The Iowa Caucus Gremlins.

. . . the Iowa precinct caucus system broke down . . .

Hours passed as the Iowa Democratic Party struggled to reconcile conflicting numbers from the nearly 1,700 precincts.

In the absence of results in real time, it was anybody's guess who was winning. By the time the results are reported, perhaps on Tuesday, they could be subject to challenge or questions from one or another of the campaigns . . .

by Dan Balz. Washington Post.

Out where all the corn turns green,

there was quite an awful scene.

Democrats toiled through the night

to make caucus numbers right.

But the more they toiled away,

farther off the numbers stray.

Till at last with sorrow deep

ev'ryone falls fast asleep.

Hackers did not cause this mess,

but if I might take a guess,

I would say that gremlins threw

 spanners into this miscue.

Somehow imps did infiltrate

all the meetings in the state.

Sabotaging bylaws with

claws that tore out all the pith.

Hopping up and down with glee

they caused great perplexity,

making folding chairs collapse

and defacing precinct maps.

Disenfranchising hush-hush,

they turned voter rolls to mush.

While the farmers all got in,

not so those with darker skin.

With the process in retreat,

Iowa must face defeat.

Never more will they stand tall

as candidates must come to call.

In the White House, with sly grins,

Trump proclaims that no one wins.

(And when it comes to gremlins -- look,

I am sure Trump wrote the book!)

Not Make-Believe

“Satan, or Lucifer, or the father of lies—call him what you will—is real, the very personification of evil. His motives are in every case malicious, and he convulses at the appearance of redeeming light, at the very thought of truth. …"
Jeffrey R. Holland.

Seek the light and truth to hold,

otherwise that one of old,

lurking in a cold dead place,

all your joy will soon erase.

Know your heart and soul will crack

under his malign attack;

that is why each day I need

on my knees for help to plead!

Freddy the Firefly.

A survey of 49 of the world’s firefly experts, published Monday in the journal BioScience, has identified the most serious threats to the animals. Habitat loss, in almost all of the regions surveyed, is a problem. Other threats include artificial light, which disturbs their mating rituals; pesticides, which can harm the insects or their invertebrate prey; and water pollution, for species that have an aquatic stage.  Ben Guarino. Washington Post.

There was a little firefly, and Freddy was his name.

He landed in the darkened fields, displaying a cold flame.

He turned it off and on all night, in hopes of finding love.

Cuz it was lonely sitting there on some old dull foxglove.

But fields where he could find a mate and be a snuggle bug

were growing rarer than a Gabbeh woven Persian rug.

And poisons sprayed upon the air by farmers round about

interfered with pheromones, and gave the females gout.

But at last he spied a glow that floated lazy past,

and this prevented Freddy from remaining too downcast.

For he was sure it was a firefly of female form;

the kind that he could mate with if no others joined his swarm.

And so in hot pursuit he went, to trail the swinging light,

and planned how he would woo her when he caught her in mid-flight.

But when he came up to the little minx, twas all in vain --

he'd been misled by flashlight, as he hit the window pane.

 Poor Freddy now, just like the moth, flies round the porch light, sad --

hoping against hope that he may still find his dryad!

The Electric Car

Super Bowl ads featuring electric vehicles used to be rare. But this year, at least three car companies — GM, Porsche, and Audi — ran flashy commercials for new plug-in models. It’s a sign that a shift is underway as automakers try to persuade a skeptical public that electric vehicles really are the future.
Brad Plumer & Nadja Popovich. NYT. 

It's time we had electric cars the public will pursue.

So this is what I think the manufacturers should do.

Buy up all the oilfields and then plug 'em tight as hell.

Then snap up all convenience stores, and no gas let 'em sell.

But that is only one part of my master plan to force

motorists to buy electric cars -- or get a horse.

The chassis must be stylish and the inside so deluxe

that drivers will imagine that they own a million bucks.

Get some super models to recline upon the hood;

that is advertising that all men have understood.

Somehow get the President to pose behind the wheel

of one electric auto  -- you will hear the rednecks squeal.

Offer those who buy a new electrical jalopy

calendars and key chains -- and perhaps a pet okapi.

But now I come to think of it, with so much sacrifice,

is the human race exactly worth the vexing price?

Mailed to the White House Today.

In China Secrets Dwell Secure

At critical turning points, Chinese authorities put secrecy and order ahead of openly confronting the growing coronavirus crisis and risking public alarm or political embarrassment.
Chris Buckley & Steven Lee Meyers. NYT.

In China secrets dwell secure

because they're always kept obscure.

The public has no right to know

if it will rain or it will snow.

No need for citizens to fret

about coronavirus threat.

By keeping people unaware

the government shows splendid care.

And if the Great Wall tumbles down

or rivers flood and people drown,

it's kinder to all those concerned

to have the news concealed and burned.

The truth may set all people free,

but Xi Jinping would disagree.

He plays 'em close up to his vest --

but, after all, he must know best.

