U.S. Officials Suspect New Nuclear Missile in Explosion That Killed 7 Russians (NYT)

We have to blow each other up; it seems to be our bent.

Explosions are the way we want to win an argument.

Nobody ever said a bomb was too expensive, so

we make 'em better all the time -- soon reaping what we sow.

I think I'd like to build a bomb that detonates with food,

to feed the hungry millions that upon our planet brood;

a shell that spreads goodwill and cheer I'd fire frequently,

or one that only decimates a health infirmity.

I'd strafe the world with flowers and get rid of sticks and stones,

using military might to spray cologne with drones . . . 

having much dispute and wonderful contentions one with another.

. . . having much dispute and wonderful contentions one with another.
Alma 2:5

Contention is ungodly noise,

robing us of grateful poise.

 When we give in to dispute

we're no better than a brute.

Let us hearken quietly

to each other and be free

from the turmoil of dissent

that to hell the devil sent.

The dangerous cycle that keeps conspiracy theories in the news — and Trump’s tweets (WaPo)

"Trust no one" said the man as he handed me a slip of paper and  melted back into the crowd. 
I walked backwards for several blocks, to make sure I wasn't being tailed, and then left a chalk mark on the side of a mailbox before discreetly rearranging my necktie to signal that the coast was clear.
My handler, disguised as a flock of pigeons, landed in the park across the street and began pecking at breadcrumbs spread by elderly loafers on a series of benches that formed a geometric pattern -- a pattern that only Black Ops knew about.
It was clear to me that the President was in danger, and that nonfat dairy creamers were not all they are cracked up to be. Going online at a coffee shop, I found a dozen pairs of argyle socks on sale for 5.99. But it was a setup; I was brought in for questioning and gave them nothing until I was released on my own recognizance, with instructions not to leave town.
I immediately left town for a safe house out in the country that acted as a covert cider mill during the off season. I'm there now, waiting for the mysterious Joe Bananas to make contact and give me the code word to unlock the biggest case of sedition since the War of Jenkins' Ear.   

The Last Great American Novelist (NYT)

"That loss of depth and memory means that if the decline of the novel is not the internet’s more troubling influence, it might be one of the more telling."

Ross Douthat

I caught Crazy Henry reading a book the other day. And he wasn't even ashamed that I caught him.

"Aha!" I said, when I saw him with his nose in a paperback. "Caught you red-handed! Don't you know reading books is subversive?" I was only half joking; I wanted to see what he'd say.

"You want some ramen noodles? I was just gonna make some" he asked me.

"Sure" I said. "Can you put an egg in it?"

He didn't reply but went into his kitchen and came out ten minutes later with two bowls. There were lots of scrambled eggs mixed in with the ramen. We ate companionably in silence for a while. Then Crazy Henry said "The last great novel published here in America was 'Chad Hanna' in 1940. It's all been propaganda and pornography since then. So I only read old books." He showed me his paperback; it was Dicken's 'The Pickwick Papers.' 

"Blogging has killed good literature" I said wisely. 

"Twitter, more likely" he replied. Then he set down his bowl to rummage through the drawer on his coffee table to hand me a yellow legal pad. "That's my new tweet novel" he said proudly. "Done all in tweets, like Donald Trump. It'll turn the novel publishers on their heads!" 

I read the first three pages -- it was all incomprehensible gibberish to me; the only thing I understood was 'LOL,' which was used constantly.

"This blows chunks" I told him. "I'd rather read a ramen package."

"Here, you wanna finish the rest of my noodles? I'm full." was his reply.

"Sure thing" I said. "I believe in supporting lame artists like you."

But then I started to repent of my words; they were really mean, and what had Crazy Henry done to deserve such ridicule? Just penned a lousy book. Thousands of people have done that, and it didn't make them bad people or anything. So I told Crazy Henry I was sorry I'd called him a lame artist. Maybe his book would become a bestseller, I dunno.
"That's okay" he replied cheerfully. "Actually, I already got an advance on it from Random House. Ten thousand dollars, and they're gonna publish it in the fall."
"They're gonna publish that piece of . . . stuff?" I asked incredulously. 
"Yep. And they even sent me a big bottle of pickled quail eggs" he said. He went in the kitchen and came back with a tall glass jar full of pink quail eggs; the label said: "For Our Best New Authors, Courtesy of Random House Publishing." 
Much chastened, I stayed quiet for the rest of the afternoon while Crazy Henry looked up quail egg recipes online. 
When I got home that night I dug through my footlocker until I found an old paperback of 'Great Expectations' by Dickens. I read it until I fell asleep -- which was in about five minutes. 

Therefore, with joy shall ye draw water out of the wells of salvation.

Therefore, with joy shall ye draw water out of the wells of salvation.

2 Nephi 22:3

Thirsty for righteousness, parched for relief;

with joy we draw water to assuage grief.

Wells of salvation do spring forth amain;

those who won't drink seek for comfort in vain.

O Lord, give me ever this water of life -- 

refresh me to swim through great oceans of strife.

I'll draw upon Thee for all mercy and light,

and praise Thy great name ev'ry morning and night.