44 people were injured when a waterpark wave machine launched a crushing tsunami

I was enjoying myself at the arboretum, when all of a sudden the sprinklers were turned on -- with a vengeance! I mean, they were like fire hoses. I was knocked off my feet into the nasturtiums, my elbows and knees scrapped a bloody red. an elderly couple nearby were hurled into the duck pond and nearly suffocated when they swallowed some lily pads. to make matters worse the overhead sprinklers came on as well, so everyone inside the arboretum began to drown. the water came down in shoals, in tidal waves, in green thick sheets. what finally saved us all was the Saint Bernard dog that came barging through the emergency exit, dragging us out to safety one by one. without that brave creature we would all would have gone to our watery grave. 
when I gave the police my statement afterwards they were immediately skeptical. they asked me if I had been drinking. was I taking any recreational drugs at the time. could I locate a witness to verify my statements. that kind of thing. when I became indignant they hustled me into a black van in handcuffs.
"where are you taking me?" I cried in surprise and terror.
"to China" replied one of the cops. "they might swallow such fairy tales, but we sure don't here."  

When a Mega-Tsunami Drowned Mars, This Spot May Have Been Ground Zero

I look at Mars and wonder what

is the latest scuttlebutt;

Do the Martians still exist?

Are we on their own blacklist?

Maybe send them edelweiss

when we're probing for old ice . . . 

Fear not, for thou shalt not be ashamed

"Fear not, for thou shalt not be ashamed . . . "

3 Nephi 22: 4

What is there to dread, when God our lives discerns;

He knows for us what's best, and for our glory yearns.

No shame can ever touch the man or women who

grips the gospel staff and remains but true.

Two artists built seesaws across the U.S.-Mexico border. Then video of kids playing on them went viral

don't play in the Antone's yard, my mother commanded me when I was a kid. and don't let any of them come over here she further instructed. they were our next door neighbors, but mom had had a falling out with Mrs. Antone and so nobody in the family was allowed to set foot on their property. if she had a beef with them, we all had to have a beef with them. even as a child I knew that vendettas were a dumb idea. this one meant I couldn't go over to play with Jimmy Antone and mess around in his big garage where his father kept a bunch of rusty tools and bric-a-brac from his job on the railroad. 
mom got dad to hire someone to dig a trench and plant claw bushes along the boundary line between our two yards. the bushes grew fast and soon towered over the elm trees that had been planted on the street back in the 1920's. evil things lived in the claw bushes. things with red eyes and foul stench, that slithered and crept about at night, devouring infants right in their cradles. vampires moved into the claw bushes and it took the Minneapolis Fire Department two weeks to burn them out with napalm. our house caught fire during the vampire campaign, and we moved to a trailer park. which had a fine set of seesaws.

She was feeding the stray cats that kept her company. Now the 79-year-old is going to jail.

I was in my backyard, minding my own business, when this spaceship comes floating down onto the lawn and an alien steps out of it. nothing scary; just a humanoid with green rippling skin and a snout for a nose. before I could do anything the alien threw down a brown package, got back in its spaceship, and left as quietly and quickly as it had come. I poked the package with a stick, and since it didn't explode or anything I opened it up -- it was full of baked potatoes and grilled steak and chocolate layer cake, and a pot of California blend steamed vegetables. boy, did I eat good that day!
the next day I was in my backyard again, kinda hoping the alien would bring something good again. and it did! this time it was a Sicilian pizza with anchovies and a cobb salad. I tried to thank the alien but it sped off in its spaceship before I could say anything.
after that I was out in the yard every day, and every day that spaceship landed and the alien dropped off a delicious package. as the years went by I married and we had seven children, and I kept them well fed with those wonderful packages from the space alien.
then one day it didn't come. there was no food. we had to eat crackers and cheese. I never saw that spaceship or that alien again, and several of my children starved to death before I could remember how to go to work to earn money to buy food. 
That's why I'll never trust a space alien again -- they're murderers! 

A lawmaker wants to end ‘social media addiction’ by killing features that enable mindless scrolling (WaPo)

"it's not about addiction" said Crazy Henry. "it's about stale bread."
"how so?" I asked him, curious. we were at Minnehaha Park, trying to escape the intolerable wet heat of an August weekend. we'd each had 3 root beer floats from the A&W stand, and I was nursing a stomach ache in consequence. I had said I was addicted to root beer floats and that they were killing me.
for answer, he rummaged in his pants pocket and pulled out a piece of white bread, pressed into a pill. this he popped in his mouth. "there" he said. "a stale bread pill suppresses the addictive personality for up to 48 hours. a known scientific fact." "you're talking complete bosh, like always!" I shot back, my belly ache getting worse. I needed to find a park bathroom. "just try one before you burn me at the stake" he said, offering me a bread pill from his pocket. it was covered in lint but I took it anyway -- just to see if my stomach ache would go away. and it did! I began to feel both happy and drowsy. "what's in those bread pills of yours?" I asked him, as I slid onto a concrete park bench. but Crazy Henry wasn't there anymore. instead there was a giant pineapple grinning at me. "tell Congress I love them" were my last words as I sank into a coma.  

And he commanded them that they should not cease to pray in their hearts.

"And he commanded them that they should not cease to pray in their hearts."

3 Nephi 20:1

The heart is busy all the time

with love and hate and peace and crime.

Controlling it has been the dream

of mankind since his first dim gleam.

The Savior knows the heart of man,

has given us the perfect plan

to tame its passions for the bad

and help us prosper and be glad.

