If you sit upon the fence

 

If you sit upon the fence where Gospel truths apply,

You will find salvation has most sadly passed you by.

Photo Essay: Experiments in Collage. Vol. 3

 

Timericks from stories in today's New York Times.

 

The Biden ad, part of a $45 million one-week television and digital purchase that is by far the campaign’s largest to date, comes as the Democratic nominee pushes back against President Trump’s attacks.

Spending for the campaign is certainly immense.

Seems they are determined not to spare the least expense.

If I had a million of that chunk of change they've got,

I'd become a pirate on my rakish little yacht!

It’s only September, but Santa Claus is already nervous about coming to town.

I'm so broke that Christmas time this year will be a farce.

My purse is full of aphids and my bank account is sparse.

If Santa doesn't come through with bright packages galore,

my kids are gonna start up with another long Cold War!

Trump Says Some Really Strange Things. Republicans Say No Comment, Again.

Riddle me this, O White House savants:

How does he do it with such nonchalance?

Outrageous statements that turn statesmen grey,

and ignorance that would shame old Dennis Day.

The Puppy Scam.

 

When my puppy never arrived,

the one I ordered online and

paid a thousand dollars for,

my morals went into a tailspin.

Since the world was nothing but a scam

I decided to jump on the bandwagon --

to turn cynical huckster

and mulct as much as I could

from the gullible masses.

My first scheme was to sell

birdseed online --

replacing the seed with worthless sand.

But it turns out those who wanted birdseed

usually kept cats as well,

so they used the sand for their

litter boxes

and I got nothing but rave reviews

on Yelp.

And I was paying a fortune for

shipping,

because sand is heavier than

birdseed.

Next I wrote a check to myself

for a hundred-thousand-dollars.

Then went to my bank to cash it.

And they did.

Cash it, that is; the teller was grinning

to beat the band when she told me

they had just received twenty million

smackeroos from the Federal Reserve Bank

to help them out -- no strings attached, not

even any interest.

So the bank was giving money away

the day I came in to scam them.

Sometimes you just can't catch a break.

Finally I decided to kidnap a child.

But as I read up on how not to do it

(O. Henry's the author for that)

I became so engrossed in the literary

merits of the short story form

that I began writing them by the dozen

and sending them to magazines --

which took each one I sent and paid

me handsomely.

So now I've started a pulp magazine

myself,

called 'Cute Puppy Stories.'

I pay ten cents a word.

Up to a thousand words.

We do not accept poetry submissions.

A man of many words

 

And he was a man of many words, and did speak much flattery to the people . . .

Mosiah 27:8

A man of many words will find

that flattery, though much refined,

if not based on the Gospel true

evaporates like morning dew.

Crazy Henry versus Antifa.

 

"The only thing evil men need to do to triumph is to leave good men alone" intoned Crazy Henry, as we watched CNN while seeding Grape Nuts. 

I was living with Crazy Henry, after being evicted from my own apartment. We had known each other all our lives, since he grew up next door to me. 

"I suppose so" I sighed, surprising myself by sounding like Zasu Pitts.

Sounding like Lionel Barrymore, Crazy Henry said: "These confounded groups, like Antifa, are at the root of our national discontent and alarm." Then he stood up and stuck his right hand into his shirt. Sternly looking at nothing in particular, he continued: "They must meet their Waterloo immediately!"

Then he sat down on my bowl of shelled Grape Nuts, spilling them all over the carpet.

"You are such a dunderhead" I told him, going for the vacuum. I often talked to him like that, especially now that I was living with him and not paying any rent.

As luck would have it, the very next day there was a big Antifa rally downtown. Crazy Henry had to go, carrying a placard that read: "Give America Back to the Passenger Pigeons!"

"Now you're just being silly" I told him as he left. I refused to go, wanting to finish shelling the Grape Nuts.

He waggled his right fist at me, in some kind of obscure signal of unity, as he went out the door.

I expected he'd either get himself arrested or beat up. Maybe even shot.

What I didn't expect is that he'd come home with the leader of the Antifa rally -- one Edward R. Mundy: A tall drink of water with dirty brown hair and a yellow squint in his left eye. He smelled of ozone.

I shook Mundy's hand, at Crazy Henry's insistence, but refused to give him a smile. I was worried I was going to lose my bedroom to him -- he looked like the kind of fanatic who had nowhere to lay his head at night.

When Crazy Henry invited him to sit on the sofa and have some dinner with us, the guy pulled out a machete and attacked the sofa -- stabbing it repeatedly and then pulling out the stuffing like it was intestines. He never spoke a word while doing it.

"I invited him home so we could initiate a dialogue about understanding and tolerance" Crazy Henry told me, as Mundy turned his attention to the fish bowl -- pouring the water out the window and swallowing the gold fish in one gulp.

"Evidently a college man" I observed nervously.

Mundy then ran into the bathroom and locked himself in. After an hour of ominous silence both Crazy Henry and I began banging on the door and shouting if he was all right.

In reply he kept flushing the toilet and laughing maniacally. 

So Crazy Henry had to call the cops to come break down the bathroom door and haul Edward R. Mundy away. He managed to pull the doorbell out of its socket on the way out.

After we had cleaned up the mess and eaten dinner I told Crazy Henry that there was no real hierarchy in Antifa, and no real leaders as such. So where did he find Edward R. Mundy?

"Oh, he was filling parking meter slots with superglue, so I figured he must be a ringleader" said Crazy Henry. 

That night the Grape Nuts molted. 

Photo Essay: Experiments with Collage. Vol. 2.

 

A critical eye

 

 . . .wherefore, condemn not the things of God, that ye may be found spotless at the judgment-seat of Christ.

from the title page of the Book of Mormon.

A critical eye and intellect

that leads a man to so select

the things of men and not the Lord's

will leave him with but scant rewards.

Photo Essay: Experiments in Collage. Vol. 1

 

And they profaned not.

 

And they profaned not; neither did they blaspheme.

Jarom 1:5

When in rage or mocking doubt

vulgar words we vainly shout,

such abuse of tongue will charm

devils -- but does us much harm.