In Beijing doctors do not warn

their patients; it would be like porn.

Disgraceful to spread news of plague!

Tis best to keep things very vague.

So if you want the latest news

from China, I suggest you use

a source outside the country, since

in China all the truth is mince.

The Pollsters

Iowans typically finalize their choice late in the campaign, often deciding in the days before the caucuses occur. The late-breaking nature of the state’s political culture lends the poll outsized influence, with the power to fuel a last-minute surge in the state or can be an early dirge for candidates struggling.

(Lisa Lerer; Jonathan Martin; Michael M. Grynbaum. NYT)

In the land of Iowa the pollsters reigned supreme.

They cataloged opinions for a massive data stream.

No politician running for an office dared neglect

the findings of this powerful and conscientious sect.

They call you in the shower and they call you when in bed.

They call you at the office and when you're about to wed.

Who you will be voting for -- that is their standard quest.

They want a ready answer, and I wouldn't try to jest.

Perfection is their watchword; aberrations ain't allowed.

They tolerate no error while they grill the corny crowd.

But yet it happened one fine day a pollster made a gaffe,

and either missed a coma or perhaps a paragraph.

When this was discovered, there was consternation wide.

In Des Moines the pollsters lost their prestige and their pride.

They cancelled further phone calls and they let go all their staff,

and all because one operator made a little gaffe.

Today among the corn stalks in the Iowa hinterland,

there's not a single pollster left to question or demand.

They've gone to greener pastures, or they maybe are extinct.

Anyhow, you won't be bothered at your next precinct.

And now you know the story of the pollster's sad demise,

of the consequences and the moral it implies.

Don't be a nosy parker or buttinski on the phone.

Minding your own bizness is how happiness is grown.

Photo Essay: Calf Liver Curry.

This is what I had in the fridge tonight.

So I decided to make liver curry, with rice.

And serve it to anybody who came by

 the Community Room at 6 p.m.

I haven't cooked liver in a long time.

Forgot to let it stay half-froze so it would slice easy.

Trying to cut thawed liver is like cutting a large

garden slug.

I added the fried liver to the curry gravy for

just the last five minutes before

serving. You let liver cook

too long and it turns into

shoe leather.

A la Carte. Rice. Muffins. Kimchi. Curry.

Good old Bernie -- she'll eat anything I make.

These two had seconds.

At 6:45 I wheeled the cart out of the 

Community Room, so we could

set up for Church at ten

tomorrow.

It ain't the immigrants that take our jobs, I know quite well . . .

When iHeartMedia announced this month it would fire hundreds of workers across the country, the radio conglomerate said the restructuring was critical to take advantage of its “significant investments … in technology and artificial intelligence.” In a companywide email, chief executive Bob Pittman said the “employee dislocation” was “the unfortunate price we pay to modernize the company.”
Drew Harwell. Washington Post.

It ain't the immigrants that take our jobs, I know quite well;

it's automated robots that make bread lines start to swell.

Dislocated workers find their jobs done by A.I.

Algorithm dj's and then cyborg pizza pie!

Factories and offices will quiet soon become;

automatons accomplish more, and never even hum.

Doctors, and then lawyers, and professors by the score,

will soon be clerking at the counters of the Dollar Store.

Have a microchip into your brain pan deeply twined --

then a steady job you will most positively find!

Republicans Snub Impeachment Witnesses, Guaranteeing a Trump Acquittal

WASHINGTON — The Senate brought President Trump to the brink of acquittal on Friday of charges that he abused his power and obstructed Congress, as Republicans voted to block consideration of new witnesses and documents in his impeachment trial and shut down a final push by Democrats to bolster their case for the president’s removal.
(by Nicholas Fandos & Michael D. Shear. NYT)

The President of Cockaigne has been summoned to a trial

by a Congress boiling with high factions and low bile.

Some of them have whetted all their knives with horrid care,

hoping they can scalp him and take home a piece of hair.

Others cry 'injustice' and proclaim there is a plot

to railroad the poor President with paltry tommyrot.

So a big shot justice of the peace steps in the mess,

flapping his black robes just like a raven in distress.

Witnesses are shuffled like a deck of cards, but stay!

They don't seem to testify in any useful way. 

All their testimony is recorded and ignored;

it runs on like a river and soon ev'ryone gets bored.

Congress sits so long and hard that rumps turn into stone;

way up in the gallery there's nothing but ozone.

People in the streets are seething, but their only goal

is to purchase chips and beer -- then watch the Super Bowl.

The President of Cockaigne in his palace broods and tweets,

and when he sees a journalist he steps on them with cleats.

He knows he'll be acquitted by his toadies loyal and true,

and yet he starts to gibber as if sniffing lots of glue.

He'll take Cockaigne to war, he says, and then he says he shan't;

his logic is as pretzeled as that stuff by Manny Kant.

And when the trial is over all Cockaigne will breathe a sigh,

and nothing will have changed except more Democrats will cry.