Keep a prayer inside your heart

and soon from sorrow you will part.

Praise God and talk to Him all day

so aches and grief won't want to stay.

The interpretation thereof by the gift of God.

"The interpretation thereof by the gift of God."

from the title page of the Book of Mormon.

In the realms with wisdom fraught,

where God is All and man is naught,

He condescending gave to one

the gift of insight ne'er undone

by wiles of man or devil's tools --

our Joseph showed them all as fools.

By gift of God did Joseph bring

to mankind an eternal spring

by rendering the golden plates

into a book that guides our fates.

To read it is a vision sweet.

Those who spurn it themselves cheat.

This book will live and verify

that Christ the Lord we deify. 

That’s not a storm over Las Vegas. It’s a grasshopper invasion.

the first plague was raspberries. they fell from the sky by the millions, covering the earth with a rich red fruity mush that made it impossible for cars to travel on roads or planes to take off from the tarmac. weather forecasters said it was caused by global warming, so they were all summarily executed and their bodies left out to rot along with the raspberries.
the next plague was plastic bags. the wind blew them in from desert places, where they had been secretly gathering for years. they enveloped the crops and orchards, smothering the food supply until starvation became inevitable. hysterical crowds stormed every plastic bag factory in the world, destroying the machinery and lynching anyone caught in a white shirt or blouse. 
the final plague was grasshoppers with body odor. they invaded the cities, driving people mad with their sweaty gym socks smell. those few who survived this onslaught went to Las Vegas for a vacation, where they lost all their ready money at the blackjack tables. 

Trump Lashes Out at Al Sharpton, Saying He ‘Hates Whites’ (NYT)

I saw a fair haired man at the market, glaring at the apples. he was muttering to himself and then he started to shake his fist at the bin of apples.
"Pardon me" I said to him, "I am a psychiatrist and I am wondering why you seem so upset with these apples." I'm actually a veterinarian, but since my practice failed I have passed myself off as many things, including a retired astronaut and a symphony orchestra conductor. it keeps me from stepping on turtles in a rage.
the fair haired man gave me a wild look, stepped close to me, and said "them apples is plotting against me. they have a shifty look about their stems, and I don't trust the way they are displayed. will you help me bring them to justice?"
I immediately said I would help him. because apples are getting too good of a reputation on social media -- it must be fake news put there by a foreign power bent on our destruction. apples need to be taken down a peg. I hear the mayor of Baltimore is an apple.
after we were jailed, he and I agreed that the system is rigged and that the only way a man can get any justice nowadays is to pretend to go along with the apple crowd. but our day will come . . . 

Fed Poised to Cut Rates for First Time Since Financial Crisis, Ending an Era

on Sundays I often go over to Crazy Henry's apartment for consolation. he gets me so mad I forget about the long gray hours after church. this particular Sunday was no different. after we shared popcorn and sardines for dinner, he casually remarked that the Fed would lower interest rates this week because he had recommended the action to his good friend the head of the Fed. I openly scoffed at him for saying such twaddle.
"do you even know the name of the head of the Fed?" I asked derisively.
"sure I do. Donald Meek" he replied as he put on ESPN. 
"Donald Meek was a character actor in the movies during the 1940's" I told him emphatically.
"coincidence makes for many strange bedfellows" was his only reply, as commentators began analyzing the latest soccer riot. Crazy Henry got us each a glass of tap water with an olive in it. "know what I think?" he asked. "what now, Bernanke?" I replied. "the market is soft so now's the time for the Fed to make good on its promises from the Geneva Convention" he said. I digested this piece of nonsense for a while, fishing the olive out of my glass and eating it. it was hollow; the pimento had fallen out or something.  
"what should I do with my portfolio then?" I finally asked him. "sell short and invest in bimetallism" he replied immediately. 
Like I said, he's crazy as a loon. 
turns out the soccer riots were taking place on Wall Street, according to ESPN. 

A cop accused McDonald’s employees of taking a bite out of his sandwich. Turns out, he ‘forgot’ he ate it.

when looking for suspects it is best to start with the ones nearest at hand. in other words, the family. bring in the mother and father first. look at them severely and say "what have you done?" if they don't immediately break down and confess, then move on to the children. take each one into a bare room with cinder block walls and leave them there for several hours all alone. then offer them a plea bargain if they will rat out their parents. 
after this procedure is followed, do a lineup. get a dozen random people off the street, line them up against harsh lights on a runway, and award one of them a prize for best original shoe size. if they don't confess to anything they should be told to leave town within 48 hours.
if all else fails start dusting for fingerprints and have the forensic lab analyze dust, pollen, and especially dandruff flakes from the scene of the crime. run the results through the Etch-a-Sketch; if a match is found issue an APB as well as a UPS and also a BVD. when all is said and done the only way to trap and convict suspects is with old-fashioned pimento loaf -- and hold the mayo. 

State senator from Arizona criticized for saying that ‘we’re going to look like South American countries’

🎩

I went to the tanning salon today and told them to make me look like South America. like the brave and humble people who wade through the Amazon River looking for gold-bearing piranha. like the gigantic one-eyed warriors of Patagonia. like the fabled Caribs, who filed their teeth and ate their enemies ear lobes after battle. like the men and women of the Andes whose breath is so sweet from chewing sweet gum leaves that hummingbirds follow them around like mosquitoes. but the attendant said she couldn't do that.

so I asked her to make me look like China. to give me wise eyes and a poker face that revealed nothing of my inner turmoil. to dress me in silk and harness me a jade dragon to fly me to Mongolia. but the attendant said she was all out of China -- they didn't expect any more in until next Tuesday.

in exasperation I asked what she could make me look like -- and she said she could make me look like the Pillsbury Dough Boy, since I already had a head start in that direction already.

