Who's really the fool?

A child wore a clown mask to school.

Her teachers then started to drool.

While being expelled

she suddenly yelled:

"I wonder who's really the fool?" 

Restaurant Review: Joe Vera's. Provo, Utah.

I entered Joe Vera's place at exactly 11:37 p.m., and already there were 12 customers seated ahead of me. I could tell it was a classy joint, because of the sign:

This sign in a restaurant means you are in the presence of ladies and gentlemen, and you had better watch your P's and Q's or Bruno who washes dishes in the back is let off his leash and allowed to maul you before tossing you out on your ear.

The decor is muted, with embroidered black felt sombreros hanging on the walls. I was hoping for the absence of mariachi muzak, but no such luck. Why do restaurants play canned music? Is it to make people eat more? I hardly think so; who wants to gorge in an elevator? The staff can't enjoy it. It calls to mind the season I spent working at Circus World down in Haines City, Florida, which featured an old-timey carousel that played "Strawberry Blonde" and "In the Good Old Summertime" over and over and over again. It could be heard everywhere in the park, and after about a week of such a steady diet I nearly succumbed to a gibbering dementia.

However, my mind is a strong one, able to leap tall ant hills in a single bound, so I stoically endured that musical torture amidst the dwindling orange groves -- just as I endured the mariachi tunes at the restaurant today. But it marks a man -- I still occasionally squirt blood from my eyes like a horned toad.

My idea of a great restaurant is one that is located in a functioning library, where everything is done in whispers and you can take down a book to peruse while awaiting your order.

My chips and salsa were brought right away, before you could say "Bob's your uncle." And they don't stint on the salsa, either. You get a little carafe of the stuff to drown your sorrows:

Like every Mexican restaurant I have ever been to, most of the chips were already smashed into the size of cracker crumbs -- so I had to pinch together a dozen little pieces to scoop up some salsa. This always leads to an unfortunate accident on my shirt front. I wind up looking like Pancho Via has just rampaged through and shot me in the chest.

I ordered something called a Bandido. It contained flour tortillas, refried beans, salsa verde, a goodly portion of melted cheese, lots of shredded lettuce, and a dab of sour cream and a smidgen of guacamole:

The waiter warned me when he placed it on the table to take care, the plate was very hot. Again, this is something I've noticed at every Mexican place I have ever patronized -- the main dish is always served on a platter that is always near a molten state of heat. Why is that? Do they microwave the stuff until it sizzles? I once asked my old pantomime Maestro, Sigfrido, Aguilar, who still has his Estudio Busquela de Pantamimo in Patzcuaro, Michoacan, Mexico, why Mexican food is always served on heated plates in the States. He told me: "It's only as hot as you want it to be." (He was also into Zen at the time.)

I was pretty hungry, so I had finished the whole homogeneous concoction and was sipping my raspberry lemonade before I realized I had not really tasted much of anything as I filled my pie hole. Call me uncouth if you will, but my taste buds had not been stimulated by the dish -- only lulled into a near coma by all the melted cheese. I had eaten ballast, taken on cargo, but not really dinned.
Even the refried beans had not made an impression, and usually they stand out like sliced wieners in a bowl of clam chowder. The best refried beans I've ever had was at the Que Pasa restaurant, run by Alex Janney, in Bangkok, Thailand. He's from Texas and he knows how to make 'em sing on your tongue. I once asked him for the recipe, to which he politely responded "Go to hell."

I guess some day, when my bitcoin investments pay off, I'll be able to afford to eat at a really ritzy joint where the chef personally prepares my dish with enough skill so I can taste each individual deftly utilized herb and spice, without resorting to an avalanche of melted cheese.
But until then, I give Joe Vera's a rating of 3 burps. Just because if you're hungry you'll get full, and if you bring kids they'll at least lick up all the melted cheese so you won't feel like you spent your money for nothing.
Total price of my Bandido (with a free drink) was $9.70.

The law is written by the airlines

“The law is written by the airlines,” Hassan said. “They have amazing discretion to treat people any way they see fit.”

from the Washington Post

When flying American skies

you're in for a nasty surprise

if you wear hijab

or Arabic blab -- 

or even have wrong-colored eyes.  

Pay up or else!

The U.S. has been struggling to combat an epidemic of scams targeting Americans online and by telephone. Authorities said that the fake call-center enterprise they cracked by tracing thousands of transactions is likely to be just the tip of the iceberg.

from the Wall Street Journal

This poem is a warning to you

that back taxes now have come due.

To avoid any clash

just pay me with cash -- 

the red tape I'm glad to cut through.

Alaska Lawyer Accuses Justice Thomas of Groping Her at 1999 Dinner Event

If famous, you'll have to be coping
with numerous charges of groping.
You're not a heart throb;
it comes with the job.
You should have spent more time eloping.

The Mormon Mafia

We are the Mormon Mafia/We're ready to attack/those who think a stake center/is some place for a snack/We are ev'rywhere disguised/as neighbors, friends, and folks/who never cuss and rarely laugh/at any dirty jokes/We have our secret signals/and our ways to say 'hello'/involving hearty handshakes/and a ton of green jello/If you try to cross us/we will fill your life with woe/whether you're in Utah or the wilds of Idaho/We think alike and act alike/and march to just one drum/If you think that you can sway us/then you are really dumb/McMullin in the White House/is our deviant goal, all right/We plan to sneak him in real soon/in the middle of the night/Resisting us is futile/we're like clean-cut Borg, you see/Our masters in Salt Lake/ will lead us on to victory!  

Chicago is awash in rats

Chicago is awash in rats. A mild winter last year allowed broods of baby rats to survive, leading to an explosion of the critters, terrorizing residents as they run around their yards and dumpsters. By September, there had been 27,000 rat complaints, a 40% increase from 2015.

from the Wall Street Journal

Chicago is lousy with rats.

The citizens hit them with slats.

They tried the Pied Piper,

and even a viper,

but nothing says "Death" like wild cats. 

Golden Lee Smith

If you have an issue with cops
you'd better have powerful chops.
With taser or gun
they'll stop all your fun,
unless you're a triceratops. 

A bizness with no R & D

American businesses are building fewer buildings and buying fewer machines, but they have continued to spend on a key ingredient of future productivity and economic growth: research and development.

from the Wall Street Journal

A bizness with no R & D

is playing with calamity. 

Great profits accrue

from any debut.

(Well, New Coke was more a Dead Sea)

Grocers Feel Chill From Millennials

Baby boomers used to bring long grocery lists to supermarkets and club stores. Now shoppers in their 20s and 30s are visiting supermarkets less frequently than their parents, government records and survey data show. They are spreading purchases across new options, including online grocery services such as AmazonFresh, beefed-up convenience stores and stronger food offerings from omnibus retailers like Wal-Mart Stores Inc. and Target Corp.

from the Wall Street Journal

A grocer exclaimed "Woe is me!"

"My shoppers depart gradually"

"My meat and my cukes
are treated like pukes"

"I'll now have to file bankruptcy!"