Postcards to the President

Verses from Stories in Today's Washington Post -- North Korea fires two missiles after warning it is losing patience with the U.S. -- An ‘extreme’ haunted house requires a 40-page waiver. Critics say it’s a torture chamber. -- Twitter to ban all political ads amid 2020 election uproar.

@simondenyer

North Korea wags the dog, if it's Uncle Sam.

Being bullied by a shrimp is the new program.

They forget new presidents may someday change their tune,

and give 'em something that will send them winging to the moon!

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@marisa_iati

The only haunted House I fear is right here in DC.

It's spooky and it's creepy and as scary as can be.

Cuz when those ghouls and goblins get together for a talk,

they can pass a bill that sends the country into shock!

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@TonyRomm  @isaacstanbecker

Ads by politicians are an entertaining scam;

wolfish office seekers masquerading as a lamb.

Since Twitter will not run them, I assume somehow they'll creep

onto skim milk cartons and our pillows as we sleep!

Verses from Stories in Today's New York Post -- Customer tips bartender with Powerball ticket worth $50,000 -- Kate Upton jumps right into Trea Turner’s World Series controversy -- Attempted murder suspect told cops victim tried to feed him to zombies.

@joshuarhett

Let me pour you one more shot/for that ticket you have bought/Leave it here, you barfly dear/If I win, you'll get free beer.

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@jmhendricks88

How I love World Series games!

Dignity goes up in flames.

Experts pop up ev'rywhere,

full of nonsense and hot air.

But, of course, if you're a beauty,

we'll listen as you shake your booty!

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@LeeBrown1273

Zombies as an alibi

with the cops will just not fly.

You may pout and you may whine,

but don't tell them it's Frankenstein.

Dracula's a load of crap

when you murder some poor sap.

So remember, stupid ghoul,

good policemen you can't fool.

I am the Filter Man

I am the Filter Man. I come by your house; I stop by your office; I even make roadside calls and can quietly enter a church, synagogue, mosque, or hospital, if need be, to perform my duties. I often visit the halls of Congress. You might say I'm ubiquitous. Which a lot of people get mixed up with iniquitous, which I am pretty much not.

I got the job years ago when the fifteenth Ice Age was announced on Fox News. Immediately CNN had to put their oar in to say there was not going to be a fifteenth Ice Age, but a season of hurricanes that would wreck the planet. And, of course, the New York Times kept repeating that we would all be drowned within a matter of weeks so why worry about an ice age?

Amidst all the confusion, with men and women rushing to and fro, crying "What shall we do?" I remained calm and collected. I had shown an early ability as a boy to filter everything disturbing, exciting, and puzzling, out of my life, so by the time I was fifteen I had no problems with girls, cars, grammar, acne, or my parents. I lived in a world of white sterilized gauze. I was neither oblivious nor paranoid -- I accepted everything that came my way, and then simply filtered it all down to a colorless, odorless, and generally inert mindset. I was acutely disinterested. 

So when the World Health Organization asked me to create filters for others before everyone had kittens, I graciously accepted -- and never looked back.

In Ireland parents get their children to behave and eat their boiled turnips by threatening to have the Filter Man come get them.

In the Ukraine I'm referred to as Uncle Felbish, who brings candy to orphans and makes the lilac bushes weep.

In Brazil they call me "Gnat Strainer" and light candles to me during Mass.

And the Chinese offer an image of me rice vinegar and pencil stubs to alleviate the swine flu. 

I'm really not a bogeyman or a deity. I can't prevent pigs from dying nor do I enjoy snacking on red-haired little leprechauns. I'm just a working stiff. I visit the unfiltered wherever they may be, palace or hovel, and bring to them the peace of a filtered existence. Sometimes I use a physical filter that I install in their ears or over their eyes. Many people need an industrial filter for their mouth. But for the most part I just fill their heads with soothing pap that has been so refined it contains nothing nutritious or savory. Sort of a mental poi, if you will. I place gossamer filters over TV screens, loudspeakers, and most picture windows in the home. I've worked in tandem with the auto industry to have rose-colored glass installed in every vehicle on the road today. 