"so be it" I commanded her. she and her technicians worked far into the night to turn me into a white flour icon -- and now I will stride through the land, raining biscuits and dumplings on a grateful people. 

Boris Johnson plays a clown. He’s really just a power-hungry nihilist. (WaPo)

I joined the circus when I was 17. bad home life. ran away. that kind of thing. I didn't know what I was doing as a clown for several years, until I earned the trust of the older veteran clowns. initially I was called a First of May, or a greaseball. but over the years, as I stuck around and applied myself -- whipping up the shaving cream soap for the pie fights, blowing up the balloons for the balloon chase, and making squibs for the blow-off -- the older clowns knew I was committed to a life of clowning, and they began to open up. they taught me how to take a slap and break a pratfall; how to sculpt foam rubber with an electric carving knife into buzzards and skunks and three tier wedding cakes, and then paint them with poster paint. they showed me their secret hidey holes in the prop boxes where they could take a quiet nap between shows. 
they were, for the most part, hardworking and sober men who took their comedy seriously. they were married, had families, sent their salaries home each week, tried to eat more lettuce and cottage cheese, and always kept an 'agent suit' in the bottom of their trunk in case a Hollywood agent ever showed up. the 'agent suit' was gold lame with silver braid and thousands of hand sewn spangles on it, and had zircons that lit up via batteries sewn into the pocket. they were very expensive to make and to maintain -- it's what the old clowns invested in instead of a 401(k)
most of them are dead now. Not a one of them ever made it to the White House or 10 Downing Street. 

A red state is plastering ‘In God We Trust’ on the walls of public schools. It’s mandatory.

the old bill poster sat in his rocking chair, sucking on a corncob pipe. "used to be" he said "we could put up circus posters and advertisements for corn plasters on the side of any barn in the land. nobody gave a hoot." he sighed and scratched the stubble on his wrinkled chin. "shoot, them farmers were glad to have us come by and brighten up the walls of their barns -- it was a good way to cover up the peeling paint and splintered wood." the old bill poster's head nodded forward as he fell asleep for a moment, snoring softly. he awoke with a start, and finding me still waiting patiently by his side he continued on with his thoughts.
"nowadays the dad-blasted government is posting their own stuff all over creation! they put it in schools and on billboards and along highway fences and I hear tell they's even going to get soldiers to stencil big letters along that there wall down on the border." the old bill poster put down his corncob pipe and spat into the yard. "no work left for the likes of me." the old bill poster slowly got up from his rocking chair and hollered into the house through the screen door "Hey Banksy, c'mon! Let's go shoot some pool down at the beer joint!" they left in an old pickup truck while I stayed behind to delouse the chickens.  

The other green stuff in your bagged lettuce: Frogs, snakes and lizards

The first review by scientists of wild animals found by customers in prepackaged produce makes clear that frogs are the trouble, and bagged lettuce and spinach are, by and large, their preferred medium.

Washington Post 

I ordered a salad today

and out of it flew a blue jay,

and then came a frog,

a pot belly hog,

and last slithered out a moray.

‘Would Dad Approve?’ Neil Armstrong’s Heirs Divide Over a Lucrative Legacy

I hereby bequeath onions to everyone I know and love. onions to my children, to peel and saute in butter for their pilafs. onions to my surviving siblings, to throw at each other in impotent rage. onions to any spouses I've picked up along the way and forgot to mention in my memoirs -- each one to get two twelve pound sacks along with a garland of garlic. to UNICEF I give scallions in the amount of sixteen pounds. and to the doctor that eases me into my grave I leave a used bottle of McCormick's dehydrated onions. you'll find it behind the Colman's Mustard tin on the shelf above the stove.

As homelessness crisis grows, the Trump administration has made few new efforts

💁👸👮👯👰👲👴👵

I saw that fair haired man again, coming out of a fancy restaurant. he accosted me as if we were intimate friends of long standing:

"Hiya, Tim old boy! Howz it goin'?"

I tried to give him the brush off by walking past without remark, but he grabbed my arm, and started talking:

"know what? there ain't no such thing as a homeless person. did ya know that, huh? Here, I'll show you!"

he strode off into an alleyway, and I had to follow him -- he had stuck his hand in my coat pocket and removed my wallet. when he found a poor old soul sitting next to a dumpster he pulled out a crisp brown paper bag, wrote HOME on it with a pencil, and put it over the man's head.

"there!" he chortled. "now he's in his home." next he found an old man and woman huddled inside a large cardboard box. he gave them each a Tote brand umbrella, pulling them out of his coat like Harpo Marx. "now you've got a roof over your head" he told them cheerfully.

"can I have my wallet back, please?" I asked him. 

"it's a matter of trust" he told me. "do you trust me?"

"no" I said. 

"good. we'll negotiate a deal where I keep your wallet for you and you won't go to jail for throwing rocks at war veterans."

his logic terrified me and enthralled me, so I continued to follow him as he gave homeless people chewing gum and plastic combs. I suddenly realized he was a misunderstood saint. a patriot who loved his country like he loved his fair hair. and I began to weep.

if only his noble efforts were recognized by the media! 

at the end of the day I was hungry, thirsty, dirty, and without any money. the fair haired man gave me a packet of kleenex and a box of paper clips as he skipped merrily down the lane singing 'here we go gathering nuts in May.'

