Their skins will be whiter than yours

 O my brethren, I fear that unless ye shall repent of your sins that their skins will be whiter than yours, when ye shall be brought with them before the throne of God.

Jacob. Chapter Three. Verse 8.

It really won't matter a bit

the color our skin does emit;

If we misbehave,

then no one can save

us from anguish down in the pit.

How Crooked is Wells Fargo? -- Facebook Stock Takes a Nosedive -- GDP Spike Called 'Unhealthy' by Economists

The two letters cited goals for Wells Fargo product sales that led employees to push customers into products that generated more fees or to move client assets between different products or investing platforms to generate more revenue—and bigger bonuses for employees.

WSJ

Of course not all bankers are sharks,

and some of them sing with the larks.

But I'd rather trust

my precious gold dust

with anyone else, like Karl Marx. 

Bye, $100 billion.  That’s the bitter pill Facebook swallowed Thursday as years of security lapses pulled the company’s market capital down by more than $100 billion. The cliff dive was the largest single-day drop in value in Wall Street history.

Washington Post

I wouldn't buy Facebook stock now

because this once famous cash cow

has stumbled and crashed

and people's dreams trashed -- 

because it treats data like chow.

The United States economy grew by a whopping 4.1 percent last quarter, and President Donald Trump took to the podium Friday morning, giving a speech in the White House South Lawn where he took credit for the growth and promised that the high numbers would be sustained throughout his presidency. Leading economists, however, are not so sure.
Newsweek

I wonder what Trump's gonna think
when all of it goes down the sink.
His tariffs and taxes
are acting like axes --
he'll make Mrs. Trump hock her mink!

And salvation is free

. . .  and salvation is free.

Second Nephi. Chapter Two. Verse 4.

The cost of my salvation is the price of my assent

that Jesus Christ is Savior and he lived with pure intent.

And with that sure conviction I have found my life a gift,

given in abundance and with no thought of mean thrift.

To those who think salvation is superfluous at best,

that dependence on the God of Hosts is simply jest,

I say that your salvation is both near and fully free --

but only through the Lamb of God who hung upon a tree. 

Why Mexican Journalists Can't Buy Life Insurance

Ruben Pat was the second journalist killed in a month from Semanario Playa News, the online publication he founded. He was at least the seventh journalist killed this year in Mexico, one of the deadliest countries for journalists.    LATimes

A journalist in Mexico has life expectancy

of not much more than somewhere 'round the age of thirty-three.

They disappear so often that it's hard to keep them straight,

or remember in which way they met their awful fate.

I wonder why they don't give up, since no one takes their side.

I guess it's cuz they're stubborn and have too much honest pride.

It's sad to think in Mexico when young people decide

on careers as journalists they're choosing suicide!

The Lord Remembers the Jews

Yea, and ye need not any longer hiss, nor spurn, nor make game of the Jews, nor any of the remnant of the house of Israel; for behold, the Lord remembereth his covenant unto them, and he will do unto them according to that which he hath sworn.   Third Nephi. Chapter Twenty-Nine. Verse 8.


The Lord sees no minorities upon His footstool here.
The days of stark oppression He decrees must disappear.
Each heart that's turned to Jesus knows the promised land of peace;
and that the cry for justice on this earth must never cease.
Those who hiss and spurn the Jews, or other oppressed tribes,
will reap the judgement of the Lord He gave to ancient scribes. 

Before the Age of Demographics

There was a time, my little nippers, when the concept of 'demographics' was limited to dismal drudges called actuaries -- pathetic men who toiled over statistics and averages all day in an airless office in the bowels of insurance buildings for their rapacious masters, in order to inform them of how long an average white Caucasian male residing in Ohio could be expected to live before kicking the bucket. The dismal science of demographics was never applied to anything but selling life insurance. 

With no demographics to emphasize our differences, the world as I knew it as a child was as homogenized and undemographic as a bottle of milk from Ewald Brothers Dairy. Everyone looked alike, acted alike, and thought alike. Our duty as American citizens was to blend in. Niche marketing? Not likely! It was assumed by all parties that everyone wanted to be the same as everyone else. 

