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.