Texas Mandates Face Masks as Coronavirus Cases Surge

Taking the veil.

Down upon the Texas plains the folks are full of pep;

and iffin you do easy bruise, you better watch your step!

For Texas folks are eager to maintain their die hard ways;

they'll lynch the nearest varmint that eats donuts with a glaze! 

They want no namby pambies and do independent stand;

nobody tells 'em what to do, from Arp to Rio Grande.

Their Governor, Greg Abbott, is a straight shooter fer real;
he always gives the cowpokes quite a fair bodacious deal.
He bristles at the thought of Federales in his hair;
and tells 'em where to go with forceful words and baleful glare.
His mother was a rattle snake, his father a horned toad;
he ain't afeard of nothin' in the sage or on the road.
So when the Federales said to wear a wicked veil,
he rose up on his hind legs and did surely give 'em heil.
"Nobody in the Lone Star state will wear a mask, by Jove!"
he thundered at those bureaucrats -- who hid in their alcove.
"No citizen of Texas will be gagged by such decrees!"
he said in full defiance of the spreading dread disease.

And so the state of Texas went about its bizness great;
sellin' and a-swappin' with no maddening debate.
But strange to tell the virus did not back down in the least,
and Texans caught it like the plague (and like the folks back East.)
Twas nothing but collusion, so the Governor did claim;
folks just had to buck up and not play the doctors' game.
But soon the hospitals were full, and graveyards did prepare
to solemnly partake of their anticipated share.
It came to pass that Mr. Greg his mind was forced to change,
and now the purple riders wear a mask upon the range.
Nobody is to go outdoors without they hang a curtain
over their own mouth and nose, and keep it on for certain.
Even Texas Rangers have to wear the silly things;
which from the hearts of Texans fearful sobs already wrings.
I reckon those ol' microbes think they got ol' Abbott's goat --
but he's already working on a state-surrounding moat!
Texas may be down, but she ain't stayin' there for long --
and she'll be up and runnin' soon . . . or my name's Scuppernong!  

Timericks from stories by Catherine Lucey, Paul J. Davies, Natasaha Khan and Joyu Wang

Tim Torkildson, creator of the 'timerick,' and President of the Sonja Henie Fan Club.

With Mount Rushmore Visit, Trump to Emphasize History, and Court Controversy.

@catherine_lucey

Under Rushmore's frigid stare/Trump will bleat with great fanfare/Bragging of his contributions/to a crowd of Lilliputians/George and Tom and Teddy too/Lincoln also will boo-hoo/at the notion of this clown/holding their old office down.

How Wirecard Went From Tech Star to Bankrupt.

@PaulJDavies

Fictitious income is a ploy/that some people will annoy/when investing in a firm/with the scruples of a worm/Sound investments are as sparse/as a hedgehog who can parse/Don't let your hard earned dough abscond/Buy yourself a Savings Bond.

New Hong Kong Security Law Prompts Rise in Self-Censorship.

@natashakhanhk    @joyuwang

In Hong Kong on eggshells they walk/they no longer are free to talk/To put up a poster/puts them in the toaster/as they sweat it out in the dock.

Timericks from stories by Ann M. Simmons, Stephen Wilmot, and Josh Dawsey.

Tim Torkildson, creator of the 'timerick' and professional ballatomane.

Russians Set to Approve Radical Overhaul That Could Keep Putin in Power Until 2036.

@AMSimmons1

autocrats are very slow/at letting all their power go/retirement is not their thing/cuz they prefer to stay a king/voted in or seizing reins/they give their people naught but pains/When people wake to their designs/they find themselves on the sidelines.

Social Distancing Gives Motorbike Makers a Smoother Ride.

@StephenWilmot

I cannot bring myself to like/a ride upon a motorbike/They may be cool and cost effective/but my poor balance is defective/Although I'll have to take some flack/I'll wait around for the jet pack. 

Trump’s Twitter feed reads like a local crime blotter as he stokes a culture war.

@jdawsey1

I think it's time that we convened/the Congress to get something cleaned/The Constitution needs amending/so all Trump's tweets can have an ending/No President from this time on/can have a Twitter account anon/And if some future leader breached/this law they ought to be impeached.

The things of all nations

 Wherefore, the things of all nations shall be made known; yea, all things shall be made known unto the children of men.

2 Nephi 30:16

The day will come, and that soon enough,

when knowledge true will call the bluff

of all the falsehoods now broadcast --

and they, and their tellers, will not last.

For God has promised to reveal

from rooftops what is hard and real.

And on that day may I be found

upon the Lord's firm hallowed ground!