I love that guy. 

An Equifax hack settlement promises a $125 payout. The truth is more complicated.

👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

congratulations. you are part of a twenty billion dollar settlement against a big honking corporation that did something wrong sometime in the past and has decided to now make amends by employing dozens of high priced lawyers to confuse and bamboozle you into thinking you're actually going to get something for nothing.

you will not be getting anything, but you will be spending quality time with adversarial persons interested in wasting your time and nullifying your importance as an individual. use this time with them wisely, because the way things are going you won't be spending much time with anybody anymore -- the polity of the entire country is shattered into such partisan shards that family members fight over who gets the wishbone from the baked ham on Sundays.

if you have any questions please call our toll free number, to be put on hold and then transferred to a temp who reads from a script and won't answer any of your questions unless it's in his or her script. the temps get paid minimum wage, with no benefits, so they really don't care a fig for you and your concerns. but they are someone to talk to when it's raining out and your cat won't purr.

Postcard to the President

Take my wife joke, please! A campaign trail cliche finally bombs

NO PICTURE AVAILABLE

this is not a piece about marriage. it is a piece about rain. how it can come gently or roughly, depending on so many conditions and circumstances that no human agency can really predict it with much accuracy. everyone experiences rain or the effects of rain. without rain there wouldn't be anybody around. very few people are against rain, but most people would agree that it can be inconvenient from time to time -- and from time to time it can actually be deadly, as in a cloudburst that fills an arroyo so fast it kills people hiking in it. you can't have rainbows without rain, but you can certainly have rain without any rainbows. some people go their entire lifetime in the rain without ever seeing a rainbow. those people are to be pitied. 
we most of us take rain for granted -- it's always been around and will always be around in the future. but global scientists are beginning to wonder if there could be an end to rain as we know it. there may come a time when the clouds refuse to form and water boycotts the evaporation process -- when blue skies turn to brass and the earth puckers up into a dusty rictus. then we'll see who has the last umbrella. 

‘The Squad’ Rankles but Pelosi and Ocasio-Cortez Make Peace for Now

👷💁💂💃👺👼💏💑💥

(dedicated to Sheryl Gay Stolberg)

"you need structure" the doctor said. "try making an enemy this week in order to discover what self esteem is all about." it sounded screwy to me, but he was the doctor and I sure needed something to get me out of my self-pitying hole. I could barely get out of bed in the morning and at night I wanted to hide under the kitchen sink.

so when I went to the market there was this cashier there, Evi from the Philippines. she always wore latex gloves when making change for me for the laundry. I decided to make her my enemy. "my money must be pretty dirty, huh?" I asked her one morning, when she looked pretty cranky. "What's that?" she asked, looking worried. "you can't bear to touch anything I've touched, right?" I pressed her. "Oh, the gloves . . . " she shook her head. "I got bad dermatitis on my hands -- gotta wear gloves all day or I get blisters that crack and bleed." "You need a new job" I told her frankly, forgetting about making her my adversary. "You can go down to Deseret Industries for counseling and help in getting trained for something else." now she got really mad at me. "Mind your own business, you fat pig!" she yelled at me. so she was my enemy, but I wasn't hers yet. I left the store without getting any laundry change and tried the 7-11, but they don't give change there.

I think my doctor is off his nut. I'm gonna get a new one, if Medicaid will let me.

‘It snuck up on us’: A ‘city-killer’ asteroid just missed Earth and scientists almost didn’t detect it in time

🙀😿😾😽😼😻😺😹😹😸😷

I went over to Crazy Henry's place to commiserate with him. his pet monkey had been run over by a beer truck. I found him contemplating a loose pile of rocks and trash on the asphalt in front of his apartment. he was eating Hostess Donettes from the bag. "is that the monkey's grave?" I asked him. "no" he replied. "I buried him next to my mother out in Saint Anthony Cemetery." "well then why are you looking at this mess of trash?" I asked him. "I am going to create a meteor out of it." we both looked at the pile for a while. I didn't feel like ragging him about it, since he had just lost something that had been part of him, in fact defined him, for many years past. I thought I was being respectful, but really I was just tired of his foolishness and knew if I kept on prodding he'd get me involved in his pointless activities. but Crazy Henry was never intimidated by silence. he just kept on talking as if I'd asked him to explain it all.

"See, I'm gonna meld all this stuff together with super glue, then shoot it out of a huge cannon, like Jules Verne wrote about, and when it falls back to earth it'll become a meteor. I'll charge scientists who want to come study it a huge fee so they'll have to get grant money for it. I'll clean up!" he was smiling, nearly chuckling, and his mood was infectious. 

"You'll need Big Bertha" I told him.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Biggest cannon in the world; they used it in World War One" I told him.

"Can I get it online?" he asked eagerly.

"Why not?" I said expansively. But then I turned around and went back home; I felt Crazy Henry was making me his new pet monkey.

Democrats struggle to figure out next move against Trump after Mueller hearing falls flat

I couldn't figure out my next move, as I sat on the edge of a pool of quicksand. the muddy quicksand felt cool and refreshing on my bare feet as I wiggled my toes in it. I remembered reading somewhere that quicksand is full of mineral nutrients that soften skin and retard odor causing bacteria. then there was the sign on the other side of the pool that read GUARANTEED SAFE BY GOOD HOUSEKEEPING. 
but both my parents had perished in a quicksand pit on the upper Orinoco River when I was a child. they were ornithologists, looking for rare birds.  and I knew from my studies at Florida State University that alligators often inhabited quicksand pools. 
so I was in a quandary. should I go in or should I stay out? I had taken a great deal of trouble getting to this spot; spent a lot of money and slugged it out with competitors who also wanted to sit where I was now sitting. I decided to just keep sitting there, waiting for a sign. diamonds falling from the sky. flowers floating through the air. men with ears on their feet. that kind of thing. 
that was a long time ago; I'm still waiting.  

