Verses from Stories in the New York Times -- Sondland Updates Impeachment Testimony, Describing Ukraine Quid Pro Quo -- Iran Steps Further From Nuclear Deal With Move on Centrifuges -- Swimming Against a Tide of Expensive Sushi.

@nytmike

I never knew that quid pro quo

could generate such massive woe.

The whole darn world is topsy turvey

as the Prez continues nervy.

'You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours'

is stickier than fresh s'mores . . . 

************************

@mwolgelenter  @SangerNYT

In Iran a promise made

is as weak as lemonade.

When the mullahs guarantee

anything, you'd better flee.

If fanatics rule the roost

they'll treat the truth like Monsieur Proust.

********************

@pete_wells

I don't see raw food's appeal;
damn the sushi -- give me veal!
Little bits of fish on rice,
coming at enormous price,
can't compare to cheap french fries
or some greasy pizza pies!

The Man Who Never Got Up Passes Away at Age 99. We think.

The 'man who never got up' (more properly 'the man who never got up again') was born on a farm near Sheldon, Iowa. Benjamin Jones Krumfeld, known to family and friends as 'Benny,' passed away on Tuesday afternoon at the age of 99, according to his CPA Ronny Kister, of natural causes. His exact age may never be known, because Krumfeld refused to use any kind of numbers or statistics or dates in his many conversations with reporters, friends, and family members over the years. In fact, he gave up talking altogether in 1999, after announcing it was too strenuous. After that, he wouldn't even write notes. He managed to nod for 'yes' and shake his head for 'no.' but otherwise remained uncommunicative but apparently happy until his demise.

Having no empathy for farm life, Mr. Krumfeld left home at age 16 and wandered throughout the Midwest for the next ten years, working under titles such as 'Benny the Boxer,' 'Benny the Bean Counter,' 'Benny the Bouncer,' and 'Benny the Blowhard.' Finally, at the age of 26 or thereabouts, he decided on a career path that brought him fame and apparently enough fortune to live comfortably in stasis for the rest of his life. 
With money inherited from his father Benny bought a front porch in Fanksville, South Dakota -- a small farming community just west of the Marmalade Fields. He didn't purchase the house that went with it, only the front porch. 

And then he sat down. And never got up again. 

There was no fanfare involved, no press releases or ballyhoo of any kind. He simply selected a bentwood rocker and then managed to placidly sit in it for the rest of his life. 

For the first two years no one seemed to notice, or care, that he remained fixed in the same place, slowly rocking back and forth with a placid smile on his friendly freckled face. The family that owned the house at the time were immigrants from Switzerland, and they always claimed that such behavior was commonplace back in Geneva -- so they never gave it a second thought. 

But one day a young reporter, named Lazlo Huzzard, who eventually changed his name and became Justice Antonin Scalia of the United State Supreme Court, began to wonder about this man who never got up as he passed him on his way to and from work at the Badlands Argus. On a warm summer day in 1959 he stopped by the porch and asked permission to talk to this man who never got up.

Benny said that was okay by him. He offered the reporter a wicker chair and a glass of lemonade, and history began to be made. Not History, admittedly, but history -- interesting enough to get Benny a long winded obit anyway. 

Huzzard asked him why he sat there day after day. Krumfeld said simply "I sat down one day and decided to never get up again."

The interview that followed was published in the Argus that weekend, picked up by the wire services, and shot around the world. After that, the man who never got up welcomed a steady stream of visitors to his porch. Some came to gawk. Some came to ask him questions. Some gave him food and drink. Others gave him warm clothing for the winter. No one ever figured out how he could stay in his chair and never use the bathroom. One theory was that he had at least one double, who took his place for bathroom breaks and the like. But when video cameras were secretly installed near his porch by the lilac bushes, they recorded nothing but a man slowly rocking and smiling to himself day and night. He. Never. Got. Up. 

He refused to let cults or political organizations exploit him in any way. He never endorsed any person, place, or product. In his final years, when he gave up talking, he would play cats cradle with a dirty piece of string for hours on end. The deadly tornado of 1989 that destroyed much of the surrounding area made a wide berth around his porch. He told astonished reporters he didn't even know about it until they told him. At night he seemed to sleep soundly in his chair, snoring lightly. 

His last known words, before he went silent, were "Life is like an inglenook -- some people think they know what it is, but nobody really does." 

He left no will behind, and remaining family members will take his remains back to Sheldon and have him buried in the civic cemetery. A spokesperson for the family says that they will lay him out flat in the ground and his rocker will be donated to a flea market in Napier, Illinois.  

When President Trump heard of his passing he immediately tweeted about him: "Nice Guy. I met him in Dallas in 1963."

