In a laundry list of reasons why the United States is grappling with mass killings, an Ohio state lawmaker has settled on immigrants, same-sex marriage, transgender rights, disrespect toward veterans and “drag queen advocates.” (WaPo)

the reason, or rather reasons, I yelled at my dog yesterday include the Bay of Fundy, the Fed's intention to lower the interest rate, macaroni salad, and the loss of hearing in my right nostril.
but of course the main problem here is that I don't even own a dog. I yelled at my neighbor's dog, which is indicative of the fractured polity of things here in the United States. 
I would not have yelled at that particular dog if it had not given me the fish eye while I was out on my patio grilling a large juicy suspect. even then I could have let things slide except that I was daydreaming about the Marmalade Fields, wishing I could go there this fall on a Albanian Cruise Line ship with unlimited shrimp bar privileges -- and then that doggone dog next door had to intrude on my daydreams with its hangdog stare.
only, in the interests of truth, it was not so much a dog as it was a cat -- a stray cat that I had once tried to feed some spoiled liver to. it had turned up its nose at my kindly gesture, which is why I began planning a mass emailing. 

For he is the same yesterday, today, and forever

For he is the same yesterday, today, and forever . . . 

1 Nephi 10:18

Changeless is the God of Hope;

Nothing missing from His scope.

Past and present, by and by,

lay before His sophic eye.

Our perceptions, weak and vain,

of Him either shrink or gain;

but His love I testify

changes not by earth or sky.  

Postcard to the President

Postcard to the President

Close the Curtain on ‘Miss Saigon’ (NYT)

a touch. that's all.
a smile. just that.
anything else and everything else is so much driftwood; cast up on the shore after drowning. when I drowned I floated and sank, sank and floated, until the shore smiled at me. touched my arm. then I shook myself like a wet dog, and began acting like a wet dog. faithful. trusting. a bit of slobber on her cheek. I was the submissive one. so pliable I was turned inside out, with my sleeve on my heart. from driftwood to dog. from dog to demi-bank. so I rented a bungalow with a fishpond and papaya trees. the sun came up on tilapia jumping over snails and little boys weeding orchids. when the smoke of burning rice fields finally cleared she was gone. and my visa expired. I went back to drowning, being pale and waterlogged.   
a touch, just that.
a smile, that's all. 

Pleasing unto God

 Wherefore, the things which are pleasing unto the world I do not write, but the things which are pleasing unto God and unto those who are not of the world.

1 Nephi 6:5

Tis easy pleasing all the world

with fancy words and dress;

to dance with folly and with greed

while seeking for success.

The world applauds the cunning man

and makes of him a star,

while those who humbly quiet stay

do not go very far.

Yet comes the day when worldly fame

will not buy any peace,

and those who pushed the world away

will find their soul's release.

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