Postcards to the President.

A wooden box of sand.

A wooden box of sand sat in my attic for 36 years. It was there when I bought the house, and was too heavy and possibly messy for me to move by myself, so I just left it there. I never mentioned it to anybody. Why would I? Sand is pretty inoffensive and static. You don't bother it, it won't bother you. It never decayed or spoiled, and you don't need a license to have it. It's not listed on the stock exchange. It's silent and has no smell. Sand will never be a hot button issue. I wish more things, and more people, were like sand.

I rented a wife and three children to live in the house with me for the first ten years, but it didn't work out. They complained about the linoleum in the kitchen and wanted to get a cat. So I exchanged them at the Rent-A-Center for a seat on the local Zoning Board. I found this much more fulfilling and interesting. We would discuss parking lots and mixed use designations late into the night. As the years went by we became more and more powerful, until at last we wrenched control of the entire city from the mayor and city council. We changed the name of the city to Buttigieg and raised the sales tax on food and clothing to fifteen percent. There were complaints, naturally, but we had the police scatter thumbtacks in the front yards of those who whined too much, and that soon did the trick. And when the Governor called out the National Guard to have us arrested on charges of bribery and extortion, we had the fire department use their water canons to disperse the troops until most of them fled in terror and were swept away in the Mississippi at flood tide. We captured the survivors and put them to work painting white lines down the middle of residential streets. The Governor didn't bother us again.

During all this upheaval I sometimes went up into the attic to check on my wooden box of sand. It never changed. Once I saw a tiny red spider mite try to cross it, but halfway across it turned back and died before it could return to safety. That was interesting.

I was certain the other members of the zoning board would never let me retire and lead a peaceful life -- I knew too much. So I planned very carefully, and when the time came I secretly let in a contingent of the National Guard to take them all away to the dungeons in the Governor's Mansion. For my civic service the Governor appointed me Head Ranger at Drumlins State Park. I had my house, wooden box of sand and all, moved off its foundations and transported by semi to the Park, where it was moored next to the Ice Age National Scientific Reserve. All at government expense. Then I went fishing.

There are a fascinating variety of fish to be caught in the lakes and rivers of the Upper Midwest. The small mouth tench is a ferocious fighter when caught on a hook; it often dials 911, but since it has no larynx it can't say anything. Cooked in butter it tastes like the island of Sappho. The blue sterlet has a peculiar mating call, something like a cross between a rusty Ferris wheel and a leaky garden hose. You can lure it into your net by simply whistling any show tune that was composed prior to 1957. The twisted muskellunge prefers shallow thinking, where it can be caught with either a dinky or a flandellete. 

Things were going along swimmingly for me, as the years piled up and my canvas trousers eventually took on the permanent odor and flecked scales of a fish market. And my wooden box of sand became even more precious to me. I would gaze at if for hours, as the sun from the dusty octagonal attic window burnished it like old bronze. But then one of my fellow members from the old zoning board escaped his fetters in the dungeons of the Governor's Mansion and came hunting me, for revenge. When I saw Zinkfelt standing in my kitchen, wild-eyed and in fetid rags, I knew the jig was up. He had a metal spatula in his hand. In a panic, I ran up the stairs to the attic, with Zinkfelt right behind me. 

We faced off across the wooden box of sand.

"It's grit" he said to me, with a hollow voice.

"What's that?" I asked him.

"Your box -- it's full of grit" he replied.

"You mean sand" I told him.

"I know the difference between sand and grit" said Zinkfelt. "We were fed sand for breakfast in the dungeons, and grit for lunch and dinner. You got a box of grit there."

With unnatural strength I lifted up the deceitful wooden box and hurled it through the octagonal window. It landed with a thick crash on a shoal of geodes. Then Zinkfelt and I went out to dinner, but didn't leave a very big tip because the crab Rangoon was too chewy.

Verses from Stories in Today's Washington Post. A radio host criticized Trump on the air. He was fired mid-show, he says. An NFL fan promised to live on his bar’s roof until his team won. He’s been there five weeks. A stay-at-home mom’s work is worthy of respect — including from herself.

@D_Hawk

A radio host, indiscreet,

suggested that Trump was a cheat.

His boss pulled the plug

on this naive mug --

his broadcast career is mincemeat.

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

@Raggs_No_Riches

A fanatical fan on the roof

of his fav'rite bar needs some proof

 that his own home team

has won on the beam,

or else he is staying aloof . . . 

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

@carolynhax

My mother was a stay-at-home,

she took no outside jobs;

of course with three kids in the home

she did the work of squads.

The washer and the dryer

 were kept going day and night;

her kitchen never seemed to close,

 to feed our appetite.

She was no slave; she ruled the roost.

Her word was iron law.

If dad tracked in a bit of mud,

he really got it raw.

I think her self respect was high;

she took great pride and joy

in spinaching and churching

her too wayward little boy.