Verses from Stories in Today's Washington Post -- At Japan’s dolphin hunt, a struggle between local traditions and global anger -- A conservative radio host compared ‘boomer’ to the n-word. Even Dictionary.com was appalled. -- More than 11,000 scientists from around the world declare a ‘climate emergency’.

@simondenyer

When the hungry Japanese/

sail out to the seven seas/

They're not fussy what they catch/

they'll eat dolphins by the batch/

If you should fall into their net/

humanity they might forget!

**************************

@TheArtist_MBS

Radio talk show hosts sure are

ignoramuses on par

with the monkeys in the zoo --

would you trust their narrow view?

When it comes to subtle jest,

they like throwing feces best.

***********************************

@afreedma

We are now a snowball, lad,

thrust into a Hades sad.

As the temp continues up,

we are effervescing -- yup!

Scientists may rant and rave,

but I doubt the day they'll save.

What we need are legislators

who don't act like alligators . . . 

Trombones have been known to sneeze.

"Trombones have been known to sneeze" said Crazy Henry to me last winter, while we were trapped inside a hollow glacier.
Since his comment had nothing whatsoever to do with our predicament at the time, I found it easy to ignore. 
After we were rescued and back home safe and sound, though, I brought the subject up again -- right after the banquet in our honor given by the Polar Club; they've got a nice dining hall that they rent out for weddings most of the year down on Central Avenue. 
"What did you mean when you said trombones have been known to sneeze?" I asked him while we rode home in a taxi.
"I never said such a thing, I'm sure" he replied, stifling a belch. There had been barrel-cured sauerkraut, loaded with fennel seed, at the banquet. 
"You most certainly did, you dingbat!" I replied, getting heated. If he was trying to pull that old 'memory lapse due to trauma' monkey business on me I was having none of it. I fought off the ice panthers with my bare hands right next to him back in that hollow glacier, and I remembered everything crystal clear.
"Did I?" was his only reply. Then he lapsed into intolerable silence. Ever since our triumphant return, Crazy Henry had been somewhat withdrawn, not to say gnomic, in his dealings with me. Certainly a man changes after he has lived on nothing but icicles and frozen lichen for weeks at a time; but I always credited Crazy Henry with an unbeatable ebullience that would keep him happy-go-lucky all his life. But nowadays he would smile cryptically and remain quiet like Buddha, instead of caroming around like a Jerry Lewis movie. I missed the old Crazy Henry. 
"You've changed" I told him quietly.
"Have I?" he replied. Then he went back to his silent brooding.

I didn't see him again for several months while I dictated my "as told to" book to a retired journalist from the New York Times. He got the thing edited and to the publisher in record time, and I fully expected to have a bestseller on my hands by Arbor Day. But then the PETA people got wind of the ice panther episode and began agitating against me and the book -- so, as far as I know, it's never going to see the light of day. Thanks a lot, Ethical People. 

And then one day as I was taking a walk in Van Cleve Park I saw Crazy Henry sitting on a bench, feeding popcorn to the birds.
"I don't think that's very healthy for 'em" I said as I sat down next to him. "The popcorn expands inside their guts and they get constipated or something."
"You're thinking of chickens eating grit" he said to me. Then smiled that old silly smile of his at me -- and I knew that my old Crazy Henry was back.

In the following weeks we tried to invent dehydrated dill pickles in Crazy Henry's kitchen -- the market for such an item was bound to be tremendous. Or so Crazy Henry thought, and I was happy to go along with him, since I really like dill pickles. But in the end you really couldn't tell our invention from dill pickle flavored potato chips, so we gave up on it. And then it happened . . . 

"Did you know that trombones have been known to sneeze?" Crazy Henry asked me as we were watching Teen Titans Go on Cartoon Network. 
"Aha!" I jumped up from the couch, waggling my finger triumphantly in his face. "Aha" I repeated, suddenly losing my enthusiasm for the whole subject, deflated and exhausted. "Do they?" I said quietly, then lapsed into a gnomic silence -- wishing with all my soul that we were watching some original Tom and Jerry cartoons instead of Teen Titans Go. The animation today is cretinous, and the humor completely referential and isolating. An idea came to me.

"Hey" I said to Crazy Henry. "I bet you could do a better job at making cartoons than these guys . . ."

Verses from Stories in Today's Washington Post -- Trump is changing his residence from NYC to Florida. ‘Good riddance,’ New Yorkers say. -- Trump abandons proposing ideas to curb gun violence after saying he would following mass shootings -- Think you’re anonymous online? A third of popular websites are ‘fingerprinting’ you.

@ReisThebault

The Big Apple sighs with relief

as they lose Commander-in-Chief.