‘PizzaGate’ Conspiracy Theory Thrives Again in the TikTok Era

The masses cannot seem to learn

what to believe and what to spurn.

A mob will form quick as a wink

because no one will pause to think.

And now that we communicate

at such a supersonic rate

humanity would rather care

about malarkey from thin air

than any sober truth -- egad! --

and follow blindly specious fad.

What hope is there for humankind

when TikTok is our mastermind?

The data is in: Fox News may have kept millions from taking the coronavirus threat seriously (from the Washington Post.)

When news you want that you can trust
that isn't dim with leftist dust
you'd better tune in Fox News quick
for all the facts (and some slapstick.)
They tell it like it is and take
great pride exposing what is fake --
like pandemics that just ain't so
or glaciers when it doesn't snow.
If you feel sick, they'll tell you straight
it ain't a virus -- just lose weight.
(Their advertisers, don't you see,
include Ms. Jenny Craig surely.)

First Job

I got my first paycheck for knocking apart metal shelves with a white rubber mallet.
My first boss provided the mallet, and instructions on how to swing it upward, not downward, in order to disconnect the silver bars from the frame that held them in place.
An uncomplicated job. Six hours a day. All summer.
It was a big bookstore. Closing. Going out of business.
Located in Dinkytown, an enclave next to the University
of Minnesota. Thick with coffee shops and bookstores.
Looking at the blonde bland faces of university students of the time, I was not convinced that learning was happiness. My happiness would be a cheap thrill, like the Mickey Spillane paperbacks my dad littered our home with.

The dry thud of a rubber mallet striking metal, over and over again,
in an empty building, was the sound of my future.
Already flatlined at age sixteen. We were a blue collar family.
My father's advice to me: Just try to stay out of jail.
No family traditions of service and sacrifice. Of education and
shrewd money management. 
Only the story of a great grandfather who immigrated from Trondheim in Norway to Saint Paul in Minnesota, took one look at the gray wintertime slush, said 'to hell with it,' and went straight back to Norway. 

That first paycheck came to sixteen dollars and thirty five cents.
My mother shanghaied half for my account in the Farmers and Mechanics Savings Bank. 
I blew the rest on thick drugstore Cokes, Old Dutch Onion and Garlic Potato Chips, a new bicycle chain for my Schwinn, and Herbie Popnecker comic books. 

When my first job ended in August the boss said I was a good worker. He'd hire me again anytime to knock down shelves.
That really depressed me. 
Because by this time there was an alien inside me chewing on my chest cavity. It wouldn't talk to me, wouldn't tell me what was devouring me and making me miserable.

The alien finally burst free two years later in Florida, at the Winter Quarters of Ringling Brothers, Barnum & Bailey Combined Shows. Where I discovered that the odor of Stein's clown white, talcum powder, and sweat, smelled like my forever job.  

Thy light is sweet

Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun
Ecclesiastes 11:7

Thy light is sweet to my dull sight

and guides me through the darkest night.

The sun, the moon, the stars do shed

thy luster upon my poor head.

Let me forever 'neath thy blaze

find comfort in the better days.

Photo Essay: Postcards to my favorite Reporters, and other Unsavory Characters.

To:  Mahatma Rob Reed

To:  Patrick Kingsley.  NYT.

To:  Paul Farhi.  WaPo.

To:  Anthony Harrup.  WSJ. 

Timericks from stories by Veronica Dagher, Bruce Veldhuisen, Alex Janney, Matt Richtel, and Maria Cramer.

The Provo Museum of Mail Art is moving to new quarters in Ban Phe, Thailand.

How to Rethink Your Budget With Just One Income.
@VeronicaDagher

One-income fam'lies are the drift/as ev'ryone must practice thrift/Cuz jobs have gone right down the drain/and are not coming back again/I think the dads should be the ones/who stay home making sticky buns/They'll teach the kids proficiency/in snacking while they watch TV.



Going Up? Not So Fast: Strict New Rules to Govern Elevator Culture.
@mrichtel


Elevators simply breed/virus like a common weed/I will not take them up or down/I'd rather meet a scary clown/I'll wheeze a bit upon the stairs/Please notify prospective heirs.




Is It Safe to Go Back to the Dentist?
@NYTimesCramer

Is it safe to go back to the Dentist?
I've never heard such a remark!
You think going off to the Dentist
is just a snug walk in the park?
Their tools are a chamber of horrors;
their smile is a false as a croc's.
When digging around your own pearlies,
you feel it right down to your socks.
I welcome pandemical reasons
to put off my next interview.
My mouth will not be their arena
to show off their darn jujitsu!