The poetry, prose and physics of baseball

the baseball maker of Storm Lake works in a shabby shop on Erie Street. he only makes one baseball each year. the baseball that the president of the United States throws out on opening day. after the president throws the ball out onto the field, the umpire takes care of it until he can reach Cooperstown, where he places it in the museum in a tin box with IN GOD WE TRUST stamped onto the lid. those baseballs will save the country one day when rottenness has eaten away at our faith in home runs and apple pie.
the baseball maker of Storm Lake is very humble and quiet. most people in town have no idea what he does, or how he does it. he mows his lawn and takes his trash to the curb in such an unassuming manner that no one really suspects that he can infuse a leather covered horsehair ball with magic. he never brags about it. he likes to watch the Golf Channel. he never married, so he is troubled about how to pass on his trade and craft secrets. he has a nephew, his sister's son -- but the boy wants to play soccer, not slowly stitch together the world. it looks like when the baseball maker of Storm Lake passes on, he will be supplanted by the softball maker of Oshkosh. 

In ‘The Lager Queen of Minnesota,’ two long-estranged sisters are brought together by beer

👀👂👃👄👃👂👀👂👃👄

Professor Barbara teaches creative writing at the university. at least when she remembers to show up she does. I took her class years ago, before I was married, and half the time she forgot she had class because she was very involved in a DR Congo educational grant proposal that would put schools all over the country that she would be in charge of. she still is involved with Congo projects. come to think of it, she probably should retire from the university. I've been retired for years now. but she really doesn't seem to age. her red hair is just getting brighter, not fading at all. her skin is as smooth as vellum.

I wrote a novel while taking her class, but I lost the manuscript years ago. I think the title was How to Play Pinochle at the Pine Tavern. this was back in typewriter days. and after I finished typing it up I realized I hadn't paginated it -- there were no page numbers. so I numbered each page by hand, in blue ink. I submitted it to Professor Barbara as my Final, and got a B for my trouble. but she went to the Congo before I got my manuscript back and by the time she came back I had moved to Thailand. 

it might have become a bestseller. I might have never been on food stamps. and why does Professor Barbara not age? 

I saw her at the rec center just last week and she is ripe, not old. I am afraid to ask her about the past. she might shatter. 

Border Patrol chief was a member of racist Facebook group — and says she didn’t notice

I didn't notice the crack until it was too big to patch. I was busy with muscular activities that took all my time. I had assistants who were supposed to look out for just such things; they let me down. big time. plus my schedule is such that I only allow myself 17 minutes of sleep each night, and only five minutes to drink smoothies five times a day. otherwise I am completely caught up in my duties, to such an extent that I haven't seen my spouse and children in over ten years -- I'm not even sure where they are anymore.
but it's all good, really. I'm serving my country by keeping it safe from bindlestiffs and noodgers. not to mention half-hearted foozlers. still, I'm sorry for the crack. I take full responsibility for it, and will make it right. soon, very soon. I plan on taking action to alert all other regions of this crack and to alert the president to the fact that a crack has developed and at this point cannot be patched or mended. then leave it up to him to decide how to handle the situation on a national basis. locally, I'm having my crew round up all the usual crevices in the area for routine questioning and possible relocation to a nook and cranny reeducation camp. 

Mueller’s Labored Performance Was a Departure From His Once-Fabled Stamina (NYT)

👱👲👱👲👱👲👱👲👱👲👱👲

the ennui anarchists have struck again. this time right in our nation's capital! they snuck up on congress and infiltrated a witness so boring and meandering that the entire body was in danger of falling into a coma.  only the vigilance of the pages kept the congressmen and women from keeling over in a dead faint, possibly cracking their heads open on those hard oak lecterns of theirs. 
after the legislators were taken to stimulating safety, where they could play video games and eat wasabi sushi rolls, the ennui squad moved in for the kill. first they hosed him down with glycerin, then covered him with baking soda. but he still kept droning on, dropping his notes on the floor and fumbling with the microphone. so the squad had to get tough. they shut off the electricity, hoping the lack of air conditioning would get to the ennui anarchist. but he just took off all his clothes and began using pie charts. at this point the President ordered a nuclear strike, telling reporters he had no other choice.
the radiation is expected to dissipate in twenty years or so -- until then congress will be meeting at the Walmart on lexington and vine.

California deli owner offered a free side dish to customers who said ‘send her back’

(dedicated to Tim Carman)


the recipe for venom soup is as follows:

take one foreign scapegoat. make sure it is young, tender, and idealistic.

flay it on social media until softened to the consistency of puerility.

marinate it in self righteous bile and xenophobia. salt and pepper to taste.

meanwhile mix bitter herbs with plenty of vinegar, sour grapes, and spilt milk. set aside long enough to post a decent amount of balderdash on Facebook.

combine all ingredients and let it stew in your mind. after several hours add some cracked brains and serve immediately, garnished with ignorance. 

