The great laboratory of love

President Russell M. Nelson

The home is the great laboratory of love.

President Russell M. Nelson

Love's workshop is a happy home,

where members can rejoice

in relationships sublime and oft so very choice.

A clinic where the parents search

for happiness through God;

where children learn how to obey,

without the stinging prod.

No matter what your methods are,

this miracle to probe --

you'll find it stems from loving homes

in all parts of the globe. 

MLB warns of stiff penalty as gas station sex pill problem spirals (New York Post)

I always go to my local gas station for medical problems. Who can afford a doctor nowadays? Besides, the one cashier I really like, a blond girl in her early twenties, seems to think I'm attractive in an older uncle sort of way, so there's that.
The other day I tripped over a brick on my patio and scrapped my knee pretty bad -- bloodied up a perfectly good pair of cream colored Adjust-A-Band linen slacks. I couldn't get the bleeding to stop with the little band aids I had in the medicine chest, so I limped down to the gas station and my friendly little blond cashier looked around and finally found me a white dish towel and a bottle of rubbing alcohol for just $6.29 total. She helped me wrap the towel around my wounded knee, and then sold me a Hershey bar to help comfort me. She oughta be a nurse.
And that's not all. Last year I went in to the doctor about a painful lump on my neck. He said it might be my thyroid or it might be cancer, but whatever it was he'd have to run some tests and do a biopsy which would cost me a couple thousand dollars. Well, I knew I wasn't going to be able to pay that kind of money -- so I fobbed him off with some excuse or other and went down to my friendly neighborhood gas station, where I explained things to my blond cashier friend. She was sad because her boyfriend was in jail again for DUI, but she bravely put aside her personal sorrows to listen to me. She suggested a pill on the counter that was actually for sexual dysfunction, but she said it might do something for the swelling on my throat and why not take a chance what could it hurt?
So I bought a half dozen for twenty-five dollars and took one each day for six days. And by golly I started to feel much better, although the lump didn't exactly go away -- it just hardened and turned black. So I grew a beard to hide it. 
And today, a year later, I'm still feeling pretty good. Although my urine is . . . well, no need to go into that. You see, the blond girl at the gas station says all I gotta do is eat lots of  a certain kind of yogurt they stock and then hit the tanning salon every week. That will cure anything, she assures me. 
And best of all is that I've learned to eat mostly Slim Jims and Beer Nuts, just like she does . . . 

This viral Instagram hoax duped A-listers — and the man overseeing our nuclear arsenal (WaPo)

Crazy Henry banged on my door at two in the morning.
"Whatsa matter with you?" I yelled at him as I let him in.
"I just got word that the Red Headed League has set off bombs all over town!" he replied excitedly. "They're targeting everyone with blonde or brunette hair! We could be next!"
"That's the biggest load of baloney I ever heard" I told him. "Whaddya mean Red Headed League, anyway? That's out of an old Sherlock Holmes story or sumpthin'."
Crazy Henry spun around and locked my door, then dragged my couch over to block it.
"Stop that!" I commanded him. "You're having some kind of waking dream or psychic break. Your noodle is fried from all those podcasts you been listenin' to."
"Just turn on the TV and see if I been makin' it up" he said breathlessly. So I turned on the boob tube and there was nothin' on but reruns and Latvian hockey.
"See?" I said patiently. "You are imagining things once again, like that time you thought Zsa Zsa Gabor was your godmother." I got him a glass of warm milk and settled him in my recliner. He was soon asleep, snoring like a silkworm. I put a Hudson Bay blanket over him and went back to my own bed. Crazy Henry was going to have to be put in a Home one of these days, I thought to myself as I drifted away.

Next morning Crazy Henry slept late, so I was up and gone before he stirred. When I got back home that night he was still there, making navy beans and fatback with corn bread baking in the oven.
"That's nice of you to do" I commented as I hung up my marlin spike.
But when I looked into his eyes I immediately saw he was ensorcelled by those damn podcasts again. I sighed and sat down in the recliner. "What is it now?" I asked patiently.
"They're giving away free money down at the Federal Reserve Bank downtown!" he whispered. "We should get down there before it's all gone."
I went into the kitchen and brought back a brown paper bag. "Here" I said, "put my share in the bag with yours -- I'm too pooped to pop tonight. I'm gonna watch NCIS and then go to bed."
"Anything for a pal" he said warmly before leaving.
I didn't see Crazy Henry again for a week or so. Then I went over to his place Saturday morning to see if he wanted to go to the fudge brownie festival with me that afternoon. I found him stacking wads of fifty dollar bills on his coffee table.
"Here's your share" he said, handing me a pile of cash that would choke a goat. 
"This from the Federal Reserve Bank downtown?" I asked him.
"Yep" he said. "Next week they're giving away a part of Greenland. First come, first served."
I put the money in the same brown paper bag I had given him the week before and went home. I put the money under my bed, expecting it to be gone the next morning like pixie gold. But it was still there, so I sent it to my sister who needed an operation. 
She's doing fine now, thanks.