnson plays a clown. He’s really just a power-hungry nihilist. (WaPo)

I joined the circus when I was 17. bad home life. ran away. that kind of thing. I didn't know what I was doing as a clown for several years, until I earned the trust of the older veteran clowns. initially I was called a First of May, or a greaseball. but over the years, as I stuck around and applied myself -- whipping up the shaving cream soap for the pie fights, blowing up the balloons for the balloon chase, and making squibs for the blow-off -- the older clowns knew I was committed to a life of clowning, and they began to open up. they taught me how to take a slap and break a pratfall; how to sculpt foam rubber with an electric carving knife into buzzards and skunks and three tier wedding cakes, and then paint them with poster paint. they showed me their secret hidey holes in the prop boxes where they could take a quiet nap between shows. 
they were, for the most part, hardworking and sober men who took their comedy seriously. they were married, had families, sent their salaries home each week, tried to eat more lettuce and cottage cheese, and always kept an 'agent suit' in the bottom of their trunk in case a Hollywood agent ever showed up. the 'agent suit' was gold lame with silver braid and thousands of hand sewn spangles on it, and had zircons that lit up via batteries sewn into the pocket. they were very expensive to make and to maintain -- it's what the old clowns invested in instead of a 401(k)
most of them are dead now. Not a one of them ever made it to the White House or 10 Downing Street. 

A red state is plastering ‘In God We Trust’ on the walls of public schools. It’s mandatory.

the old bill poster sat in his rocking chair, sucking on a corncob pipe. "used to be" he said "we could put up circus posters and advertisements for corn plasters on the side of any barn in the land. nobody gave a hoot." he sighed and scratched the stubble on his wrinkled chin. "shoot, them farmers were glad to have us come by and brighten up the walls of their barns -- it was a good way to cover up the peeling paint and splintered wood." the old bill poster's head nodded forward as he fell asleep for a moment, snoring softly. he awoke with a start, and finding me still waiting patiently by his side he continued on with his thoughts.
"nowadays the dad-blasted government is posting their own stuff all over creation! they put it in schools and on billboards and along highway fences and I hear tell they's even going to get soldiers to stencil big letters along that there wall down on the border." the old bill poster put down his corncob pipe and spat into the yard. "no work left for the likes of me." the old bill poster slowly got up from his rocking chair and hollered into the house through the screen door "Hey Banksy, c'mon! Let's go shoot some pool down at the beer joint!" they left in an old pickup truck while I stayed behind to delouse the chickens.  

The other green stuff in your bagged lettuce: Frogs, snakes and lizards

The first review by scientists of wild animals found by customers in prepackaged produce makes clear that frogs are the trouble, and bagged lettuce and spinach are, by and large, their preferred medium.

Washington Post 

I ordered a salad today

and out of it flew a blue jay,

and then came a frog,

a pot belly hog,

and last slithered out a moray.

‘Would Dad Approve?’ Neil Armstrong’s Heirs Divide Over a Lucrative Legacy

I hereby bequeath onions to everyone I know and love. onions to my children, to peel and saute in butter for their pilafs. onions to my surviving siblings, to throw at each other in impotent rage. onions to any spouses I've picked up along the way and forgot to mention in my memoirs -- each one to get two twelve pound sacks along with a garland of garlic. to UNICEF I give scallions in the amount of sixteen pounds. and to the doctor that eases me into my grave I leave a used bottle of McCormick's dehydrated onions. you'll find it behind the Colman's Mustard tin on the shelf above the stove.

As homelessness crisis grows, the Trump administration has made few new efforts

💁👸👮👯👰👲👴👵

I saw that fair haired man again, coming out of a fancy restaurant. he accosted me as if we were intimate friends of long standing:

"Hiya, Tim old boy! Howz it goin'?"

I tried to give him the brush off by walking past without remark, but he grabbed my arm, and started talking:

"know what? there ain't no such thing as a homeless person. did ya know that, huh? Here, I'll show you!"

he strode off into an alleyway, and I had to follow him -- he had stuck his hand in my coat pocket and removed my wallet. when he found a poor old soul sitting next to a dumpster he pulled out a crisp brown paper bag, wrote HOME on it with a pencil, and put it over the man's head.

"there!" he chortled. "now he's in his home." next he found an old man and woman huddled inside a large cardboard box. he gave them each a Tote brand umbrella, pulling them out of his coat like Harpo Marx. "now you've got a roof over your head" he told them cheerfully.

"can I have my wallet back, please?" I asked him. 

"it's a matter of trust" he told me. "do you trust me?"

"no" I said. 

"good. we'll negotiate a deal where I keep your wallet for you and you won't go to jail for throwing rocks at war veterans."

his logic terrified me and enthralled me, so I continued to follow him as he gave homeless people chewing gum and plastic combs. I suddenly realized he was a misunderstood saint. a patriot who loved his country like he loved his fair hair. and I began to weep.

if only his noble efforts were recognized by the media! 

at the end of the day I was hungry, thirsty, dirty, and without any money. the fair haired man gave me a packet of kleenex and a box of paper clips as he skipped merrily down the lane singing 'here we go gathering nuts in May.'

I love that guy.