A glacier is dead. A monument will tell visitors whose fault it was. (WaPo)

(Dedicated to Morgan Krakow)

my friend Crazy Henry got 2 tickets from Icelandic Airlines for a round trip to Reykjavik and back. I don't know how he got them; he's always getting stuff for free. one time he got a live turkey in December and kept it in his garage because he couldn't stand the thought of killing it. it finally escaped through a broken window and terrorized the neighborhood for months with its strange threatening mating cry. 
in Reykjavik we found an economy hotel with free cereal and milk in the morning. I asked the clerk how to get to the nearest glacier.
"they're all gone" he said, in perfect English. "what do you mean they're all gone?" I asked. "the last one melted away last spring" he said, snowflakes trickling down his cheeks. when I told this to Crazy Henry he said no use crying over spilt glaciers let's go see some volcanoes. but the same clerk told me there were no more volcanoes, either. they had all moved south to Italy. he was a total wet blanket, was that clerk.
so we toured a lichen farm and watched the sardine migration from a lighthouse. now that we're back home Crazy Henry is trying to grow a glacier in his backyard. "it only takes one ice cube a day and infinite patience" he says. while we were gone he lost his job at the Creamette factory. He didn't bother to tell them he would be gone for two weeks. 

Campers stay overnight to snag a spot for Salt Lake's Days of '47 Parade (Deseret News)

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I passed a man sitting in a lawn chair on the street this morning. I myself was feeling fine, so I stopped to ask him what he was doing, instead of hurrying on and muttering about all the crazy people in the world.

"I'm waiting for a parade" he said.

"what parade?" I asked.

"oh, any parade that might happen by." he said.

"you expecting one soon?" I asked.

"there's no telling when a parade might come lolloping past here, so I want to be prepared." he replied brightly, nothing daunted by my mounting skepticism. 

I decided he needed some grounding, so I told him that you can't have a parade down a busy street without a permit and that, what with social media nowadays, there would be notices of an upcoming parade all over the place. in other words, he was wasting his time just sitting there. It was warm out, so I started to perspire as I tried to convince him of his immense folly. he just smiled back at me and said "looking for a parade is better than missing one." I went home for a lawn chair and now we are both on the lookout for a parade. 

Trump and Johnson: Allies in Disruption

I'm losing my grip on the English language. maybe my interest, too; since it no longer is used the way I like it.
what's the deal with disrupt and disruption? when I caused a disruption in class I was sent to the principal's office. you never wanted to be called a disruptive influence at work -- you could lose your job. communists are disruptive, not patriotic Americans. but now it's apparently a good thing to be disruptive. disruptive marketing and disruptive startups and disruptive planets breaking us out of orbit. my son does stuff with social media, which makes him enough money to buy a big house freshly painted and with clipped hedges -- he asked me to write 500 words on disruptive advertising for one of his innumerable blogs. "what's that?" I asked him. "it's anti-advertising; going against the perceived wisdom and experience of marketing to establish a whole new level of consumer consciousness" he said. I turned him down. I told him there's no positive in disruption. not in this world. and I would stick to my guns and deplore disruption in high places and low, until the forces of disruption come to get me.

Theresa May to step down, Boris Johnson to become U.K. prime minister, in elaborate transition of power

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I rarely initiate an action, but I'll usually join in once it starts. like the other day when I was over at Crazy Henry's house. it's an old weather beaten place that needs a new roof and has squirrels running through the attic. "we should rename the mayor" said Crazy Henry. I paid no attention; there was a Twins game on. they were winning for once. "I'm going to hold a plebiscite to change his name to Junior" said Crazy Henry a few minutes later. now the Twins were losing, so I turned towards Crazy Henry.

"why Junior?" I asked. "because it will put him in his place" he said. "I'm going door to door right now with a petition. Wanna help?" "sure thing" I said, "as long as I don't have to do anything." 

he grabbed a yellow legal pad and a Bic pen and was out the door, with me following. 

we went to three houses before anyone answered. a man eating a raw onion refused to sign, but said he would pray for us. the next house had a barking dog in the yard, so we skipped it. at a duplex we talked to two women who spoke no English. Crazy Henry gave them each a dollar and they signed his petition.

"that's a good day's work" said Crazy Henry. "let's go back to my place and verify signatures." so we did. I couldn't make out either one of the signatures Crazy Henry had paid for, but he wanted to count them anyways. I can't abide civic fraud, so I refused his offer of Van Camp's pork & beans and walked home in the rain.

While bemoaning Mueller probe, Trump falsely says the Constitution gives him ‘the right to do whatever I want’ (WaPo)

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I saw the fair haired man again. this time he was walking through the park pulling flowers out by their roots and tossing them on the sidewalk. no one stopped him. the park police were following him in their car, taking photographs and eating pork rinds.

he went after a patch of daisies that I particularly enjoyed looking at, so I barred his path -- though my heart was leaping up my throat.

"I like those flowers" I told him. "please don't destroy them. that's a waste of taxpayer's money."

"hah!" he replied. "I am protecting tax payers against these lazy daisies that do nothing but sit around and soak up the light. they should go to work so they can buy their own sunlamps." I found his illogic strangely appealing. I felt my brow turning to brass. "we could pull up the Persian roses instead" I told him. "I never did care for them." an hour later all the Persian roses were gone and our hands were bloody. the park police finally got out of their car to ask us for our autographs. 

