Trump again appears to take North Korea’s side against his own military, allies (WaPo)

I didn't know people still did the whole pen pal thing; but Crazy Henry told me he has a pen pal in North Korea. By the name of Kim Jong Un. They write each other several times a month. Crazy Henry showed me some of the letters he's got from this Kim guy. One read:  "Dear Honored Friend; I am so happy to know you and am sorry that your monkey pet died of a recently. Please excuse if my letter is off on the English -- I have a new translator, but he is not so good so I shall possibly have him assassinated. Ha. Ha. Best of wishes in today for you. Kim Jong the Strong."
"He sounds almost as nutty as you" I told Crazy Henry.
"Oh, he's a good guy" replied Crazy Henry. "Look. He sent me this whole sack of gold ingots." He opened his coat closet to drag out a burlap sack that was full of what looked like real gold ingots, each one stamped DPRK. 
"Holy catfish!" I exclaimed. "Hey, can I get his address from you so I can be his pen pal too?"
"Sure" said Crazy Henry. "Why not?"
So I wrote a really nice letter to Kim Jong the Strong, and then sat back to wait for my sack of gold ingots. But all I got a few weeks later was a postcard that said 'Wish you were here,' and a t-shirt that had a big black arrow on the front pointing to the right and underneath the arrow it said: "I'm with this Capitalist Running Dog." 

Postcard to the President

‘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.