I hope wherever she may be,

she hears my acclamation --

and knows because of her alone

I'm seeking medication . . . 

The law and the light.

Behold, I am the law, and the light.

3 Nephi 15:9

As the jaded world revolves upon its axis thick,

confusion and loud chaos make all thinking people sick.

To be steadfast, illuminating all that mankind needs,

is not the job of presidents or heroes with their deeds.

Nor scientists nor tyrants, nor philosophers unique.

There's only One, who's often shunned because He seemed so weak.

The charter of the Christ is light; His law alone transcends

and brightens ev'ry earthly path as love He free extends.

Then should we not rejoice out loud, and never give a rest

to hailing Jesus Christ our Lord -- the Pure, the Sure, the Best!

Verses from Stories in Today's New York Times. Leaked Files Expose How China Organized Mass Detentions of Muslims. Is Chlorophyll an Effective Nutritional Supplement? Cities Worldwide Are Reimagining Their Relationship With Cars.

@austinramzy  @ChuBailiang

We have places very nice,

full of virtue and of rice.

You will find our camps superb,

and there's nothing to disturb

how you live your life at all

(there is just a chain and ball . . . )

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

@DawnMacKeen

Chlorophyll is not a snack

that would cause my lips to smack;

maybe trees can stand the stuff,

but to me it's so much chuff.

Why must supplements all be

full of most things not tasty?

I am not a daffodil;

give me meat fresh from the grill!

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

@SominiSengupta  @PopovichN

Now I lay me down to sleep;

I pray my car that I may keep.

I live in town and traffic jams

are so intense I clench my hams;

but public transport I abhor --

it's for the weird and very poor.

I'd rather live with deadly smog

than have to run to work by jog.

Or ride a bike or scooter, too;

my car is magic, like voodoo.

The freedom of the road I crave,

though it may lead to early grave . . . 

Verses from Stories in Today's Washington Post. ** How to run for Congress ** NRA chief Wayne LaPierre received a 57 percent pay raise in 2018, tax filings show, ** Obama tells Democratic candidates to ease off talk of revolution.

@chrisalcantara  @bonnieberkowitz

Anyone can run these days

for a seat in the Big Maze.

All you need is attitude

(and some fat cat gratitude.)

Be sincere and open to

what your voters want to do.

Speak of honesty a lot

(just make sure you don't get caught.)

And if you're savaged by a tweet

from the Prez, you can't be beat!

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

@bethreinhard

If you want a big payday

learn to run the NRA;

those galoots who head the org

own chateaus in Luxembourg.

Shooting off your mouth, it seems,

gives you wealth in golden streams.

Never mind the lives all scarred;

you can send a Hallmark card. 

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

@WaPoSean

Democrats think revolution

is perhaps their best solution;

but Obama has said 'whoa,'

don't in that direction go!

Keep it peaceful, calm, serene;

make campaigning plain and clean.

Now it's a religious quest,

exorcising that blonde Pest.

Only those whose hearts are pure

will find a White House path for sure.

Head Wax

The discovery of head wax in humans is usually blamed on Dr. James Hedges, of Remington, South Carolina. 
His breakthrough research on goat farmers and middle management neurotics while looking for a cure for ear wax led him to posit that the human brain, under the right circumstances, will turn into a thick yellow wax that has a number of commercial applications.
After dozens of autopsies performed ten years ago, he was ready to go public with his findings, but was prohibited from publishing the results of his work by the American Medical Association, due to his frequently referring to their board of directors as 'knotheads.'
He did eventually publish his work in the Swedish magazine 'Veckans Vimmel.' But since the magazine caters to hedgehog enthusiasts, it was ignored by the mainstream media.

Then, in 2016, the wunderkind entrepreneur Rash Acton heard about Remington's work while attending a bar mitzvah in the New Hebrides, and immediately took action. He sent a crack team of professionals to Adelaide, Australia, which had just been designated as 'The Big Head Capital of the World' by the World Heritage Foundation, to begin exploratory excavations. They discovered head wax in such vast quantities among the suburbs of Adelaide that Acton feared the market for it would immediately collapse. He quickly pulled his team out of Adelaide and sent them to Bismarck, North Dakota, where there is no head wax to speak of. Cannily publishing the results of his Bismarck work, and suppressing the reports of a head wax bonanza in Australia, Acton created a booming demand for the product that drove prices sky high. 

But even Acton couldn't foresee that the Adelaide head wax fields would prove to be remarkably shallow.  And then, two years ago, thye gave out completely. A new field of head wax was needed to keep the entire industry going.

For by this time Acton had made sure that R & D had come up with enough uses for the product to make it indispensable for the average consumer. It replaced gasoline, lime juice, popcorn, nuclear fission, alligator pears, nylon, and aluminum. When heated to extreme temperatures it crystallized into toothpaste. Super-cooled, it became the ideal Lego block. And Acton made sure that everyone knew it is completely biodegradable, organic, and sucks ozone out of the air. Plus kittens love to play with it.

