In case you didn't realize it, each of these experiments are postcards mailed to journalists, government officials, and private friends.
"Hours before law enforcement forcibly cleared protesters from Lafayette Square in early June amid protests over the police killing of George Floyd, federal officials began to stockpile ammunition and seek devices that could emit deafening sounds and make anyone within range feel like their skin is on fire, according to an Army National Guard major who was there." Washington Post.
Let us find some poison spray
that will send those pests away
from protesting all the time;
it is simply such a crime!
Stockpile weapons for the use
'gainst those crazies on the loose!
Heat rays, like in H.G. Wells,
will elicit traitor yells.
Free speech has its limits here,
and should always go in fear.
This ain't Russia, no sirree:
Land of the Bunk and Lynching Bee!
I ran into Brad in the lobby of our apartment building.
He was getting mail.
So was I.
"Long time no see" he said, smiling.
"Many moons" I replied.
"Been keeping busy?" he asked.
"Not so much. Taking it easy." I said.
"How about you?"
"Oh" he said, "just hanging around the apartment.
"Haven't been out for a month."
"Nowhere?" I asked.
"Nowhere" he said.
"I keep up with the world online,
like everyone else I guess."
I pulled my mail out of the box,
ripping it nearly
in half.
"Did you hear about the dead birds
in New Mexico?" he asked me.
"Seems I heard something like that, yeah."
"Well,' now he was off and running.
"Well, there's all these dead birds falling
out of the sky -- and nobody knows why"
"Izzat so?" I said.
"Sure" he kept on going. "Scientists
say it's climate change and air quality."
"Canaries in a coal mine" I told him.
"Wazzat?" he asked, looking very puzzled.
"Skip it" I said. I wanted
to go get dinner.
But Brad was not done.
In fact, he was just warming up.
"They can't dig mass graves fast enough
for 'em" he said in what he must have thought
was a sepulchral voice.
"It could cause some kind of avian flu,
on top of the virus" he said.
"Oh, I bet some of 'em are just stunned;
they'll pop right up again and fly away"
I said, easing towards the exit.
When it looked like he was going to
follow me out, to tell me more,
I said in a stage whisper: "Maybe
they'll turn into zombie birds. Who
knows what those crazy scientists
have released into the atmosphere?"
He looked startled, then worried.
Without another word he ran to
the elevator and was gone.
Good riddance.
I don't need paranoid hermits
just before a meal.
The chow mein takeout
around the corner is quite good.
So I stepped outside
and was hit on the head
by a falling magpie.
Then another one fell at my feet.
"Good gravy!" I exclaimed.
Both of the magpies got up,
shook their wings, and looked
straight at me.
I recognized them:
Heckle and Jeckle,
the talking magpies
from my childhood.
"Get wise to yourself, Mac"
said one of them.
"Yes, old bean" said the other.
"It's Area 51 all over again!"
That was enough for me.
I went back inside and took
the elevator up to my apartment
to open a can of sardines.
At the rec center they wanted me to
sign a piece of paper
before letting me into the pool area.
"What's this for?" I asked the young lifeguard
who handed it to me.
"Just a standard crocodile form -- nothing
to worry about" he told me, his blond
hair obscuring his shifty eyes.
"Whoa! Wait a minute" I replied,
taking a step back from him.
"What crocodiles?"
"The ones that might somehow
someday someway get into the
pool" he told me, trying to brush his
blond hair out of his shifty eyes,
but only succeeding in looking
all the more shifty.
"Won't the chlorine keep 'em out?"
I asked him earnestly.
I loved swimming at the rec center,
and didn't want to have to stop.
"We sure hope so" he said.
"But if you don't sign I can't
let you into the pool."
"Why all the sudden concern about
crocodiles?" I asked him shrewdly.
"Have they been sighted around here?"
"No sir" he replied stoutly.
"But several children have gone completely
missing in the last few weeks.
So we got to assume the worst."
"Couldn't be a cougar or something else?"
I asked.
"Of all the big carnivores" said the
blond lifeguard authoritatively,
"only the crocodile leaves nothing behind
of its victim -- swallowing the clothes,
shoes, and even belt buckles and suspenders."
"But you haven't actually seen one
around here, right?" I asked.
"Not yet" said the kid.
This was a great conversation to have,
at least for me,
to get your bowels moving.
So I went to take care of that
and then came back and
signed the crocodile form.
That's when the cougar attacked me.
I went to see the Mayor,
for all the good it did me.
She said that I needed to open
my heart to the friendless kale
and despised rutabaga.
"How many zucchini have interrupted
your dinner lately?" I asked her bluntly.
She didn't have an answer for that!
I talked it over with some of my neighbors,
wondering if we should take the city to court.
But we'd probably get that Mr. Potato Head judge,
who bleeds beet juice. A waste of time
and money.
Well, if the city won't do anything,
there's more than one way to peel
an onion.
I got me a whole warren of rabbits now.
And if they happen to get out of their hutches
one night,
and rampage through the neighborhood,
and snack on a few derelict cabbages
or pole beans,
well, that's the way the cookie crumbles.
After all:
Who's gonna blame a cute little bunny?