In Florida, pain

as that hurricane

arrives -- causing nothing but grief.

**************************

@jdawsey1

The President derives no fun

from any kind of smoking gun.

His people want him to prepare

to go to Congress and forswear;

And so there's little time to strive

to banish any forty-five.

*********************************

@geoffreyfowler

Think you're snug with firewall,

that all hackers you can maul?

Are you sure your info's safe

and secure from pry and strafe?

Maybe you should moan and wince

over cyber fingerprints

that your phone or your pc

gives to that big company

that will haunt you with their ads

and so many sly doodads

that before you can say 'boo'

make you feel like stomach flu.

If you would be off the grid,

denude yourself just like a squid

and dive to depths where CNN

cannot find you out again.

Postcards to the President

Verses from Stories in Today's Washington Post -- North Korea fires two missiles after warning it is losing patience with the U.S. -- An ‘extreme’ haunted house requires a 40-page waiver. Critics say it’s a torture chamber. -- Twitter to ban all political ads amid 2020 election uproar.

@simondenyer

North Korea wags the dog, if it's Uncle Sam.

Being bullied by a shrimp is the new program.

They forget new presidents may someday change their tune,

and give 'em something that will send them winging to the moon!

**************************************

@marisa_iati

The only haunted House I fear is right here in DC.

It's spooky and it's creepy and as scary as can be.

Cuz when those ghouls and goblins get together for a talk,

they can pass a bill that sends the country into shock!

****************************

@TonyRomm  @isaacstanbecker

Ads by politicians are an entertaining scam;

wolfish office seekers masquerading as a lamb.

Since Twitter will not run them, I assume somehow they'll creep

onto skim milk cartons and our pillows as we sleep!

Verses from Stories in Today's New York Post -- Customer tips bartender with Powerball ticket worth $50,000 -- Kate Upton jumps right into Trea Turner’s World Series controversy -- Attempted murder suspect told cops victim tried to feed him to zombies.

@joshuarhett

Let me pour you one more shot/for that ticket you have bought/Leave it here, you barfly dear/If I win, you'll get free beer.

*************************

@jmhendricks88

How I love World Series games!

Dignity goes up in flames.

Experts pop up ev'rywhere,

full of nonsense and hot air.

But, of course, if you're a beauty,

we'll listen as you shake your booty!

****************************

@LeeBrown1273

Zombies as an alibi

with the cops will just not fly.

You may pout and you may whine,

but don't tell them it's Frankenstein.

Dracula's a load of crap

when you murder some poor sap.

So remember, stupid ghoul,

good policemen you can't fool.

I am the Filter Man

I am the Filter Man. I come by your house; I stop by your office; I even make roadside calls and can quietly enter a church, synagogue, mosque, or hospital, if need be, to perform my duties. I often visit the halls of Congress. You might say I'm ubiquitous. Which a lot of people get mixed up with iniquitous, which I am pretty much not.

I got the job years ago when the fifteenth Ice Age was announced on Fox News. Immediately CNN had to put their oar in to say there was not going to be a fifteenth Ice Age, but a season of hurricanes that would wreck the planet. And, of course, the New York Times kept repeating that we would all be drowned within a matter of weeks so why worry about an ice age?

Amidst all the confusion, with men and women rushing to and fro, crying "What shall we do?" I remained calm and collected. I had shown an early ability as a boy to filter everything disturbing, exciting, and puzzling, out of my life, so by the time I was fifteen I had no problems with girls, cars, grammar, acne, or my parents. I lived in a world of white sterilized gauze. I was neither oblivious nor paranoid -- I accepted everything that came my way, and then simply filtered it all down to a colorless, odorless, and generally inert mindset. I was acutely disinterested. 

So when the World Health Organization asked me to create filters for others before everyone had kittens, I graciously accepted -- and never looked back.

In Ireland parents get their children to behave and eat their boiled turnips by threatening to have the Filter Man come get them.

In the Ukraine I'm referred to as Uncle Felbish, who brings candy to orphans and makes the lilac bushes weep.

In Brazil they call me "Gnat Strainer" and light candles to me during Mass.

And the Chinese offer an image of me rice vinegar and pencil stubs to alleviate the swine flu. 

I'm really not a bogeyman or a deity. I can't prevent pigs from dying nor do I enjoy snacking on red-haired little leprechauns. I'm just a working stiff. I visit the unfiltered wherever they may be, palace or hovel, and bring to them the peace of a filtered existence. Sometimes I use a physical filter that I install in their ears or over their eyes. Many people need an industrial filter for their mouth. But for the most part I just fill their heads with soothing pap that has been so refined it contains nothing nutritious or savory. Sort of a mental poi, if you will. I place gossamer filters over TV screens, loudspeakers, and most picture windows in the home. I've worked in tandem with the auto industry to have rose-colored glass installed in every vehicle on the road today. 