Advertising agencies figured that everyone wanted to smoke, so on television I could watch Jed Clampett or Fred Flintstone puffing merrily away on Winstons. Sub rosa, we kids took the Winston's jingle, which began "Winston tastes good like a cigarette should" and burlesqued it thus: "Winston tastes bad like the one I just had -- no filter, no flavor, just cotton-pickin' paper . . . "

In the late Fifties not everyone and his dog had a television set. So on Sunday evenings my parents would occasionally host an impromptu gathering of neighbors who lacked a boob tube -- to watch The Ed Sullivan Show. That was a show that cocked a definite snook at the whole concept of demographics. It featured high brow opera selections cheek by jowl with Topo Gigio, while circus acrobats rubbed shoulders with the tone deaf Mrs. Miller or the trills of Tiny Tim. For my money, nobody could hold a candle to the Spanish ventriloquist Senor Wences.   

I took standardized tests in school. Lots of 'em. They had to make sure I was standardized, and that I stayed that way.

 Fathers worked. Mothers were housewives. Little boys had crew cuts. Little girls played with Chatty Cathy or Betsy Wetsy dolls. Deviations were not tolerated. I recall a poor kid in my fourth grade class who was left-handed. His parents put a soft cast on his left arm, forcing him to use his right hand for writing and eating. He cried a lot, and sometimes didn't make it to the boy's room in time.

Everyone had the same magazines on their coffee table: Good Housekeeping, the Saturday Evening Post, Redbook, and Look. 

Demographics played no conscious part in the immigrant background of everyone in the neighborhood. My best friend Wayne Matsuura's parents spoke Japanese when they didn't want us eavesdropping. My dad swore lustily in Norwegian, and my mother yelled "firme la bouche" at me so frequently when I was little I thought it was my first name. The Ciattis on the corner had so many pots of oregano and basil on their porch that it looked like a Jungle Jim movie set. We kids suspected their crabby grandmother was an Italian witch, who flitted about the night skies riding on a pepperoni pizza. They were all just our neighbors, some good, some pesky -- but we never divided them into demographic categories. That was census taker work -- those nosy Parkers who came by once every ten years, or so my mother told me.

Yet in my case I may be making too much of this staid amalgam and how contented I was with it. For I can also remember a Bing Crosby tune I heard as a boy that nagged at me all through grade school and then high school. It's called "Far Away Places." Here are the lyrics:

Far away places with strange sounding names
Far away over the sea
Those far away places with the strange sounding names are
Calling
Calling me
Goin' to China or maybe Siam
I wanna see for myself 
Those far away places I've been reading about in a 
Book that I took from a shelf
I start getting' restless whenever I hear the whistle of a train
I pray for the day I can get underway
And look for those castles in Spain
They call me a dreamer
Well maybe I am
But I know that I'm burning to see those 
Far away places with the strange sounding names
Calling, calling me

And I read a book as a boy, called "A Wrinkle in Time" by Madeline L'Engle, from which my horror of conformity sprang. And so I joined the circus a few months after graduating from high school, to find those far away places and to escape the clutches of conventionality. And to make people laugh, of course. 

But all that was long, long ago, my poppits. Now I am trapped in the demographic group known as 'Baby Boomers,' and the digital marketers know exactly what I need. I get pop up ads for Preparation X, Caribbean cruises, Asian girlfriends, assisted living condos, and Metamucil. 

But I'll never give in to those cyber hucksters. I've made it a hard and fast rule to never click on any digital ad. Ever. But, of course, if they could somehow resurrect Senor Wences and he endorsed a product, well then I just might take a gander at it.  

Foreign cars to disappear from American roads -- Do you brush your teeth in the shower? -- Gwyneth Paltrow

Several of President Trump’s senior economic advisers believe he plans to push forward with 25 percent tariffs on close to $200 billion in foreign-made automobiles later this year, three people briefed on internal discussions said.

Washington Post 

farewell to the foreign built car

the tariffs on them will sure mar

their sales until they

have faded away --

and we're driving lemons on tar

A 2014 survey by Delta Dental Plans Association, a dental-insurance provider, found 4% of Americans, or about 13 million people, say they brush most frequently in the shower. People between 18 and 44 were twice as likely to brush in the shower as older Americans, according to the survey    WSJ

I often shower, shave, and brush,

all at once and in a rush.

This has led to actions weird --

like shaving teeth and brushing beard.

Thanks goodness I don't comb my hair

or try to wash my underwear.

From now on when I first awake

I'll jump into the nearest lake . . . 

“I want to help you solve problems,” Gwyneth Paltwo said. “I want to be an additive to your life.” Her company Goop is now worth $250 million, according to a source close to the company.   NYT.May

May we introduce you to Goop? -- a bundle of brands in a group -- from sex toys to books -- to finding good looks -- that Paltrow can find any dupe.  