How to Get a $5,000 Amazon Credit: Buy a House Through Realogy (NYT)

I was bothered by muckleheads in the winter and punkies in the summer, so I decided to move. I chose a neighborhood where the fire hydrants were all painted to look like garden gnomes. my realtor, Anne, showed me several homes in the area, but none of them were quite what I wanted. Anne became a little frustrated. "just exactly what are you looking for in your new home?" she asked me pointedly. "well" I said, "outside of the garden gnome hydrants, I want a place that makes me feel it is swell with my soul. plus a double garage." "Okay" she replied. "I think I have just the place for you." we drove down a street shaded by elms to a house on a corner lot, surrounded by a white picket fence. a wonderful place, I could tell even before going inside. I told Anne she was a genius -- this was the house I wanted. when we got inside she marched into the kitchen, where a family sat at lunch, and told them to leave immediately -- their house was sold. "but we aren't selling our beautiful house" said the father. "it's heaven on earth." Anne pulled out a starter's pistol and began firing over their heads, until they had all jumped out the windows screaming and running away.
I felt bad for them, but I was able to move in that same week. and Anne filled the double garage with real garden gnomes for me. she is worth every cent of her commission. 

Postcard to the President. (by guest artist Lance Read)

The trailer for the Mister Rogers movie is out, and people are so ready for a wholesome biopic

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"I wish I were Mister Rogers" I told Professor Barbara one day, as we walked along the Provo River Trail. "he represents the male ideal." I was trying to impress her with some beautiful sentiments. we continued to walk in silence. she often remains silent and lets me do all the talking. other times she begins on something and won't let go of it for hours. I managed to say one more thing before she spoke. I said "human goodness is as rare as hare's milk."

"ewe's milk makes better cheese" she began. "in Germany they often pair it with veal or pork sausage, along with boiled potatoes or cabbage."

the wind blew her hair into a red nest of fury. I could smell sewage from the river. we sat at a wooden picnic table to watch the leaves do nothing. then we each took a splinter with us back to our separate homes. 

Trump administration proposal would push 3 million Americans off food stamps

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I cherish my connection with Professor Barbara. she is smart, vivacious, and has flaming red hair that grows brighter the older she gets. so I asked her "why is Trump such a jerk?" and she said "in the Congo they rarely have good internet connections."

I pondered this answer a good long while, and finally decided I was not smart enough to understand it. so I asked the Man on the Street the same question. he was right there on a street corner, with a cardboard sign around his neck that read "Man on the Street." his answer was "go talk to Professor Barbara some more, son." "do you know her?" I asked him. "the Man on the Street knows everything" he replied loftily, and then ascended into the seventh heaven.

I went back to Professor Barbara, who was simply radiant with red hair and kindly brain power. "is my perception of Trump all wrong?" I asked her. "is he a good man trapped in a bad situation?" "you are not wrong" she replied, buffing her nails with an encyclopedia. "in Guatemala they have a saying --"

"oh, shut up" I told her. "let me take you to Queen Anne Kiddyland."

Facebook vs the feds: The tech giant will have to pay a record fine for violating users’ privacy. But the FTC wanted more.

I had to pay an enormous fine. I didn't have the money for it, and 
if I didn't pay by noon I'd have to appear in front of the Board of Inquiry. I was desperate, so I went to find Crazy Henry; he always has some screwball scheme, and sometimes they actually worked. I found him down at the drugstore, eating a box of Whitman's Sampler right in the middle of the aisle. I told him my problem. he thought about it a minute and then said "pay for these chocolates, will ya, and then we'll run off to my cabin up in British Columbia." "you have a cabin in British Columbia?" I asked in surprise. "Sure" he said, "doesn't everyone?" so I paid the fuming cashier and we took off for the Canadian border.
once across we hitchhiked to Victoria. "is your cabin around here?" I asked him. "Nope" said Crazy Henry. "I haven't got one. Just made that up to help a pal." "What!" I screamed at him. "Where will we live, how will we get along?"
Crazy Henry just smiled at me and said "as long as there are drugstores at least we won't starve." 

How Much Is a View Worth in Manhattan? Try $11 Million (NYT)

Crazy Henry lives in an old apartment building in a crummy section of downtown. he used to have a big drafty house out by the lake, but the roof needed replacing and it cost a fortune to heat in the winter, so he sold it for next to nothing and moved into an apartment with his pet monkey. I don't know why the landlord ever let him rent with a monkey in tow. my guess is that the landlord doesn't know about it. 
the last time I visited Crazy Henry he was upset about a billboard for Bernie Sanders they put up across the street where the freeway cuts through town. even without the billboard there's nothing to see but freeway traffic and warehouses, but Crazy Henry said he wanted his pristine view back.
 "what are you gonna do about it?" I asked him, knowing he'd have some nutty plan in mind. "I'm gonna sneak out tonight with my chain saw and cut it down" he said. "Oh, don't be such an idiot" I told him, "you can't do that." "Sure I can! Tonight right after the ten o'clock news I'll do it. Wanna help me?" he said. "Okay" I said, suddenly feeling very excited. 
but that night after the ten o'clock news Crazy Henry's monkey escaped out the window, so we spent half the night looking for it. we found it climbing up the Bernie Sanders billboard, like King Kong. 
"this is poetic justice" said Crazy Henry. we left the monkey there and went back to his place for a Totino's cheese pizza.