By a lucky coincidence, Acton was scheduled at a congressional hearing during the crisis, and one look at the heads of those distinguished legislators convinced him he had found the Spindletop of head wax. In no time at all he had cornered the head wax market on Capital Hill.
"What makes it so easy" he told reporters earlier this year, "is that nobody minds you digging around in their heads. Besides, the stuff just grows back again in a few months." 
Acton's competitors soon discovered that even minor clerks and time-serving bureaucrats in the DC area contained high levels of virgin head wax. Flourishing their mattocks and trowels, they have helped keep the price of head wax down to a reasonable level.
Today the head wax industry employs nearly a quarter million people; you can see the derricks and sump pumps all over the nation's capital, operating 24/7.
And as Rash Acton recently said, while boarding his private Beechcraft Turbo King, "Caramel don't grow on apples -- you gotta put it there!"  

Verses from Stories in Today's Washington Post ** Trump asks Supreme Court to shield his tax returns from prosecutors ** These remote islands are closing to visitors next spring in the name of overtourism ** House prepares to hear from recalled U.S. ambassador to Ukraine Yovanovitch.

@scotusreporter  @amarimow

The President is not a dope;

he ain't providing his own rope.

His tax returns are sacrosanct

(with all the dough that he has banked.)

If I were in the White House chair

my tax returns I would not share --

Those whose tax returns aren't prone

to fibs may be the first to stone . . . 

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

@NatBCo

The Faroe Islands will be closed,

and tourists there will be deposed.

The natives don't like peeping Toms

and do not need those foreign alms.

They'd rather visit with their sheep

and so a low profile to keep.

If in Klaksvik you would dock

you'll masquerade as just livestock.

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

@WPJohnWagner  @ColbyItkowitz

Ambassadors have come to rue

the Trump admin's loud ballyhoo.

And from Ukraine, Yavanovitch

is set to be the biggest snitch.

What she has to say might be

the linchpin to Trump's history.

But then again, at Foggy Bottom

they always know just how to plot 'em.

If she comes out as unbent,

I bet she runs for president.

My Postcards to the President

Pointless

I have slain a chicken sandwich to my wounding. 

Have pity on me; I wasn't in my right mind at the time.

Don't let them take me away to the bunny place, where they give you construction paper and make you tie strings into saggy shapes! I beg of you, my two goldfish, tell no one of my crime. I'm trusting you with my life . . . 

I blame that winter night long years ago, when the mashed potatoes howled around the cabin door and Angus, my partner, grimly fried chicken patties until they were black as sin. When he placed those carbonized abominations in front of me, my gorge rose -- so I attacked him with the vinegar cruet and beat him senseless, leaving him for dead. Then out into the howling storm I went. Buffeted by tater tots, I made my way to the General Store to mail a letter to the Art Linkletter Fan Club and turn myself in to the Sheriff. They locked me up and threw away the pet flea that I kept on my flannel shirt.

 Thirty miserable years I spent in that Canadian lockup. It reeked of poutine and Windex. They gave me chicken bones to crochet into socks and scarves for the raw winters, and during the brief summer respite I was forced to tend dandelion beds for the Warden's daughter. When she flirted with me I called her a Pope's nose and threw compost on her frilly dress. For that, they locked me away in The Hole for six months. When I got out my skin had turned to wax paper and my eyes were practically simonized for life. 

But they couldn't break me. I kept trying to escape. Once, I made it as far as the Lesser Antilles. I grew a beard and dyed my ear lobes. I passed among the unsuspecting Antillites for two years, posing as a local wheel horse and zither tuner. But as cursed luck would have it my old partner Angus, now head of a troop of mountain bandits, came into town looking for a mountain to steal and recognized me. He had me chained up in locks before you could say Bob's yer uncle, and I was back in that Canadian pig sty by the time the maple syrup had hardened into whiplash. 

I was finally released on a technicality. The jail didn't recycle dental floss and so had to shut down. All the inmates were given a new suit of clothes, fifty dollars, and a bus ticket to Moose Jaw. 

And that's where I found you two, in the pet store, and brought you home to my shabby apartment. We've had some good times, eh? Remember that earwig that fell into your bowl? 

But now they're after me again. Again and again, it's fried chicken that wells up and ruins my life. And now there's a bag laid out flat and smashed in the parking lot, and I'm the one who done it. Cuz why? Cuz they put mayonnaise on my chicken sandwich which I don't like. And then they cut in line. And they knew what that would do to me. They knew it all along. They were laying for me, waiting for me to make a mistake so they could take me back.

But I'm not going back. Not ever! You two are the only ones who know my secret. And you know what they say about keeping secrets -- less is more. So here, my little friends, have some Paris green fish flakes . . . 

(Based on an article in the Washington Post by Dana Hedgpeth.  @postmetrogirl  )