Wading through affliction

And we did travel and wade through much affliction in the wilderness . . . 
First Nephi. Chapter Seventeen. Verse 1. 

I meet with deep afflictions as I travel to my home;
it makes me eager to find rest and loath to further roam.
The wilderness I'm facing grows more devious and steep;
and sometimes in my weakness I can do no more than weep.
What draws me ever onward as through hardships I do wade
is the love I feel from Jesus, even though I may have strayed.
There is no army ever marched to better martial airs,
there is no mountaineer that ever climbed more rocky stairs,
than those who travel with me to our place of final peace --
a Throne that never falters and provides but sweet increase.

Maine Governor Refuses to Disburse Medicaid Payments -- Detroit Cops Jail Elderly Man Without Proper Warrants -- Russia Still Hacking Our Infrastructure

Ignoring the binding vote, Maine Gov. Paul LePage has refused to expand the Medicaid program, blasting it as a needless, budget-busting form of welfare. He vetoed five expansion bills before the issue made the ballot, plus a spending bill this month that provided about $60 million in funding for the first year. Earlier this month he went so far as to say he would go to jail “before I put the state in red ink” by adding at least 70,000 more low-income adults to the state’s Medicaid population of 264,000.

NYT

If I were a patient in Maine

and asking for healthcare in vain

because an old fink

is 'fraid of red ink

I'd try Christian Science for pain. 

Chrys Cline was picked up . . . by law enforcement in the Detroit area after officers checked his name and discovered he is wanted for missing court dates during the summer of 1989.

Washington Post

Cops have a long memory

when it comes to old felony.

No one's out of reach

for some ancient breach;

they're jugged in the blink of an eye.

Hackers working for Russia claimed “hundreds of victims” last year in a giant and long-running campaign that put them inside the control rooms of U.S. electric utilities where they could have caused blackouts, federal officials said. They said the campaign likely is continuing.

WSJ

The next time the power goes out

we'll know it's the Russian bear's snout

that's digging our grave

while Trump tries to save

his bromance with Putin, no doubt. 

New York Daily News Gets The Axe -- Being a Bad Team Player Might be Good For You -- The Lorax is Found

The meeting lasted less than a minute. By the time it was over, reporters and editors at The Daily News had been told by Tronc that the newsroom staff was being cut in half and that the editor in chief, Jim Rich, was out of a job.
NYT

Advice to a journalist means
"stock up on your cheap pork and beans"
cuz newsroom repeal
is now very real -- 
the triumph of Tronc philistines. 

When you hear the phrase “bad team player,” you might think of someone who refuses to collaborate. But you can also hurt your organization if you burn out trying to accommodate every co-worker’s request or attending more meetings than you can keep up with. This can stem from a basic inability to draw boundaries or an ego-driven desire to look like an office MVP.

WSJ

A team player toiling in Texas

set as his goal a new Lexus --

but all of his meetings

were more like hard beatings -- 

which dismantled his solar plexus. 

"The Lorax", by Dr. Seuss, was inspired by the patas monkeys that live in West and East Africa. These creatures share the Lorax’s general facial characteristics, particularly his distinctive mustache. The monkeys’ vocalizations sound like the Lorax’s “sawdusty sneeze.” And the monkeys depend, for 80 percent of their diet, on the Seussian-looking whistling thorn acacia trees of the Laikipia plateau.

Washington Post

I wish that a monkey could be

put in the Presidency.

Dr. Seuss would approve

of such a fine move -- 

 the green yeggs and spam would then flee.

Studies show that writing in ALL CAPS causes readers to retain less information, to skim over the words, and to, in general, become confused because it’s REALLY DIFFICULT to make out the shapes of LETTERS when they are all VERY LARGE.

Washington Post

caps are for pig-headed fools
who understand not their own tools. 
i find lower case
gives me a firm base
for fighting my poetic duels.

Author's note: Professor Bruce Young of Brigham Young University replied to the above poem via email thus:

Good counsel! I use all caps VERY rarely. Messages in all caps feel like shouting, and most of us don't like to be shouted at. Also, you lose the distinctions that help with structure and clarity (like capitals at the beginning of sentences and of proper nouns). 

I believe we also sense that something is not quite right with the person who uses all caps: either they're desperate, or they're angry, or they're terribly excited, or they are absolutely sure they have the most important thing in the world to say and need everyone to know that. But whatever lies behind the use of all caps, we sense that the person is not quite thinking straight, and at the very least is likely not in a condition to think with care, nuance, or perspective.