I've never considered myself indispensable, or immortal. I know that someday I'll die just like everyone else. But I choose not to think about it, to filter it completely out of my mind. And so when I do shuffle off to Buffalo there will be no one to replace me -- but by then I hope to have filtered enough people so that they will carry on my work for me, taking filters to the unfiltered in far off and benighted lands. 

And, yes, Virginia, there is a dangerous amount of fiberglass in every filter. 

The Naming Bureau

I'd only been down to the Naming Bureau once before, when I needed a name for the growth on my neck. It hadn't gone well. They sent me to the Neck department, where I was told that I had a medical condition, not a neck condition. So I was sent to the Illness department, but they refused to see me and shot me over to the Growth department -- and they were closed for the day because one of the managers had passed away and everyone was at his funeral. My doctor wouldn't treat me until I had an official name for the growth on my neck, which kept getting bigger and redder. Just as I was at my wit's end the thing broke open and drained completely, leaving just a small black scar behind. 
This time I determined to play it safe, so instead of heading to one of the departments I glided up to the Information desk and smiled at the lady buffing her knuckles with a chamois cloth.
"Good morning" I said politely.
"Good morning" she replied in a neutral voice. "How can I help you?"
"Well" I began, "you see, I'm a little bit confused as to where I should go for a name. Not sure what department this falls under, and I was wondering if you could help me find the right place to go."
"I can try" she said, still in a very neutral voice; but she did make eye contact with me. "What is it needs naming?"
I held both my hands out to her.
"My hands smell like boiled yams" I said. "Even after a vigorous washing."
She sniffed at them tentatively, then nodded her head.
"They do indeed" she affirmed.
"Who do you think is in charge of naming such a thing?" I asked.
"Well . . . " she hesitated. "Well . . . let me contact my supervisor about this. One moment please." She swiveled away from me in her chair and spoke into a small green pillow, which immediately began quivering. She murmured something into it, listened intently, and then swiveled back to me.
"Mr. Mumby will be with you shortly. If you would take a seat over there . . ." she indicated a row of cement blocks covered with shards of broken glass.
"Thank you, I appreciate it" I replied. Politeness costs nothing, as Winston Churchill used to say.
I didn't have to wait long for Mr. Mumby. He was very tall and lean, and wore a red paper vest. We shook hands and then went into his office, which was filled with bags of marshmallows.
"It's marshmallow season, y'know" he said, grinning. "I think we'll have a bumper crop this year!" I couldn't help warming up to him.
"My hands . . . "I began.
"Yes, yes" he interrupted kindly. "Ms. Pitts explained your situation to me. May I have a whiff?"
I held out my hands for him to smell. He took his time, inhaling slowly several times. Then he sat back, taping his chin with an unsharpened pencil.
"I'd say they smell more like russet potatoes" he said, but I could tell he wasn't talking to me -- he was in a deep ponder, talking to himself. "Russet, with just a hint of fingerlings. The Ag people might be interested in this . . . but, no . . . they're understaffed as it is. Hmm . . . perfumery? They might enjoy taking a crack at it . . . they don't have much to do nowadays . . . or else Cuticles might take a whack at it . . ."
He continued to stare into space for a few more minutes, taping his chin with the pencil. Then, his face composed into a firm executive decision, he addressed me.
"We shall have to take one of your hands" he said. "It will be carefully sliced up and distributed to a dozen different departments for their input. We'll contact you once we reach a consensus."
"Wait a minute" I said nervously. "You want one of my hands?"
"Certainly. This is a complex situation that requires teamwork and deliberation -- not a snap decision. I wouldn't doubt that you'll get a mention on our website, too!" He gazed at me speculatively, like I was already in a petri dish. I no longer warmed to him, or even thought he was altogether human.
"No way are you taking off my hand!" I said emphatically. "What is this place, a butcher shop? I'm outta here!" I stood up to leave.
"Please calm yourself" he said mildly. But the look in his eyes was deeply sinister. "Don't make this any more difficult than it already is." He pressed a button on his desk. "I will have you escorted down to our Editing department."
Ms. Pitts was at the door, with a pair of handcuffs. But as far as I could see there wasn't anyone with her, and she was just a shrimp -- so I pushed her down and ran out of the Naming Bureau.  
So far I haven't been contacted or arrested by the authorities, and I've joined up with a Nameless group that is resisting the Naming Bureau and everything it stands for. 
If you'd like to contribute to our cause, leave money or sandwiches underneath the viaduct down by the feed mill. It's tax deductible. 

