Only 38% of Utahns ready to vote for a second term for President Trump, poll finds. (Deseret News)

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nobody's ever asked me what I think about anything. 65 years old and there's never been a poll or a questionnaire or even a census form for me to answer to, to give my opinion about something, anything. consequently I have no opinions or ideas about anything at all. I live in a void, where there is only eating, sleeping, working, and Hulu. 

I tried buying a prejudice on the black market down a dark alley one day, but the guy in the trench coat I talked to had bad breath so I figured his product would be unbearably shoddy and threadbare. I was in the market for an original hand-made prejudice, so I broke off negotiations and turned him over to the Fraternal Order of Eagles. 

as for regular homegrown opinions, forget it. those are rarer than prunes in a pot roast. I came close to trapping one once; it was out on my patio grazing on the bread crumbs I leave for the sparrows. but when I tried to throw my net over it I miscalculated and caught a bunch of indignant sparrows instead. I still haven't heard the last of that from the Audubon Society.

Willa Cather: The Perfect Antidote to Trump. (NYT)

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I borrowed some prairie from my daughter and went to live on the land again. I bought some nails, a barrel of molasses, a tin of lard, and a long twine rope for my journey. while traveling across acres of sunken hops I met a man going the other way. "Where you off to, stranger?" I asked him. "Back to civilization" he replied, taking off his hat and wiping a rattlesnake from it." "Why's that?" I asked. "Too many dang writers comin' in and scribbling away all the good bottom land" he said, with half a sneer. "You a writer?" he asked me.

"No" I said honestly. "I'm a dreamer with a barrel of molasses." He shook my hand then. "You'll do well, pardner" he told me cheerfully. then he walked on back to civilization. the dope.

next I came across a family of cottonwoods taking a long drink from a small stream. they nodded at me in a neighborly fashion, letting their cottony seeds drift down on me. so I settled in to farm the land and sing the songs. when the drought came and killed off all the cottonwoods I still had my barrel of molasses. 

Someday, a turtle may end up with a Trump-branded straw in its nose. Here’s why.

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animals will put anything up their noses. when I was with the circus we had an elephant that snorted up a length of garden hose one afternoon just before the matinee. the trainer tried everything he could think of to get the elephant to blow it out, but the dumb beast refused to listen. eventually they had to perform a trunkoptomy. then there was the chimp that put saltines up its nose until it nearly suffocated. and the Russian bears loved nothing better than to poke circus peanuts up their noses when it was time to hibernate down at winter quarters.

in the wild, so I've read, the three-toed sloth slowly inserts pine needles up its nose to cure sinus infections. snakes are always slithering into wood splinters, ramming them up their nose. deer get their nostrils plugged up with tiny fruits while stripping barberry bushes during the early spring. and remember that golf ball that obstructed the whale's blowhole on Seinfeld?

all I'm saying is that nasal obstruction is a fact of life. animals need to accept that and get on with their mating rituals. we humans do.  

School district to parents: Pay your lunch debt or your children might wind up in foster care

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the letter said I was in arrears down at the bowling ball store. it said I better pay up or they'd take away my bowling shoes and put a sign on my door reading "Deadbeat Bowler."

I wasn't that much behind in payments. I mean, come on, everybody has to have a bowling ball these days just to survive, and I couldn't afford to pay full price, so I was on an installment plan. so much per month. but now I was 3 months behind and they were going to do this to me? I called the Better Business Bureau to complain, but they didn't answer their phone -- the voicemail said they were all out bowling. then I called the Justice League of America -- but they were in bed with bowler's elbow. as a last resort I went downtown to the mayor's office, but she was out unveiling a memorial to the Unknown Bowler. 

now desperate I went to Walmart and bought a croquet set. my way of protesting this grave injustice. I played eight straight games on my front lawn before the school board condemned my property as a public nuisance and I had to move back in with my third grade teacher.

she lets me feed her gerbil.

After Dan Le Batard ripped Trump, ESPN again faces a political mess

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it's wonderful, what's happening to newscasters around the world. it began with a sports announcer a few days ago; he started saying something about the president, but then stopped a moment and when he opened his mouth again a lovely group of monarch butterflies flew out and circled his head for a minute before flying up into the studio lights and burning up. next day a radio talk show host was arguing with a caller about Iran when they both suddenly broke into a medley from Fiddler on the Roof. they both had quite pleasing tenor voices. then on the CBS Evening News everyone started emitting bubbles, and on NBC they all spewed rose petals. at Fox News the broadcasters started spitting out dreidels, and Rush Limbaugh now gives out soft serve vanilla ice cream whenever he opens his mouth. it's a miracle, is what it is. America is now once again as peaceful and serene as it was when Eisenhower sat in the White House. the golf courses are full. hamburgers only cost a nickel a piece. they give away five gallons of gasoline when you get a car wash. it's so beautiful I feel a flock of helium balloons rising up in my throat right now . . . 

