Verses from Stories in Today's Washington Post ** Trump asks Supreme Court to shield his tax returns from prosecutors ** These remote islands are closing to visitors next spring in the name of overtourism ** House prepares to hear from recalled U.S. ambassador to Ukraine Yovanovitch.

@scotusreporter  @amarimow

The President is not a dope;

he ain't providing his own rope.

His tax returns are sacrosanct

(with all the dough that he has banked.)

If I were in the White House chair

my tax returns I would not share --

Those whose tax returns aren't prone

to fibs may be the first to stone . . . 

**********************

@NatBCo

The Faroe Islands will be closed,

and tourists there will be deposed.

The natives don't like peeping Toms

and do not need those foreign alms.

They'd rather visit with their sheep

and so a low profile to keep.

If in Klaksvik you would dock

you'll masquerade as just livestock.

*****************************

@WPJohnWagner  @ColbyItkowitz

Ambassadors have come to rue

the Trump admin's loud ballyhoo.

And from Ukraine, Yavanovitch

is set to be the biggest snitch.

What she has to say might be

the linchpin to Trump's history.

But then again, at Foggy Bottom

they always know just how to plot 'em.

If she comes out as unbent,

I bet she runs for president.

My Postcards to the President

Pointless

I have slain a chicken sandwich to my wounding. 

Have pity on me; I wasn't in my right mind at the time.

Don't let them take me away to the bunny place, where they give you construction paper and make you tie strings into saggy shapes! I beg of you, my two goldfish, tell no one of my crime. I'm trusting you with my life . . . 

I blame that winter night long years ago, when the mashed potatoes howled around the cabin door and Angus, my partner, grimly fried chicken patties until they were black as sin. When he placed those carbonized abominations in front of me, my gorge rose -- so I attacked him with the vinegar cruet and beat him senseless, leaving him for dead. Then out into the howling storm I went. Buffeted by tater tots, I made my way to the General Store to mail a letter to the Art Linkletter Fan Club and turn myself in to the Sheriff. They locked me up and threw away the pet flea that I kept on my flannel shirt.

 Thirty miserable years I spent in that Canadian lockup. It reeked of poutine and Windex. They gave me chicken bones to crochet into socks and scarves for the raw winters, and during the brief summer respite I was forced to tend dandelion beds for the Warden's daughter. When she flirted with me I called her a Pope's nose and threw compost on her frilly dress. For that, they locked me away in The Hole for six months. When I got out my skin had turned to wax paper and my eyes were practically simonized for life. 

But they couldn't break me. I kept trying to escape. Once, I made it as far as the Lesser Antilles. I grew a beard and dyed my ear lobes. I passed among the unsuspecting Antillites for two years, posing as a local wheel horse and zither tuner. But as cursed luck would have it my old partner Angus, now head of a troop of mountain bandits, came into town looking for a mountain to steal and recognized me. He had me chained up in locks before you could say Bob's yer uncle, and I was back in that Canadian pig sty by the time the maple syrup had hardened into whiplash. 

I was finally released on a technicality. The jail didn't recycle dental floss and so had to shut down. All the inmates were given a new suit of clothes, fifty dollars, and a bus ticket to Moose Jaw. 

And that's where I found you two, in the pet store, and brought you home to my shabby apartment. We've had some good times, eh? Remember that earwig that fell into your bowl? 

But now they're after me again. Again and again, it's fried chicken that wells up and ruins my life. And now there's a bag laid out flat and smashed in the parking lot, and I'm the one who done it. Cuz why? Cuz they put mayonnaise on my chicken sandwich which I don't like. And then they cut in line. And they knew what that would do to me. They knew it all along. They were laying for me, waiting for me to make a mistake so they could take me back.

But I'm not going back. Not ever! You two are the only ones who know my secret. And you know what they say about keeping secrets -- less is more. So here, my little friends, have some Paris green fish flakes . . . 

(Based on an article in the Washington Post by Dana Hedgpeth.  @postmetrogirl  )

Even More Postcards to the President

Verses from Stories in Today's Washington Post ** She inflated her resume and peddled a fake Time cover. Trump appointed her to the State Department. ** Google eyes banking as it widens its reach ** Taylor’s voice reminds viewers of Walter Cronkite during impeachment hearing.

@ReisThebault

There once was a woman named Chang

who wanted to make a big bang.

She faked photographs

and told lies by halves;

now by her petard she will hang.

*************************

@GregBensinger  @renaemerle

When Google decides it's a bank

it's probably gonna ourlank

all other stockpiles

and fill up its files

with customer info (no prank!)

**************************

@gbrockell

Good old Walter Cronkite;

there's a guy that you could trust.

He never waffled or would let

the truth collect much dust.

I watched him as a little boy;

I watched him as a man.

I'd watch him now if he were on --

in news he is Tarzan!

Oh, Walter, what has happened

to our network news today?

It's shallow and its partisan;

from your path does it stray.

Your footsteps, they cannot be filled;

your equanimity

cannot be duplicated

by today's lame coterie!

My foolishness

O God, thou knowest my foolishness; and my sins are not hid from thee.
Psalm 69:5

My foolishness thou knowest well;

my sins before thee ever dwell.