Direct your inquiry

Jeffrey R. Holland

"In matters of faith and conviction, it helps to direct your inquiry toward those who actually have some!"   Jeffrey R. Holland.

Asking fools is easy, and I do it all the time;

their answers often tickle me and make me feel sublime.

Alas, I ask too often of those who have got no sense

what to do -- because the are just sitting on the fence.

Away! you knaves and simpletons who haven't got a clue --

Fruitful spirits I must seek to get a better view!

White as Snow

Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.

Isaiah 1:18

The Lord of Reason is thy name;

thou only can relieve my shame.

Gaudy crimson pride and fault

are drowning me -- O Lord, exalt!

Cleanse me like the fallen snow;

cover me with woolen throw.

Help me to renounce my sins

so happiness with thee begins!

The Big Lie

I want to revisit my abortive attempt at detente with Amy to highlight an interesting determination we made together  -- before permanently burying the whole contaminated matter in the bowels of Yucca Mountain.
As I may have mentioned, the day after we had our little tete-a-tete Amy emailed me that she wanted no further contact with me. Okay, I emailed her back, you're the boss.
That evening, as I was relaxing with a desultory viewing of Hotel Transylvania on the FreeForm cable channel, she pulls up to my patio. I hastily jumped into a pair of flannel pajama pants and welcomed her in with a quizzical smile.
"I thought you said you wanted no more contact" I said by way of preamble.
"I blocked your email account, so I didn't know if you got my message or not" was her reply -- which she made sound perfectly logical. Then she started to ramble on and on about a variety of inanities that have no place in this narrative (thank the good Lord.)
But at one point she said something that forced me to interrupt her.
"I had to practically raise the children myself because you were always off playing circus . . . " she began.
"Wait!" I held up my hand, a bit imperiously perhaps. "Wait. Y'know something, we've been saying that, agreeing to that story for a long time -- but you know and I know that it just isn't true. If we go back, year by year, the truth is I spent most of my time at home, not on the road. We just let that traveling story evolve out of resentment and laziness."  
She didn't want to do it; she resisted the idea; but I took us back, year by year, over our 15 years of marriage, and we toted up the approximate amount of time I was away from home with the circus. And believe me when I say Amy has an exceptionally keen mind when it comes to the times and seasons of our married life together. My time away from home came to just about five years, in total. One third of our time together. The other two thirds of the time I was at home, working regular, usually miserable, jobs or moping about unemployed, reading to the kids at night, taking Amy out on dates, holding down Church callings, and writing several novels, plays, a humor column for the magazine 'Circus Report,' and my autobiography 'Clown Notes.'
I'm not blaming Amy for perpetuating the myth that I was always away from home with the circus -- for I always do it, too, when talking to anyone about our failed marriage; it is an easy way to explain why we failed as a couple. BUT THAT'S NOT WHAT REALLY HAPPENED.
She admitted as much to me, and we both agreed that we would probably go right on telling that lie to acquaintances and the grand kids instead of trying to straighten things out. It's just easier. We had relaxed in each other's company enough by then to grin and chuckle about it. So now you know the real truth. And . . . so what? Doesn't matter in the least, does it? But I felt like it was a minor victory for me, and for sanity in general.
After she left last night I dug into my memories of the time after the divorce, and I can say with assurance that THAT is when I really did my traveling -- with circuses, down to Mexico to teach English, and off to Thailand twice. I was never in one place for more than six months. My restlessness was obsessive and morbid. Only poverty, a stint of homelessness, and failing health have slowed me down now so that I no longer want to hit the road as a clown or go back to Thailand to teach English and chase girls. These days part of my nightly prayers never varies -- I beg God to let me die here in this little apartment, because I never want to travel again, never want to move again, never want to sleep in a strange bed again, or have no bed of my own to sleep in at all. I have arrived at what I hope is my final destination and safe harbor, please God . . . 

