The Puppy Scam.

 

When my puppy never arrived,

the one I ordered online and

paid a thousand dollars for,

my morals went into a tailspin.

Since the world was nothing but a scam

I decided to jump on the bandwagon --

to turn cynical huckster

and mulct as much as I could

from the gullible masses.

My first scheme was to sell

birdseed online --

replacing the seed with worthless sand.

But it turns out those who wanted birdseed

usually kept cats as well,

so they used the sand for their

litter boxes

and I got nothing but rave reviews

on Yelp.

And I was paying a fortune for

shipping,

because sand is heavier than

birdseed.

Next I wrote a check to myself

for a hundred-thousand-dollars.

Then went to my bank to cash it.

And they did.

Cash it, that is; the teller was grinning

to beat the band when she told me

they had just received twenty million

smackeroos from the Federal Reserve Bank

to help them out -- no strings attached, not

even any interest.

So the bank was giving money away

the day I came in to scam them.

Sometimes you just can't catch a break.

Finally I decided to kidnap a child.

But as I read up on how not to do it

(O. Henry's the author for that)

I became so engrossed in the literary

merits of the short story form

that I began writing them by the dozen

and sending them to magazines --

which took each one I sent and paid

me handsomely.

So now I've started a pulp magazine

myself,

called 'Cute Puppy Stories.'

I pay ten cents a word.

Up to a thousand words.

We do not accept poetry submissions.

A man of many words

 

And he was a man of many words, and did speak much flattery to the people . . .

Mosiah 27:8

A man of many words will find

that flattery, though much refined,

if not based on the Gospel true

evaporates like morning dew.

Crazy Henry versus Antifa.

 

"The only thing evil men need to do to triumph is to leave good men alone" intoned Crazy Henry, as we watched CNN while seeding Grape Nuts. 

I was living with Crazy Henry, after being evicted from my own apartment. We had known each other all our lives, since he grew up next door to me. 

"I suppose so" I sighed, surprising myself by sounding like Zasu Pitts.

Sounding like Lionel Barrymore, Crazy Henry said: "These confounded groups, like Antifa, are at the root of our national discontent and alarm." Then he stood up and stuck his right hand into his shirt. Sternly looking at nothing in particular, he continued: "They must meet their Waterloo immediately!"

Then he sat down on my bowl of shelled Grape Nuts, spilling them all over the carpet.

"You are such a dunderhead" I told him, going for the vacuum. I often talked to him like that, especially now that I was living with him and not paying any rent.

As luck would have it, the very next day there was a big Antifa rally downtown. Crazy Henry had to go, carrying a placard that read: "Give America Back to the Passenger Pigeons!"

"Now you're just being silly" I told him as he left. I refused to go, wanting to finish shelling the Grape Nuts.

He waggled his right fist at me, in some kind of obscure signal of unity, as he went out the door.

I expected he'd either get himself arrested or beat up. Maybe even shot.

What I didn't expect is that he'd come home with the leader of the Antifa rally -- one Edward R. Mundy: A tall drink of water with dirty brown hair and a yellow squint in his left eye. He smelled of ozone.

I shook Mundy's hand, at Crazy Henry's insistence, but refused to give him a smile. I was worried I was going to lose my bedroom to him -- he looked like the kind of fanatic who had nowhere to lay his head at night.

When Crazy Henry invited him to sit on the sofa and have some dinner with us, the guy pulled out a machete and attacked the sofa -- stabbing it repeatedly and then pulling out the stuffing like it was intestines. He never spoke a word while doing it.

"I invited him home so we could initiate a dialogue about understanding and tolerance" Crazy Henry told me, as Mundy turned his attention to the fish bowl -- pouring the water out the window and swallowing the gold fish in one gulp.

"Evidently a college man" I observed nervously.

Mundy then ran into the bathroom and locked himself in. After an hour of ominous silence both Crazy Henry and I began banging on the door and shouting if he was all right.

In reply he kept flushing the toilet and laughing maniacally. 

So Crazy Henry had to call the cops to come break down the bathroom door and haul Edward R. Mundy away. He managed to pull the doorbell out of its socket on the way out.

After we had cleaned up the mess and eaten dinner I told Crazy Henry that there was no real hierarchy in Antifa, and no real leaders as such. So where did he find Edward R. Mundy?

"Oh, he was filling parking meter slots with superglue, so I figured he must be a ringleader" said Crazy Henry. 

That night the Grape Nuts molted. 

Photo Essay: Experiments with Collage. Vol. 2.

 

A critical eye

 

 . . .wherefore, condemn not the things of God, that ye may be found spotless at the judgment-seat of Christ.

from the title page of the Book of Mormon.

