‘That’s bird poop’: Charges dropped against star quarterback after false test found cocaine on his car hood (WaPo)

So I took a ride with Crazy Henry in his car last week, and noticed there was a slice of bread and jam stuck on the hood. "What's that all about?" I asked him. "Oh, I wanna get famous real fast -- so I thought I'd put some bread and jam on the hood so the cops would pull me over and arrest me for carrying cocaine -- then get a good lawyer to prove it's not cocaine and I'll get enough publicity to raise seed money for my new company."
"It looks disgusting" I told him. Then we got in the car and drove down East River Road looking for abandoned shopping carts. Supermarkets pay ten dollars for each returned cart. We found ten carts and made a hundred dollars that day. But the police never pulled us over for anything. This really disappointed Crazy Henry. I tried to distract him by asking what his new startup was going to be.
"I got a process that magnetizes sunflower seeds. It's a new health food, see? I been eating tons of 'em for a month now -- I think they've magnetized my brain" he told me.
"Well, that explains a lot" I said. 

Postcard to the President

Climate Change Threatens the World’s Food Supply, United Nations Warns (NYT)

THE MARMALADE FIELDS

(dedicated to Christopher Flavelle)

When the balance finally tipped for good I decided to head for the Marmalade Fields. My parents had spoken of it in happy terms ever since I was a little shaver, and although I had no idea where it was located it seemed wise to find it soon -- now that things were getting so bad.

So I set out with a loaf of bread, a rusty canteen, and enough socks to last me until Easter. As I went past the huge factory where they turn soil into sand I ran into a man eating a piece of cardboard. 

"Does that taste any good?" I asked him.

"No, but the chewing brings back pleasant memories" he said, between bites. "Would you happen to have a packet of ketchup I could borrow?" he asked.

I gave him my last packet and headed East towards the melting glaciers of Hetland. A pack of wolves nearly got me that first night as I camped in the woods, but I swam across a flooded river to the opposite shore. A group of migrating zingare welcomed me to their camp for the rest of the night, but had no idea where the Marmalade Fields were located; they were headed for the nearest bowling alley. But they suggested that all rivers lead eventually to  all good things, and gave me a breadbasket to float down the flooded river in.

The river swept me uncontrollably away from the Hetland glaciers for several days before I managed to land at a palm oil plantation. The plantation overseer assured me that the Marmalade Fields were just over the horizon, and told me that he had lost most of his field hands because they all wanted to go there as well. He now used trained rabbits to work the plantation. I thanked him and headed towards the horizon, where a flock of crows were dancing in the moonlight.

At the horizon I found men and women dressed in rags, planting trees by the thousands. They told me the Marmalade Fields were just a myth, a hoax, and that when their forest was complete they would become indigenous and reap bountiful harvests. They invited me to stay, and I almost did; but after a night's rest I decided to find out for myself if the Marmalade Fields existed or not. The people in rags gave me a broken wristwatch as a friendly gesture at parting, and the next day I arrived at the Marmalade Fields.

 There was a huge asphalt parking lot and a roller coaster. Once I climbed over the wickerwork fence I found a grape Kool-Aid vendor who extended me credit for six months. After quenching my thirst I traded my rusty canteen for a stuffed toy, then returned to the people in rags planting trees. I wasn't exactly disillusioned, but I wanted to see how far I could go with a stuffed toy. The people in rags welcomed me back as their king. 

And then we made war on the goats. 

Four Plus Four

Nephi sees in vision the land of promise; the righteousness, iniquity, and downfall of its inhabitants; the coming of the Lamb of God among them; how the Twelve Disciples and the Twelve Apostles will judge Israel; and the loathsome and filthy state of those who dwindle in unbelief. About 600–592 B.C.

Preface to 1 Nephi Chapter 12.

What makes a people great and good

always has been understood;

They worship God and seek his law,

and do good works with humble awe.

And if they lose their sanity

through sin and foolish vanity,

then dust and ashes are their fate

as sure as four plus four makes eight.

Meet #greenshirtguy — the activist who laughs hysterically at anti-immigration protesters (WaPo)

The gods gave unto all mankind

so many plagues to suffer

that one among them had to give,

in charity -- a buffer.