But knowing, thou still lovest me,

and put thy Son upon a tree

that I may find my homeward trail

through darkness and this mortal gale.

Forgiveness, Lord, I seek from thee,

now and through eternity. 

More Postcards to the President

Verses Based on Stories in Today's Washington Post ** Republicans prepare to defend Trump in open hearings; Mulvaney no longer seeking judge’s ruling on testifying ** The climate chain reaction that threatens the heart of the Pacific ** ‘Midway’ is a big, old-fashioned war movie, with one thing missing: human beings.

@WPJohnWagner  @ColbyItkowitz

Make up your mind, Mulvaney!

You're acting a little bit zany.

First you say yea and then you say nay,

you're giving our Congress a very bad day.

Never has coyness been craven as this;

Your honor's more riddled with holes than a Swiss!

***************************

@simondenyer  @chriscmooney

The Sea of Okhotsk is beginning to boil

with nothing much for all the men there that toil

for salmon to feed millions off in Japan;

soon they'll have nothing to put in fry pan.

What is the cause of this mishap so cruel,

that salmon no longer will run in a school?

The ocean is warming, the fish have dispersed;

and no one is knowing how this is reversed.

So crank out the tofu, cuz seafood becomes

rare as a chicken who uses its thumbs! 

************************

@mr_osullivan

Movies are bigger and louder and longer,

but my derriere isn't getting much stronger.

To sit and munch popcorn and drain a large Coke

for over two hours to me is no joke.

I head for the restroom, and when I get back

the script has now taken a different tack.

New characters enter and old ones are gone;

is this still Midway (it looks like Bataan)?

Out in the parking lot snow has begun;

when did the movies lose most of their fun?

From now on it's Netflix or Disney, by golly;

the popcorn is cheap and I don't need a trolley.

When all the lilacs died from vaping

The captain slapped me in the face, hard. He'd been doing it all morning, after his squad brought me in for misplacing a comma while printing a government news release. 

"Let's get one thing straight" he said evenly. "I don't like you, and you don't like me, and we don't like them, and they don't like us. Got it? Now, once again -- who put you up to sabotaging that comma?"

I was weak from fear and hunger. My head rang like a gong from all the blows it had absorbed. But I wasn't going to give the bastard anything.

"Private John Wilcox, serial number 7H338B65" I said stolidly.

"You're just making it hard on yourself, John" said the captain. He pulled out an emery board and began filing his plump fingernails. I noticed a half-eaten golf ball on his desk.

"I've got all day" he said conversationally. "There's no rush to get the information we need. Besides, the technicians are working on your laptop right now and we've subpoenaed your phone records. I doubt if it'll be more than an hour or two before we know who's in this with you. So why not make it easy on yourself?" He leaned over to put his savage face right into mine: "SO JUST GIVE US THE NAME!" 

"Private John Wilcox, serial number WCCO6676769 -dash-2" I said grimly. I winced as the captain gave me the back of his hand. I could taste salt as I swallowed the blood in my mouth.

"Very well" said the captain coldly. "If that's how you want it to be, I'd like to introduce you to my friend Hugo . . . "

A huge shadow covered me like a blanket as Hugo stepped into my blurry sight. 

"Hugo has, shall we say, some unusual talents -- I find him very useful when faced with stubborn ignorance. I hope you two will get along well . . . "

The captain left, and the thing he called Hugo sat down on a stool in front of me and grinned like a jack-o-lantern . . . 

How had this nightmare all began? I willed myself to fall back on  past memories as a way to survive the horrors of the present. 

It was last spring, when all the lilacs died from vaping, that ugly crowds demanded brutal penalties for paraphrasing government news releases. State legislatures bowed to the mob and it became a felony to change anything, even typos, when it came from the Governor or Mayor or Chief of Police. The National Guard was called out to insure compliance, and then Congress was prorogued until further notice. They came for my sister Kate one night, breaking down the venetian blinds to confiscate her mandolin sheet music and escort her to a Costco-run 'reeducation camp.' We never saw her again. It was a bad time for journalists, or for someone like me -- a Kinkos clerk who still knew how to read big words.   

I made it my business to scramble the punctuation in every government document and handout we printed and copied. Drunk with power, the local authorities had everything they said, thought, or even belched, immediately printed and posted on walls, fences, and telephone poles. Reactionary to the core, they eschewed using social media for anything but speed dating.

I don't know who finally ratted me out; it was probably the store manager -- he was married to an Otter Pop. It looked like I'd never live long enough to scatter random parenthesis again.

I was shook out of my reverie by Hugo, who kept saying in a thin reedy voice "Look out the window, will ya?"

My hands were untied. Hugo gave me a Handi Wipes to wash the encrusted blood off my face. I staggered over to the window to see an effigy of the captain being set on fire by Ukrainian soldiers. 

The Season of Avocado Toast had arrived at last. This revolution would be rich and creamy, with lots of vitamin K and lutein.

"Am I free to go?" I asked Hugo quietly. 

"Yes, please" he cringed in front of me. "And take the captain's half-eaten golf ball, will ya? He ain't comin' back for it."

(Based on a story in today's Washington Post:  https://wapo.st/2CAIqMN   @ReisThebault )

Postcards to the President