'Potentially deadly’ heat wave grips two-thirds of U.S., with dozens of records likely to fall

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it got so hot that most of the clouds melted into white sauce, flowing down the mountainsides like lava to inundate towns and cities across the land. then the asphalt roads bubbled up in fevered protest to engulf cars and trucks; whole family vans disappeared into the muck, gummy bears and all. sidewalks turned to chalk dust. metal became too hot to touch. no one barbecued -- smart families stayed inside, sucking on Slushies. when the swelter abated with the October rains, a committee of scientists, politicians, and used car salesmen were called to the nation's capital to seek a solution. they decided that mankind must move into the ocean on inflatable plastic pool toys for the next fifty years. and so it was done. it wasn't so bad, really. giant drones with giant umbrellas shielded us from the tropical sun and from heavy rains. hurricanes were easy to prevent with Alka Seltzer. humanity feasted on caviar and ambergris. I myself managed to have a large family, and when my grand kids went back up on the land I refused to go with them. 

"You can't teach an old fish new tricks" I told them, as the Japanese trawler swept me up in its net and threw me on ice.   

Embattled GOP congressman ordered to stop using Marine Corps emblem after Islamophobic campaign ad

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(dedicated to @emrosenberg)

a school for winners was founded in Detroit in 1949. it taught people to win what they want at any cost, to themselves and to others.  their school motto, "Never Let 'em Know You're Bleeding!," was perhaps too aggressive. in hindsight school administrators now believe the school should have been open to all sorts of students, not just ambitious overachievers.

their most popular course over the years, and still today, is "Throwing Folders on a Table in an Intimidating Manner." this is a handy skill to have if you're interrogating someone or testifying before Congress, or, indeed, if you belong to Congress and want to terrify someone with a folder smack down. it can be used in the office, as well. the real trick, which takes much practice, is to slam the folder down on the table without having any of the papers inside slide out all over the place. most folder slamming experts agree that the best way to prevent such an occurrence is to have nothing in the folder at all. 

in fact, the school is thinking of changing their motto to:  "An Empty Folder is Your Best Friend."

City plays ‘Baby Shark’ on loop to keep homeless from sleeping in waterfront park. (WaPo)

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"the tuba brigade is ready, sir" the soldier told the corporal.

"bring up the piccolos as well" ordered the lieutenant. 

"have the glockenspiels arrived yet?" asked the colonel.

"no sir, but the clarinet snipers are in place" said the soldier.

"keep the bassoons in reserve, then" ordered the general.

and the battle commenced.

the oom-pah squad advanced on Park Bench #23, clearing it after heavy breathing. 

Admiral Hartwig bombarded the duck pond with player pianos until the enemy retreated into the bulrushes. 

stragglers were beaten with ukuleles.

a battalion of bagpipes was wiped out when the enemy surrounded them with scotch tape.

in a surprise move, the enemy formed their shopping carts into a V and charged recklessly into the middle of the orchestra. Admiral Hartwig issued kazoos for a kamikaze last ditch attempt, but it was too late. All belligerents were now tone deaf. 

this correspondent watched in horror as every violin was sent to summer camp.

The chaplain of the U.S. House ‘cast out all spirits of darkness’ in his chamber prayer amid racism fight (WaPo)

(dedicated to Michelle Boorstein)


the goldfinches were fighting over the sack of black thistles I hung out for them under the eaves. at first I was enchanted with their circling dives and soft-voiced tweeps as they dive bombed each other. this is as natural as it gets, I said to myself. it's fascinating to watch. but then my simple heart began to ache. they were spending more energy on fighting than on feeding, and half of the black thistles wound up on the ground, where the quail and sparrows, the eternal enemies of goldfinches, reveled in it. what a waste!
I had to do something, so I stepped outside, raised my hands, and yelled at the goldfinches to cease their constant bickering. they paid no attention to me. so I raised my voice and repeated my plea. at this they turned on me, dropping down on my head like the ping pong balls used to do on Captain Kangaroo's head. it would have been funny if it were not so tragic.
Running for cover, I said a brief prayer:  "Help these foolish birds to understand the error of their ways, oh Lord!" Once inside the house I made waffles and fried bacon and forgot about the lousy birds. the next day a cat crawled up the trellis and wiped them all out. 

Baseball card collectors suspected rampant fraud in their hobby. Now the FBI is investigating. (WaPo)

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but what's that got to do with the fact that I can't fill the hole in my backyard? no matter how much stuff I put in it, it just keeps getting wider and deeper. it's not a sinkhole, sez the geologist the university sent over the other day. she said it was caused by the seeping rot of the times we live in. just what I need, a moralist who charges me 75 bucks for a fifteen minute evaluation. I already know the truth can be photo-shopped and reality altered at the drop of a hat. I don't need anyone to tell me that. what I need is someone who can make this hole in my backyard go away.

there must be a comic book solution somewhere. everything has already been posited in comic books, from sentient chives to Knut Hamsun dancing with Ginger Rogers in an alternate universe. if I read enough comic books I believe I can find the solution to my disappearing backyard, and maybe save the entire planet from whatever the heck is sucking away my property. this is a comforting thought. I must pursue this course of action, as soon as I emerge from my chrysalis.