When all the lilacs died from vaping

The captain slapped me in the face, hard. He'd been doing it all morning, after his squad brought me in for misplacing a comma while printing a government news release. 

"Let's get one thing straight" he said evenly. "I don't like you, and you don't like me, and we don't like them, and they don't like us. Got it? Now, once again -- who put you up to sabotaging that comma?"

I was weak from fear and hunger. My head rang like a gong from all the blows it had absorbed. But I wasn't going to give the bastard anything.

"Private John Wilcox, serial number 7H338B65" I said stolidly.

"You're just making it hard on yourself, John" said the captain. He pulled out an emery board and began filing his plump fingernails. I noticed a half-eaten golf ball on his desk.

"I've got all day" he said conversationally. "There's no rush to get the information we need. Besides, the technicians are working on your laptop right now and we've subpoenaed your phone records. I doubt if it'll be more than an hour or two before we know who's in this with you. So why not make it easy on yourself?" He leaned over to put his savage face right into mine: "SO JUST GIVE US THE NAME!" 

"Private John Wilcox, serial number WCCO6676769 -dash-2" I said grimly. I winced as the captain gave me the back of his hand. I could taste salt as I swallowed the blood in my mouth.

"Very well" said the captain coldly. "If that's how you want it to be, I'd like to introduce you to my friend Hugo . . . "

A huge shadow covered me like a blanket as Hugo stepped into my blurry sight. 

"Hugo has, shall we say, some unusual talents -- I find him very useful when faced with stubborn ignorance. I hope you two will get along well . . . "

The captain left, and the thing he called Hugo sat down on a stool in front of me and grinned like a jack-o-lantern . . . 

How had this nightmare all began? I willed myself to fall back on  past memories as a way to survive the horrors of the present. 

It was last spring, when all the lilacs died from vaping, that ugly crowds demanded brutal penalties for paraphrasing government news releases. State legislatures bowed to the mob and it became a felony to change anything, even typos, when it came from the Governor or Mayor or Chief of Police. The National Guard was called out to insure compliance, and then Congress was prorogued until further notice. They came for my sister Kate one night, breaking down the venetian blinds to confiscate her mandolin sheet music and escort her to a Costco-run 'reeducation camp.' We never saw her again. It was a bad time for journalists, or for someone like me -- a Kinkos clerk who still knew how to read big words.   

I made it my business to scramble the punctuation in every government document and handout we printed and copied. Drunk with power, the local authorities had everything they said, thought, or even belched, immediately printed and posted on walls, fences, and telephone poles. Reactionary to the core, they eschewed using social media for anything but speed dating.

I don't know who finally ratted me out; it was probably the store manager -- he was married to an Otter Pop. It looked like I'd never live long enough to scatter random parenthesis again.

I was shook out of my reverie by Hugo, who kept saying in a thin reedy voice "Look out the window, will ya?"

My hands were untied. Hugo gave me a Handi Wipes to wash the encrusted blood off my face. I staggered over to the window to see an effigy of the captain being set on fire by Ukrainian soldiers. 

The Season of Avocado Toast had arrived at last. This revolution would be rich and creamy, with lots of vitamin K and lutein.

"Am I free to go?" I asked Hugo quietly. 

"Yes, please" he cringed in front of me. "And take the captain's half-eaten golf ball, will ya? He ain't comin' back for it."

(Based on a story in today's Washington Post:  https://wapo.st/2CAIqMN   @ReisThebault )

Postcards to the President

He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord

"He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord . . . "
Proverbs 19:17. 

Give glory unto God most high

and then the beggar pass you by?

Perform the ordinance of praise

but not the destitute to raise?

This cannot be what Christ expects

from those who would be his subjects.

Help me all of thy laws appease

by helping someone's burden ease!

Verses from Stories in Today's New York Times ** How Russia Meddles Abroad for Profit: Cash, Trolls and a Cult Leader ** Andrew Yang’s Campaign Has a Lot of Money. Now What? ** As SpaceX Launches 60 Starlink Satellites, Scientists See Threat to ‘Astronomy Itself’.

@mschwirtz

Russians go to Timbuktu

with elections for to screw.

Flung across this addled globe,

they do poke and they do probe

till they find enough decay

to dig in and then hold sway.

They need more than fluoride to

disappear like morning dew.

Will the gullible ne'er learn

the Russian bear all truth does spurn?

