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!"