A critical eye and intellect

that leads a man to so select

the things of men and not the Lord's

will leave him with but scant rewards.

Photo Essay: Experiments in Collage. Vol. 1

 

And they profaned not.

 

And they profaned not; neither did they blaspheme.

Jarom 1:5

When in rage or mocking doubt

vulgar words we vainly shout,

such abuse of tongue will charm

devils -- but does us much harm.

The Loyalty Meter

 

So this guy comes to my door.

He says he's the meter reader

and wants to come in to read

the meter.

"What meter?" I asked him.

"There's no meters in here."

"Sure there is" he says politely.

I can tell he's just passed some kind

of certification course in 

Customer Service.

"It's right next to the kitchen sink."

He goes into the kitchen and by golly

if there isn't a little meter next to the

sink.

I never noticed it before.

It's got a couple of dials on it

and numerals and even a little

red light that's blinking.

"Oh, oh" says the guy.

"This is bad."

"What's bad?" I ask him.

Then I ask: "Hey, just what does

this meter measure, anyway?"

"It's a loyalty meter" he says.

"And yours is not reading so good."

"Whaddya mean loyalty meter?" 

I ask him. "Never heard of such rubbish!"

"It measures your loyalty to the 

current administration." 

I just glared at him;

the way my mother used to

glare at me when I was misbehaving

as a boy.

"Your loyalty reading is way low"

he says, ignoring my glare.

 "I'm going to have to fine

you fifty-five dollars. Payable

by debit or credit card."

We tussled a bit, but I finally

threw him out the front door.

"I'll be back!" he yelled as he shook his fist.

But I never saw him again.

Instead I got a bill in the mail

for fifty-five dollars.

Which I tore up and threw away.

Another one came the next week.

This one included a key chain with

a red vinyl sticker that read 

"Your continued loyalty is appreciated."

I threw the whole shebang away.

Then I got a UPS package.

With the same bill, and a 

set of rare 1943 steel pennies.

Now how did they know I was

a numismatist?

I was sorely tempted to keep the

steelies --

but I dropped them,

one by one,

off of the Washington Avenue Bridge,

as the sun traveled a horizontal line

from left to right.

The very next day a man brought me

a pony. 

To keep.

If I would just be loyal.

I'd always wanted a pony.

And this one came with a red leather

saddle and silver stirrups.

Okay, okay, I told the man.

I give up -- I'll be loyal.

"It's not quite that easy" 

the man said with a leer.

"You have to prove your loyalty

by shooting the pony."

And he gave me a gun. 

I fired it once.

But not at the pony.

Timericks from stories in today's New York Times.

 

Confronting a climate crisis that threatens the fossil fuel industry, oil companies are racing to make more plastic. But they face two problems: Many markets are already awash with plastic, and few countries are willing to be dumping grounds for the world’s plastic waste.

The industry thinks it has found a solution to both problems in Africa.

In Africa the nations find a campaign that is drastic

to put away organic things and only buy what's plastic.

And that ain't all they've got to face; as plastic turns to litter,

the jungle's full of styrofoam, which makes the monkeys bitter.

People are not buying gas, so Big Oil pushes vinyl;

as plastic bags hang from palm trees -- and that is pretty final.

Ayahuasca, a vomit-inducing hallucinogenic brew, draws thousands of people each year — including former soldiers — to jungle retreats that have become an unlicensed and unregulated mental health marketplace.

When my mental health decays

I can still find better ways

dealing with my psychic fits

than a drug that gives me s***s.

Jungle humbug, so it seems,

peddles snake oil's ancient dreams.

All you need to cure cracked head

is a book, some bucks, and bed.

New Yorkers Are Fleeing to the Suburbs: ‘The Demand Is Insane’

The suburbs are a lonely place

where no one knows your name.

The lawns kept green and pristine,

or it's ridicule and shame.

I'd rather be a prisoner

in some low dungeon cell

than ev'ry stinking weekend

have to deal with dead cow smell.

Timericks from stories in today's Wall Street Journal.

 

As Trash Piles Up During Covid, Residents Raise a Stink

I think that I shall never sniff

odors that leave me so stiff.

If the Mayor can't find staff,

HE can sweep up all the chaff!

Coronavirus Has Left Banks With Lots of Cash and Little to Do With It

So  banks have got a lot of loot,

as to their vaults the savers scoot.

While defaults soar, the greenbacks mount --

please transfer some to my account!

The big vacation is out. America is going camping (and boating and hiking and fishing) instead.

It's cheap and not at all too hard

to travel 'round my own backyard.

The peony's a tourist trap;

but there's a hammock for a nap.

The neighbor throws me carrots raw;

the dog performs with just one paw.

Who needs vacations when my grass

hides silverfish and broken glass?