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

@ByMattStevens

When a candidate for office

gets a lot of money in,

you can bet your bottom dollar

he won't use it all to win --

he might need to pay a mortgage,

or to bribe a maitre 'd;

 then there is the lure of Vegas,

and perhaps large screen TV.

Andrew Yang, I do beseech you,

watch your P's & Q's today --

but if you are feeling gen'rous,

please to send some cash my way! 

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

@ShannonWHall

The night sky is a-twinkle with an artificial glow,

as satellites go whizzing round and round, all to-and-fro.

Elon Musk and others fill the heavens with such junk,

the Moon no longer blossoms and old Mars is in a funk.

If we keep adding satellites to those now up above,

there'll be naught but an eclipse when the pushing comes to shove.

Verses from Stories in Today's Washington Post ** Rep. Peter T. King, a 14-term Republican congressman from New York, announces retirement ** Trump’s trade wars are hurting farmers. Can Sonny Perdue keep them happy? ** Supreme Court again confronts Trump’s authority, this time over DACA recipients.

@WPJohnWagner

Retirement's as good a way

to sound retreat most any day.

Conservatives are getting old;

in Congress they are dripping mold.

Old fogeys ought to take the hint

and go suck on some peppermint.

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

@thewanreport  @anniegowen

Get big or get out is what farmers should do;

a mere hundred acres won't grow a cashew.

And ploughmen who don't take the hint can expect

that tariffs will grind them to powder, by heck!

Conagra don't care for the little guy, natch;

and Sonny Perdue their foul back will sure scratch.

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

@scotusreporter

Beautiful dreamer, wake up and see

America don't want the poor refugee.

Though you contribute so much to our land,

the Big Cheese is working to have you all banned.

Beautiful dreamer, even the courts

will treat you like you're covered in warts.

If I were you to Canada now

I'd turn my steps, taking all your know-how.

Postcards to the President

Rash Judgement

"For behold, the same that judgeth rashly shall be judged rashly again . . . "

Mormon 8:19

We push for judgement and condemn

so rashly that I fear

real justice has been sacrificed,

replaced by shallow jeer.

Help me to judge another, or myself,

with cool restraint,

so when I'm called before thy bar

I'll stand without a taint! 

Dead Tourists

@RCPaddock

I had to ask dead tourists

what they thought of all the strife

around the Lake of Toba,

now that they had disowned life.

They drifted down to meet me,

or they rose from out the ground;

some were dressed in whiteness,

while some others were done brown.

They sighed as they commingled

and recalled the leaky boat

that ended their brief holiday

because it didn't float.

They bade me take a message

back to Bataks and all others,

to government officials

and their sisters and their mothers:

"Don't worry about Santa caps

or pigs while it's today.

No fatwa ever helped a man

to find a better way!"

"We can tell you from our graves

that peace and purity

depend less on decorum

and much more on charity!"

"Learn to love thy neighbor

or you'll find a heavy hand

is laid upon you constantly

in ev'ry Promised Land!"

And then their souls went back unto

the depths, or heights, again.

And I was left to ponder

on the silliness of men.

No matter our religion

or our prejudices rife,

if we don't work at stopping hate

we'll have no afterlife . . . 

(from an article in the NYT:  Indonesia Wants 'Halal Tourism.' But Some Want to Wrestle Pigs.)

A pound of lambs

"Give me a pound of lambs" said the short balding man in the brown leather coat.
He was standing in my kitchen while I ate a ham salad sandwich. I hadn't seen him come in.
I was resigned more than surprised or angry at his appearance; my wife refuses to let me lock the doors. She is from North Dakota, where it's against the law to install a domestic deadbolt. So we get all sorts of lunatics seeping into our place.
I did not feel the need to respond to the short balding man in the brown leather coat. He, apparently, did not feel the need to repeat his request. It was a standoff, then. I ate my sandwich, he stood there -- all five-foot-two of him.

When my wife came in I was drinking a glass of horchata. The short balding man in the brown leather coat gave her a start.
"Cripes!" she yelled.
"Give me a pound of lambs" said the man.
"Who's this?" she asked me.
"Dunno" I said, rinsing my glass in the sink. "He showed up while I was eating my lunch. I didn't offer him anything to eat, by the way."
"What's his name?" she asked me, her mouth forming an unpleasant moue.
"Dunno" I said as I wiped down the counter top. "I'm not encouraging him with inquiries." 
"Give me a pound of lambs" said Shorty, as I had decided to call him. His voice was neither irritating nor soothing. Everything about him invited a mild dyslexia.
I offered to make Suzy, my wife, a ham salad sandwich, but she silently pulled a container of yogurt out of the fridge and sat next to me spooning it into her mouth. I could sense she wanted to tell me something unpleasant. 