I've never considered myself indispensable, or immortal. I know that someday I'll die just like everyone else. But I choose not to think about it, to filter it completely out of my mind. And so when I do shuffle off to Buffalo there will be no one to replace me -- but by then I hope to have filtered enough people so that they will carry on my work for me, taking filters to the unfiltered in far off and benighted lands. 

And, yes, Virginia, there is a dangerous amount of fiberglass in every filter. 

The Naming Bureau

I'd only been down to the Naming Bureau once before, when I needed a name for the growth on my neck. It hadn't gone well. They sent me to the Neck department, where I was told that I had a medical condition, not a neck condition. So I was sent to the Illness department, but they refused to see me and shot me over to the Growth department -- and they were closed for the day because one of the managers had passed away and everyone was at his funeral. My doctor wouldn't treat me until I had an official name for the growth on my neck, which kept getting bigger and redder. Just as I was at my wit's end the thing broke open and drained completely, leaving just a small black scar behind. 
This time I determined to play it safe, so instead of heading to one of the departments I glided up to the Information desk and smiled at the lady buffing her knuckles with a chamois cloth.
"Good morning" I said politely.
"Good morning" she replied in a neutral voice. "How can I help you?"
"Well" I began, "you see, I'm a little bit confused as to where I should go for a name. Not sure what department this falls under, and I was wondering if you could help me find the right place to go."
"I can try" she said, still in a very neutral voice; but she did make eye contact with me. "What is it needs naming?"
I held both my hands out to her.
"My hands smell like boiled yams" I said. "Even after a vigorous washing."
She sniffed at them tentatively, then nodded her head.
"They do indeed" she affirmed.
"Who do you think is in charge of naming such a thing?" I asked.
"Well . . . " she hesitated. "Well . . . let me contact my supervisor about this. One moment please." She swiveled away from me in her chair and spoke into a small green pillow, which immediately began quivering. She murmured something into it, listened intently, and then swiveled back to me.
"Mr. Mumby will be with you shortly. If you would take a seat over there . . ." she indicated a row of cement blocks covered with shards of broken glass.
"Thank you, I appreciate it" I replied. Politeness costs nothing, as Winston Churchill used to say.
I didn't have to wait long for Mr. Mumby. He was very tall and lean, and wore a red paper vest. We shook hands and then went into his office, which was filled with bags of marshmallows.
"It's marshmallow season, y'know" he said, grinning. "I think we'll have a bumper crop this year!" I couldn't help warming up to him.
"My hands . . . "I began.
"Yes, yes" he interrupted kindly. "Ms. Pitts explained your situation to me. May I have a whiff?"
I held out my hands for him to smell. He took his time, inhaling slowly several times. Then he sat back, taping his chin with an unsharpened pencil.
"I'd say they smell more like russet potatoes" he said, but I could tell he wasn't talking to me -- he was in a deep ponder, talking to himself. "Russet, with just a hint of fingerlings. The Ag people might be interested in this . . . but, no . . . they're understaffed as it is. Hmm . . . perfumery? They might enjoy taking a crack at it . . . they don't have much to do nowadays . . . or else Cuticles might take a whack at it . . ."
He continued to stare into space for a few more minutes, taping his chin with the pencil. Then, his face composed into a firm executive decision, he addressed me.
"We shall have to take one of your hands" he said. "It will be carefully sliced up and distributed to a dozen different departments for their input. We'll contact you once we reach a consensus."
"Wait a minute" I said nervously. "You want one of my hands?"
"Certainly. This is a complex situation that requires teamwork and deliberation -- not a snap decision. I wouldn't doubt that you'll get a mention on our website, too!" He gazed at me speculatively, like I was already in a petri dish. I no longer warmed to him, or even thought he was altogether human.
"No way are you taking off my hand!" I said emphatically. "What is this place, a butcher shop? I'm outta here!" I stood up to leave.
"Please calm yourself" he said mildly. But the look in his eyes was deeply sinister. "Don't make this any more difficult than it already is." He pressed a button on his desk. "I will have you escorted down to our Editing department."
Ms. Pitts was at the door, with a pair of handcuffs. But as far as I could see there wasn't anyone with her, and she was just a shrimp -- so I pushed her down and ran out of the Naming Bureau.  
So far I haven't been contacted or arrested by the authorities, and I've joined up with a Nameless group that is resisting the Naming Bureau and everything it stands for. 
If you'd like to contribute to our cause, leave money or sandwiches underneath the viaduct down by the feed mill. It's tax deductible.