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An email response to this post from my friend Rob:

Before I read your latest, I wanted to tell you a few things, so I won't forget.  Tom subscribed to the New Yorker magazine.  I chose an article to read that looked interesting.  Something about sin and the effects of it.  It was some fiction piece about 5 pages long.  I got through the first column and thought it wasn't very good, and that you are considerably better.  I read a bit more on a later column, and I couldn't sit through any more.  I don't know what their criteria are.  Maybe you have to be someone important somehow.  But I can tell you I'd rather read your stories than the one I tried to read.  

The second thing is at the end page there are three cartoons.  I guess someone draws something and then people get a chance to add text, and they have a contest to see who had the funniest/best one.  There were a couple of good ones, but you'd do just as well.

Okay, now I'll read your latest...

Well, I don't know what to think about the last part about the safe harbor.  I can understand a bit of it, in that I don't desire to be in anyone else's bed, or get involved with another woman.  And those travel experiences are exhausting and lonely and troublesome, because I don't just sit and enjoy what's around me.  I don't know that I've learned my lesson yet.  I've been thinking of trying to get to Cuba for the music, mostly, and Africa for the antipode, partially.  I'm losing vacation time when I don't take it and keep working.

The fact she came back to visit you indicates to me that you still have some sway with her.  She was probably a bit moved that you wanted to be amorous with her, and got a kick out of feeling in control.  So, you did that for her, and maybe that was what you wanted to do.  Maybe it wasn't a subconscious thing you did.  Maybe you planned it, knowing what the outcome would be.  If so, you are superior to her, and she fell for it.  She came back to you with a lame excuse of not knowing if you responded.  Congratulations.  You won after all.

It's good you set the record straight with her regarding time away, if that's the real reason for the breakup.  It doesn't matter, though, because you both know each other well enough, and at least you can talk.  I cannot talk with my ex nor do I ever want to.  She has totally convinced me it would do me no good, and she'd still think she's perfect.  Your Amy is a lot better than my ex.

I am actually impressed though Tim, that you have always been kind to her.  You've always professed your love for her.  It was her who made the mistake of leaving the marriage, and going so far as to break the temple thing, and yet you don't hate her.  I probably would.

You came to mind at least three times today.  I won't go into them specifically, but you've had a good influence on me in a number of ways.  I'm grateful for our friendship.

That and 10c will not buy you a cup of coffee.


And another email response to this post from my friend Bruce:

Thank you for sending this. It does bring a sense of resolution--in several ways, including your sense of where your life is and how you want it continue.  

But my biggest takeaway is--wow! the two of you achieved some honest communication after all! And it's worth noting that honest communication has to be two-sided at least if "communication" is taken in its literal meaning of sharing, communion, mutual partaking (which suggests mutual understanding).

Verses from Stories in Today's New York Post -- The secret séance rituals of America’s largest Spiritualist community -- Southwest flight attendant caught pilots watching bathroom livestream:suit -- Trump launches Twitter attack on Pelosi over impeachment bid.

Normal folks can ill afford/messing with a Ouija Board/If you want to raise the dead/visit an ex-spouse instead.

@ericspitznagel

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Peeping Toms are pilots sly/as they cleft the azure sky/They like bathroom landscapes, so/that explains why they fly low.

@benfeuerherd

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Trump and Twitter are like twins/almost like they're sharing skins/When the prez has got a beef/he will tweet for quick relief/and Pelosi feels his wrath/from his raw online warpath.

@LevineJonathan

Out of the midst of the fire

 Did ever people hear the voice of God speaking out of the midst of the fire, as thou hast heard, and live?
Deuteronomy 4:33

Some hear the voice of God and live

among their fellow men.

But others, when that song is sung,

are not quite sane again.

Still and small, that voice is hushed

but cannot be ignored.

I've heard it, Lord, I've heard it --

and I then went out and roared!