Macy’s pulls plates that say a meal is ‘skinny jeans’ or ‘mom jeans’ size

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I took Crazy Henry shopping, basically because he always got himself kicked out of stores before he could buy things he needed. he is a complete nut, is Crazy Henry. for instance, once we went into a bridal shoppe, just because he wanted to find out if they sold the little man and wife statues you put on top of the wedding cake. they didn't. then he climbed on top of a display case and wrapped himself in chiffon. "I'm camouflage" he told me happily, as the manager called the police. we got out of there fast.

today he needed socks and underwear, but he insisted on going to the hardware store for them. I told him he was crazy; they wouldn't have such things there. but they did; big economy packages of white tube socks and Fruit of the Loom seconds, right next to the bins that hold nails and screws. I don't know why, but I felt offended that a neighborhood hardware store, where I go to buy hammers and plate glass and gaskets, now carries men's underwear. I told the manager I thought it was kinda strange he had such stuff in stock. know what he said?

"it's a Facebook thing. now get your friend to stop chasing flies with a yardstick before I call the police."

Sammy the one-winged bald eagle survived a shooting. Now he’s the victim of a birdnapping.

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in my hometown someone kidnapped a large plastic statue of Ronald McDonald. it stood in the parking lot and was a great attraction for tourists coming through on their way to the lakes and mountains -- they'd stop to take a family photo in front of it, smiling and dreaming of fat trout and mountain ash groves full of healing pine siskins.

but then the statue was stolen one spring night, just as the tourist season began. unscrewed from its base and carried away. McDonald's offered a five hundred dollar reward for its return, no questions asked. the newspaper said it was undoubtedly a prank by some community college students. the chief of police hinted darkly that eco-terrorists were behind the whole thing.

but I thought I knew who did it. my friend Crazy Henry. he was always up to something foolish. so I asked him "did you steal that Ronald McDonald statue?" "Maybe" he replied, then got in his chariot pulled by two goats and fled to Montana. he hasn't come back yet, and he owes me 27 dollars.   

My Frantic Life as a Cab-Dodging, Tip-Chasing Food App Deliveryman (NYT)

(dedicated to Andy Newman)


I ordered fried ancient grains with a carton of milk thistle fed pork barbecue. the delivery guy was at my door within ten minutes. he was tall and muscular, with a soul patch and green sorcery in his eyes. I thanked him for the food, then handed him twelve Kennedy half dollars for a tip. 
"what's this, man?" he demanded.
"your tip" I said simply.
"I gotta carry this bunch of metal around wid me all day?" he asked testily. 
"well, yes, I suppose you do" I said. "they're getting rarer and rarer -- could be worth a deal of money someday." I added helpfully.
"I ain't workin' for someday -- I work for today; and today you have weighed me down with ten pounds of metal."

and that's why, officer, I am hiding under my bed right now after dialing 911.   

‘He always doubles down’: Inside the political crisis caused by Trump’s racist tweets

I met a fair haired man walking out of the woods. he carried nothing with him but a bag of banana chips. 
"where are you going?" he asked me.
"I am undecided about that" I replied honestly.
"come with me, then. I am going to step on people's toes. it's excellent sport!"
"doesn't sound such an excellent sport to me" I told him. "what if somebody punches you in the face for doing it?"
"they never do that; they just hop away to tell others how rude I am."
"and you like that?" I asked him.
"like it? I love it! the big plus is that a lot of other people will defend my actions and build me up as a hero. So come with me and step on toes and you'll be a hero too!" he held out his arms imploringly.
what the heck, I thought to myself; I'll stomp on a few toes and see what happens. I ground my heel into the toes of an old man who was wearing sandals. his toes started to bleed. this was bad. I tried to apologize to him but he wept as he took out a bag of banana chips to give to me. He thought I was trying to rob him. I went home after that, to think about my actions. those banana chips sure tasted good. 

An onslaught of pills, hundreds of thousands of deaths: Who is accountable? (WaPo)

three sailors brave went searching for accountability on the green sea. their ship was unnamed and their captain was unknown. but away they went to find out who was accountable, and for what.
the first sailor, named Ben, spotted a narwhal and harpooned it with a boat oar. they drained the narwhal of blood, sliced away its blubber, and unscrewed its horn. but didn't find any accountability. so Ben had to walk the plank.
the second sailor, Terri, dragged the sea bottom with a net, bringing up brine worms and bottle caps -- and one chest of pirate gold. but the gold could be accounted for by the reputable CPA firm of Hoskins & Battleworth. so not only was Terri denied any gold but she had to go home to her parents without a merit badge.
Khun Praphan was the third sailor brave. he had indecent tattoos on his fingernails and smoked a conch shell pipe. he did not look for accountability, but waited for it to come to him -- which it did, in the form of a sea gull. inside the sea gull he found incriminating evidence that was turned over to the proper authorities. now Khun Praphan has a condo in Miami, where he makes origami party hats.

Two senators want antifa activists to be labeled ‘domestic terrorists.’ Here’s what that means.

domestic terrorists have struck again. this time they've raided countless supermarkets and grocery stores, ripping the labels off cans and scattering them everywhere. there's no way to know now if you're buying a can of corn or a can of vienna sausages. or dog food. it's a terrible crisis that capital hill is handling as best it can. yet it points up a glaring deficiency in our labeling technology that needs to be addressed immediately.
that is why Clark County Visionaries for a New America have begun a grassroots campaign to have all canned goods rigged to explode when anyone tampers with their labels. any godless terrorist who tries to yank the label off a can of Chef Boyardee Beefaroni will have their hands blown off -- and serves 'em right, too. of course, there is a slight chance of collateral damage if a child or careless adult mishandles a label, but that is a small price to pay to keep America fed.
the frozen food industry issued a statement today that said, in part, "There's never a snag if you use a bag!"