Craving Freedom, Japan’s Women Opt Out of Marriage (NYT)

craving a banana, I set out on a voyage of discovery. first I booked passage on a tugboat bound for Winnipeg. then I worked my way across the vast granite shield of Mumble to the place where library paste flows like wine. I knew freedom would not be mine to enjoy until I found a way into the Marmalade Fields. my path led through the self-righteous tweet bogs and deprecating mothball hills; once I almost gave up my quest when my sturdy Hungarian flutist ran off with the Applesauce Gang -- but I forgave the poor man; after all, his grandmother had been a meter maid. 
sheltering in a cave I accidentally tipped over a large boulder underneath which I found the seven scrolls of Gig. they taught me how to be totally independent and never rely on anyone else. soon I was master of my own ship and set sail for the Marmalade Fields. which turned out to be closed on Sundays. coming back I fell into a terrible storm that shipwrecked me on the Isle of Matchmakers, where I was enslaved for fifteen years until a flotilla of egg cartons slipped into the bay and bombarded the fort into surrender. all slaves were released so I headed for home -- where I found the laundry still waiting for me with open arms. 

The Greenland ice sheet poured 197 billion tons of water into the North Atlantic in July alone (WaPo)

Crazy Henry cracks me up. I was over at his place the other day, helping him hang up a portrait of Herbert Hoover, when he says, out of the blue, "I don't believe in glaciers. It's just a put up job by the establishment to make us think there's something wrong with the planet."
I've been down this road many times before with Crazy Henry, so I just played along.
"no glaciers, you say" I said mildly. "then what is the polar ice cap made of, marzipan?"
"see" he said, "that's where they get you all confused. there are no polar ice caps -- it's all gypsum paste and talcum powder. billions of tons of it."
"no snow up there, or anything?" I asked.
"bupkis" he said. "it's actually a desert so hot that the air turns into helium and floats away. that's why it's uninhabitable."
"where'd you learn all this?" I asked him. "from a comic book?"
"nope" he said. "there's a little blue man in my sock drawer who is a secret agent for the vole people who are about to take over the earth. he likes me because I give him camphor crystals to eat. he told me all this, in strictest confidence."
we finished hanging up the portrait in silence. suddenly I was very tired; crazy people and their dumb ideas make me tired. you can't fight ignorance except with a howitzer. finally I couldn't take it anymore.
"you don't HAVE a sock drawer!" I yelled at him, and then went home.  

wo unto the inhabitants of the whole earth except they shall repent . . .

. . . wo unto the inhabitants of the whole earth except they shall repent; for the devil laugheth, and his angels rejoice . . . 
3 Nephi 9:2

If ever you hear laughter

and it puckles up your skin,

you can bet a million

that you're awful close to sin.

For Mr. Scratch and colleagues

take delight in detours dark;

they'll never give you sunlight,

and they're stingy with a spark.

Keep the devil weeping

by obeying God's commands;

then when that old serpent calls

you won't be shaking hands!

Postcard to the President

An elite D.C. girls’ school thought its founding nuns taught slaves how to read. Instead, they sold them off for as much as they could.

I was taught to read by the wind. 
the rain keeps me clean at night.
my clothing is moss and bark.
manna and bacon are my food.
I drink from dry riverbeds.
there are marks around my wrists.
broken promises are my bed.
no one sees me run away.
but everyone will see me fly.

Postcard to the President

‘I ... thought he was dead’: Three football players nearly drown during ‘exercise’ involving sweaters in a pool

I don't know why I go anywhere with Crazy Henry. he spoils every trip we ever take, even down to the Rec Center to go swimming. we went there last winter and he insisted on wearing a sweater into the water. "why are you doing that?" I asked him. "it's supposed to help develop better muscles; all that drag once the wool absorbs the water" he replied. but after being in the pool for a few minutes his sweater puffed up and the sleeves came unraveled and there was red wool yarn snaking around the pool -- so they kicked both of us out, cuz I was trying to gather up the yarn.
the next time we went to the Rec Center Crazy Henry brought in a bottle of tadpoles. "I'm training them for America's Got Talent" he told me as he released them in the wading pool. you should have heard the screaming. they closed the pool and I spent the rest of the day at Crazy Henry's apartment helping him make artisan breadcrumbs for the Italian grocery store down the street. they pay ten dollars per pound for it.
the last time I was at the pool with Crazy Henry he didn't do anything crazy at all, but the lifeguards knew him by now -- so they followed him around in packs, bunching up so close that they trod on each other's toes and finally they all fell into the lazy river like a pack of lemmings. after that Crazy Henry was banned from the Rec Center, so I have to go there by myself. I'd rather make breadcrumbs.