"Give me a pound of lambs." I noticed Shorty's shoelaces were untied, and frayed. I wondered if he would leave if I asked him to leave. Well, I wouldn't ask him. It was Suzy's bright idea to keep the house unlocked; she could ask him to leave, or fly to the moon, or whatever she wanted.

My back suddenly started to itch. My skin is very dry this time of year. I keep a bamboo backscratcher in the kitchen for dry skin emergencies, so I was vigorously reaching for the sweet spot with it when Suzy told me she had bought a mirror online for six-hundred dollars. 

I immediately had to drop my backscratcher and leave the house, so I wouldn't say unruly and crude things to her. I left my phone behind. Shorty followed me out the kitchen door. I felt sucker-punched. 

We walked to my brother's sign painting shop. He wasn't there, but his assistant let me sit in his office and doodle on some canvas with an old dowel and a bucket of black paint. I should have told him to keep Shorty out, but didn't have enough interest in my own privacy to make the request.

"Give me a pound of lambs." I felt sorely tempted to flick Shorty with some black paint. Then it occurred to me that maybe he was married, too. Maybe he had to run away because his wife had bought a sheep farm. Maybe his wife ate nothing but yogurt, as well. Maybe he was unhappy with himself because he was unhappy with himself. But probably he was just a reiterating imbecile caught in my drift. He symbolized nothing about me, and we had nothing in common. I have always despised brown leather coats. 

My brother came back pretty upset. Our mother was dying, he told me. She was in the hospital right now, tubes running in and out of her, and dying and asking for us. 

"Give me a pound of lambs." 

"Who the hell is that?" my brother asked me.

"My wife's uncle" I said, feeling avenged. 

"Well, c'mon -- we'll take my truck to the hospital. What about the uncle?"

"Oh, he might as well go with us" I said airily. My brother just shook his head and pulled brushes and stepladders out of his truck to make room for us in the cab. 

Mom was pretty bad. Her wrinkled skin lay on her like rows of yarn. Her eyes were gummy. She could talk, but she didn't want to talk. I wanted to hold her hand but she had so many tubes and things attached to both of them that all I could do was pat her on the shoulder. 

"Is she going?" I asked the doctor. He said yes, it could happen pretty soon now. So my brother and I sat in her room amidst all the half-eaten casserole dishes sent by her neighbors, waiting and sniffing.

"That one must be apple cobbler" said my brother, pointing to a white ceramic dish.

"That's gotta be tuna fish casserole" I said, pointing to the tin foil container on the window sill. "I wish someone would push it out."

"Give me a pound of lambs." I'd forgotten Shorty was there. Now was definitely the time to give him the old heave-ho. I buzzed for the nurse. At the sound of Shorty's voice Mom tried to sit up; we helped her.

"Charlie, is that you?" she said weakly. "Is that you, Charlie? I knew you'd come back for me!" She lay back, tears streaming down her face. 

The nurse came in and said "Yes, what is it?"

"My father wants a pound of lambs" I told her.  

  

Verses from Stories in Today's New York Times ** Why Pete Buttigieg Annoys His Democratic Rivals ** Remember Family Films? Disney Plus Is Making ’Em Like They Used To ** Spyware Maker NSO Promises Reform but Keeps Snooping.

@llerer  @reidepstein

A small town mayor has become

a Democrat contender;

he's brushing others to the side,

despite their cash and gender.

His last name is a garbled skein

that nobody can utter --

unless you've had a couple snorts,

or grew up with a stutter.

He's harvesting the sour grapes

to make a vintage rare --

and if he wins the White house

he will make the Maltese stare!

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

@brooksbarnesNYT

Sure I want some fam'ly films

to keep my kids enthralled.

Something without sex or drugs

or things from rocks that crawled.

But puppy dogs and pixie dust

just ain't my cup of tea;

so while the kids watch Disney Plus,

it's a Mortal Kombat spree . . . 

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

@vindugoel  @nicoleperlroth

All the world's a stage, y'know,

the audience don't leave;

there's always someone snooping

and then laughing up their sleeve.

Companies are promising

no spyware will they make;

and if you do believe that

I've got water you can rake.