A buffer that would mitigate

our sorrowful existence

and help us to dig up some hope

and build up some resistance.

And so we laugh, we roar, we snort,

at ev'ry sort of folly;

this godly gift helps us survive

and not go off our trolley. 

The next time you are faced with hate

or ignorance must swallow

just face it down with a guffaw

and in robust mirth wallow!

‘The headline was bad’: New York Times amends front page on Trump’s response to mass shootings after backlash (WaPo)

https://www.washingtonpost.com/nation/2019/08/06/new-york-times-headline-trump-backlash/


"so the headline was bad" I explained to Crazy Henry this morning as we lounged about his place. Full of myself, I continued: "of course there's no problem with changing a headline digitally -- simple as falling off a log. but the print edition can't be changed at all. once it's printed it's printed."
"hey" said Crazy Henry, "let's go get some real newspapers to read this morning. down at that news stand on East Hennepin; you know, it's painted green and they sell dirty magazines too."
"oh, Schwindlers you mean." I said. "I thought it was Schneiders" said Crazy Henry. "no, it's something like Shriners" I replied. "I haven't read a real newspaper in years. let's get a half dozen newspapers." "and some dirty magazines" said Crazy Henry. "shut up" I reminded him.
We got the papers and sat around at Crazy Henry's rustling newsprint and feeling pretty important and well informed. I did the crossword; Crazy Henry looked at the box scores for his favorite teams. Then he started rolling individual pages around his arms and legs and body, keeping them in place with rubber bands.
"what in the Sam Hill are you doing?" I finally asked in exasperation.
"I get all wrapped up in the news" he said.  

They are translated and see things not lawful to utter, and they are now ministering among men.

They are translated and see things not lawful to utter, and they are now ministering among men.
Preface to 3 Nephi , Chapter 28.

Among the worldlings are they hid,

to minister as Christ may bid.

Made immortal and obscure,

their hearts are wholly clean and pure.

What they have seen in vision must

remain with them till Earth is dust.

But know, ye saints, that they are here

to work God's will and banish fear.

Shootings Renew Debate Over How to Combat Domestic Terrorism (NYT)

when I knocked on Crazy Henry's door this afternoon he told me that he couldn't open the door to let me in because he had installed a new deadbolt lock, along with an electronic surveillance system that kept his windows automatically shut and locked and now he couldn't figure out how to work them so they would open. he was trapped inside his own apartment.
"why didja do all that stuff for?" I asked him.
"domestic terrorism" he replied. "I'm trying to keep it out of my life."
and for once, what he said made sense. so I told him to call 911 to come break him out and went back home, where I began looking online for a home security system. but when I saw the prices I decided to bag that and concentrate on never going anywhere where I might get shot, like the movies or work or a shopping mall or a government office. basically, I'm just staying inside like a hermit. I'll be safe as long as I live my life completely online -- until a hacker breaks in and destroys my life. at that point I'll set off to find the Marmalade Fields with my belongings wrapped in a large red bandana hanging from the end of a stick. 

‘No one can avoid capture forever’: Millionaire accused of killing his wife caught after four years on the run (WaPo)

I've been accused of many things in my life, but never of being a millionaire. those men of mystery who leak hundred dollar bills out of the very pores of their skin and wear top hats like the Monopoly Man as they stroll portentously through their mansions that all look like the one in The Beverly Hillbillies. 
Although I once got a check from Wells Fargo for eighteen-hundred dollars. that sure made me feel like a millionaire, cuz at the time I was living with my mother and sleeping on a hide abed. the circus owed me six weeks back salary, which, I might add, they never did pay me. so I was broke and had to stay with my mother -- and I stayed on with her because she was dying of congestive heart failure and didn't want to go in a nursing home so I took care of her in her own apartment until the end -- at which point I wound up homeless, since they wouldn't let me stay on in her apartment cuz it was strictly for seniors. I began sleeping on another hide abed in a friend's basement over in Roseville. I'd like to see just one stinking millionaire sleep on a hide abed for just one night. sleeping on a lumpy hide abed would turn anyone into a killer -- even a millionaire.

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.